The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender(64)

Those deep-red bruises called to mind the faint brown mark Jack’s kiss had left on her daughter Viviane’s neck so many years ago. They also made her think of René’s lovely face after William Peyton shot it off, of the hole in Margaux’s chest where her heart once beat, and of all the scars love’s victims carry. Then she would have to leave the room.

My grandmother felt no rush to return to the bakery. She could hardly will herself to cook enough to keep her own family fed, not that anyone cared. The appetite of my whole family had dwindled enough so that each ate only when the gnawing pains of hunger fired in their bellies. And even then, they did so without gusto, taking a fork to a neighbor’s cold pan of macaroni and cheese left in the fridge. No one paid any attention to where the food came from, just that it was there.

Something had happened to Emilienne. She could not summon the strength she once had, no matter how hard she tried. While she waited for some sign of life to return to my eyes, it was my mother who held the family together.

Wilhelmina and Penelope were more than capable of running the bakery on their own. They added a popular pastry to the menu; in honor of me, they sold the feuilletage on Sundays. They even hired another baker to replace Emilienne. They hired my mother.

The bakery was exactly as Viviane remembered it: the walls the same golden shade of yellow, the black-and-white-tiled floor still impeccably shined. When Wilhelmina handed her an apron and pointed her toward the oven, Viviane was hardly stunned by how quickly she recalled the trick to a good pear tarte tatin or how to make crème br?lée. Soon her chocolate éclairs were deemed just as good as Emilienne’s.

It shamed her to admit it, but Viviane relished her hours in the bakery, away from the awful odor of misery and despair that wafted through the hallways of our house. It was so strong that my mother often covered her nose with a handkerchief just to walk by my room. They had to hire a nurse to change my bandages. What happened to me was so horrible, Viviane tried not to think about it, often tried not to think at all. Instead, she filled her time with menial tasks, like baking bread and pastries, which she always brought home to serve after my lunch.

Back in our kitchen, my mother folded a paper napkin in half and placed it under a plate of warm bread pudding drizzled with chocolate sauce and topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. She watched the ice cream melt into a plate-size puddle. Viviane heard the soft tread of footsteps behind her as Cardigan made her way down the stairs from my room and into the kitchen.

“Is she hungry?” Viviane asked halfheartedly.

Cardigan shook her head. Out of all of us, Cardigan had changed the most since my attack. She’d let her hair grow out from its stylish bob so that it hung at her shoulders in natural waves; occasionally she threw it in a haphazard ponytail just to get it out of her face. She rarely wore makeup anymore. The first time Viviane saw Cardigan without it, Viviane hadn’t recognized her. The makeup had made her glamorous, untouchable even; without it, Cardigan was pretty but in a less obvious way. Her lashes, blond like her hair, were barely visible around her blue eyes, and her lips were a pale shade of pink and much thinner without the usual swipe of rich red lipstick. She dressed differently, often coming to the house in her brother’s old work boots and a pair of oversize jeans. She was enrolled in honors classes and was secretly planning on taking over Rowe’s old delivery job in October once she passed her driver’s test.

“Heard anything from my brother?” Cardigan asked Viviane. Rowe had left for school a month ago, and not a day had gone by without the mail bringing a letter addressed to me. My mother gathered he wrote to me more often than to his own family. He’d tried calling on the phone a few times, but I had barely spoken four words in the past few months. So Rowe stuck to the post. At first Viviane wasn’t sure what to do with the letters, so she just piled them up on my bedside table.

Viviane pointed to the brown envelope on the kitchen table. Cardigan swooped it up and pressed it to her nose. “I told him I’d whale on him if he ever sent her a perfumed love letter.”

Viviane laughed. She was glad Cardigan hadn’t lost her sense of humor completely.

“What’s the assignment this week?” Viviane asked, nodding to the book in Cardigan’s hand.

“The Scarlet Letter. I’m reading it to Ava so she won’t fall behind.” Cardigan turned toward the stairs. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea?” she added quietly.

Viviane nodded. She’d spoken about my enrollment in the high school with her old teacher Ignatius Lux, now the high-school principal, earlier that summer. Ignatius was a large, barrel-chested man with the tangled mop of red hair that went well with his name. Due to his size, his students considered him a fearsome force. Some even feared the Lux more than they feared their own parents. But Ignatius Lux was actually very soft-hearted, so much so it often embarrassed his wife, and the big man had wept — literally wept! — ?when he’d heard what had happened to me. So when Viviane stopped by to set up an appointment, the principal immediately ushered her into his office, offering her a cup of coffee and instructing his secretary to clear the rest of the day’s meetings. Ignatius had always liked Viviane — years ago, when she was just a spunky student in his class, he had thought, Now, there’s someone who could probably do just about anything.

Ignatius was impressed, but not surprised, by how closely Viviane’s curriculum matched that of the school. He assured her they would save a spot for me in the fall enrollment.