The Peacock Emporium(128)

“Oh, yes,” said Father Lenny. “Definitely talking.”

Cath Carter, with a faint smile of pride, nudged him. “She talked at nine months,” she said. “Opened her mouth one morning and never closed it again.”

Suzanna was about to speak, then jumped as she heard a familiar voice.

“Can I add something?” it said.

Her breath was knocked out of her. The last time she had seen him he had radiated such urgency and anger that the air around him had seemed to crackle. Now his movements were easy and fluid, his eyes, which she had last seen accusatory and disbelieving, were soft.

He was looking at her intently, waiting for an answer.

She tried to speak, then nodded dumbly instead.

He stepped past them into the shop, reached up to a shelf, and placed his silver Mate pot in the corner of the window. “I think we should be happy,” he said quietly, as he emerged. “She was my first friend in this country. She was good at bringing joy. And I think she would want everyone to remember her that way.”

She couldn’t take her eyes off him, still hardly able to believe that he was there, in front of her.

“Hear hear,” said Father Lenny, with a hint of determination in his voice.

There was a long silence, which became slowly awkward. Liliane shifted uncomfortably in her high heels, and Mrs. Creek muttered something to herself. Suzanna heard Father Lenny murmur to Alejandro, and watched as he responded with something that made Father Lenny look directly at her. She blushed again.

“We ought to go.” It was Cath’s voice.

Shaken from her reverie, Suzanna realized that she hadn’t heard from the one person whose opinion mattered most. She turned and searched for the blond head. She hesitated for a moment, then: “Is it all right?” she said, crouching down.

The child did not move or speak.

“It’ll be there for at least two weeks. But I’ll change it if you want, if you think there’s something missing. Move it, if you don’t like it. I’ve got time to do that before I go.” She kept her voice low.

Emma stared at the window, then looked at Suzanna. Her eyes were dry. “Can I write something to put in it?” Her voice had the glacial composure of childhood. It made something deep within Suzanna ache.

She nodded.

“I want to do it now,” said Emma. She glanced up at her grandmother, then back at Suzanna.

“I’ll get you a pen and paper.”

Suzanna held out her hand. The little girl let go of her grandmother’s and took it. The silent group standing in the lane watched as they walked inside the shop holding hands.



* * *



—

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

The shop was empty. Suzanna had just finished pinning Emma’s words into the display, fighting the urge to edit the last painful sentences from what she had written. It was important to tell the truth. Especially about death. She straightened her knees and backed out of the window.

“Yes,” Ale said.

Just that. A simple affirmative.

“It’s bad luck. You should know that.”

“It was just a feather. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” He glanced at the iridescent plume protruding from her handbag. “And, besides, it’s beautiful.” He let the words hang between them as he walked slowly around the shop.

“And the other things? The butterfly? The plant?” She had to fight the urge to keep sneaking looks at him, to stop her face lighting up at the sheer pleasure of having him nearby.

“A peacock butterfly. The plant too.”

“I didn’t understand,” she said. “About the butterfly, I mean. We only looked up its Latin name.”

“Then it’s lucky I didn’t catch you a cichlid.”

They sat for a moment in silence, Suzanna wondering at how, having spent years existing in a kind of low-grade nothingness, her emotions could swing so dramatically from despair to elation and then to something less clear-cut and infinitely more confusing. A group of young girls was peering in at the window, making exaggerated expressions of sentimentality when they read Emma’s words.

“It’s beautiful, what you did,” he said, nodding at the display.

“She would have done it better.”

Suzanna struggled with the things she had wanted to say, things that now felt awkward and overblown. “I thought you were in Argentina,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal. Now that he was here, she felt suddenly complicated, as if the urgency of the previous day had been an overreaction, had given too much away. “You didn’t come to give evidence so I thought you’d already gone.”

“I was going to go. But . . . I decided to wait.” He leaned against the door. When she looked up, he was gazing at her intently, and that, combined with the slowly settling meaning of his words, made her blush again.

She stood up and began to sweep the floor, conscious of the need to do something, to stay focused. “Right,” she said, unsure of why she had. “Right.” Her hands tightened on the broom. She pushed it along in short strokes, the heat of his gaze still on her. “Look, you probably know I’ve left Neil, but I need you to know that I didn’t leave him for you. I mean, not that you didn’t mean anything to me—don’t mean anything to me . . .” She was conscious that she was rambling already. “I just left him to be on my own.”