VenCo(30)

“I like Freya. Goddess of beauty and rebirth. It’s as old-school as it gets.”

Lucky had earned an actual meeting of the eyes. “Agreed.” Freya extended a red-tipped nail, pointing to Lucky’s chest. “You can sit beside me.”

Lucky smiled. The thaw had begun.

They turned left down a narrow hall that opened into a huge room with vaulted ceilings. Now it was Lucky who stopped walking.

One wall was covered by a muted mural. A woman, naked and pale, rose from the treetops of a night forest as if she were being drawn towards the moon, which was spread in all its phases across the sky. The opposite wall was all glass, framed by huge swags of black curtain held back by gold tasseled ropes, and looked out on an overgrown garden riotous with twisted greenery.

Meena sat at the head of a huge wooden table that groaned with tiered serving platters of fruit and grilled vegetables and platters of chicken and a ham and what appeared to be a rabbit. Mismatched crystal goblets reflected the light from a massive chandelier in the shape of a tall ship, sailing between the rafters and the feast. Wendy sat at the other end of the table, and two more women, striking strangers, were already in their chairs and looking expectantly her way.

“Jesus Christ.” It slipped out before Lucky could stop it.

“Oh, he has nothing to do with this,” Freya said, leading her to her place.

“Welcome, Lucky,” Meena said, looking regal in a lush green turban, gold earrings hitting her shoulders. “We are so happy you could join us.”

“Stella isn’t coming?” Wendy turned towards the door, looking for the old woman. She actually seemed disappointed.

“Uh, no,” Lucky said. “She’s still sleeping. The trip really took it out of her.”

Freya slid into her seat and pulled out the chair beside her.

Lucky sat, then struggled to shift the heavy chair closer to the table, its wooden legs screeching on the stone floor. “This is really amazing, this place,” she offered nervously.

“Yes, we think so too,” Meena answered. She cast a glance around the table. “Let me introduce you to the two people you haven’t had a chance to meet yet.” She started with the person nearest to her, a woman with an angular black haircut and intricate eyeliner.

“Morticia is from New York City. She is a rare-book collector and has a fine arts background.

“Next to her is Lettie.”

Lettie nodded to Lucky, her smile sweet and slow.

“She hails from Abita Springs, Louisiana, and has a young son who is already in bed. You’ll meet him tomorrow—he really is the most remarkable child. Lettie carries these beautiful old Creole stories from her family.”

“You’ve already met Wendy, my wife. She is a historian and an excellent researcher. Freya, beside you, is our most recent addition. She’s from small-town Ohio, and we’re trying to convince her to go on to university now. She has quite the knack for languages.”

As Lucky was wondering, once again, what she was doing here among all these talented people, Meena put her on the spot. “And you, Lucky? Tell us about you.”

She wished she could slide out of her chair onto the floor, but cleared her thoat. “Lucky St. James. Uh, from Toronto . . . Canada. I live with my grandma, also a remarkable child who is in bed right now.”

This got a few laughs, and she relaxed a bit.

“She’s, ah, well, her name is Stella and she’s seventy-seven. She’s my dad’s mom. I’m hardworking and always show up. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a sick day. Mostly because I’ve never been sick.”

Wendy patted the back of her hand. “Relax, dear—this is dinner, not an interview. I’m from Canada as well, though I’m not Canadian exactly. I’m Anishinaabe, so more pre-Canada and post-Canada. I gather your mother was also Indigenous?”

Lucky gave a quick nod, thinking about how Arnya used to say, I’m Ab-original and an original, in every fuckin’ sense of the word.

Wendy smiled. “So you’re with friends, and family, in a way. Now tell us, what are you passionate about?”

There was a pause that verged on awkward. Then she blurted out, “Writing.” It felt like a lie. “I’m a . . . writer.”

“Scribes are important. We need one of those,” Meena boomed. “All hail the Scribe!” She raised her glass of red wine, and everyone did the same. Lucky fumbled about for her own and laughed as she toasted a dream she hadn’t yet realized. The sudden potential of it was intoxicating.

As they began to pass the platters around, Meena talked about growing up in Salem, the daughter of a pastor. Morticia talked about New York City, where she said the hipsters had washed out all the grit so that there was nothing left but photo backdrops. Lettie explained a little about her degree in computer science with the kind of passion an artist reserved for their work.

The only uncomfortable note was when Wendy leaned in to ask Lucky about her mother’s community. “It’s near the Bay, right? Those old Métis communities have some amazing musicians.” Lucky didn’t want to admit that her mother had never taken her out of the city. She was ashamed of the disconnect.

After the crème br?lée had been cracked and the tea had been poured, Meena stood. “Gratitude to the cook,” she said, nodding towards Wendy, and everyone cheered. “And now I think we need to truly welcome Lucky—to our home, to this table, and to the circle.”