Lottie surveyed the vendors. “Justine, I don’t see the calas lady. Let’s go to the other side of the market.”
“Do you think your grandmother will approve of that? Spending her money for Agnes too?” Justine asked while she fiddled with her lace glove. “Perhaps you should have mentioned to her before we left that you intended to buy food for Agnes.”
“Oh dear, Justine,” Lottie said and stopped. “Did you lose a button on your new glove?” She stared at her friend.
“Why…why, no. I thought it might be loose.” When she answered, Lottie saw the pink flush on her friend’s neck. Lottie remained silent and waited.
Justine twisted her hands together. “I know you are upset because I’m questioning how you are spending your grandmother’s money. It surprises me.”
“Surprises you? Justine, the only person I’m not related to that I’ve known longer than you is Agnes. Why would I not want to do something for her?”
“I don’t know, Lottie. It seems at times you forget she’s just a…”
“Slave? Is that it?”
“Well, yes. I mean, it’s like you don’t understand your place. You treat her as if she is a part of your family. What about days ago when you didn’t want her to leave Rosette to find my bonnet? I know it is a small example—”
“Small. Exactly. Perhaps because you have a mother, you can’t understand what Agnes has meant to me. Perhaps Grand-mère loves me, Justine, but Agnes shows me she loves me.”
Ahead, a tall ebony woman strolled fluidly and sang, “Calas, calas, belle calas. Tout chaud!” as she held onto a large basket balanced on top of her tightly wound tignon.
Lottie tugged Justine’s sleeve. “Come. Let us buy our calas while they are fresh-baked.”
* * * * *
“Your cousin is leaving tomorrow. Will you be talking to him before then?” Rosette handed her son café au laits to take to the two ladies in the café.
“We discussed attending the opera at Theatre d’Orleans, to see Robert le Diable,” said Gabriel. He didn’t mind seeing André. Talking to him was what he minded. He returned with empty mugs left by other customers and handed them to his mother. “Have you checked the pastries today?”
“The pastries are fine,” said Rosette. “They are not roaming around the café with a face as long as a broomstick.” She moved the milk kettle sitting on the hearth closer to the fire. Pouring equal parts coffee and milk into the cup at the same time meant one had to be as hot as the other.
Gabriel wanted to tell Rosette what Charlotte had shared about her grandparents arranging her marriage. But not now, especially in public, because he did not know if he could trust himself to remain composed. He had already revealed his feelings about Lottie to André by what he did not say when his cousin confronted him. If André told his own mother about the conversation, then surely she would tell Rosette, either before or after the entire Faubourgs—the neighborhoods of Tremé and half the Marigny—knew.
“We can talk about this another time,” he said.
“Yes, we could. But I am concerned about you during this time.” Rosette readjusted the simple white linen tignon she wore when working.
“But we have customers, and—”
“Not anymore,” she said and turned to the two women as they were leaving. “Merci beaucoup.” Rosette wiped her hands on her apron, moved two stools together, and patted one. “Sit,” she directed her son.
A part of Gabriel wanted to run, but the other part was grateful that the exiting customers forced him onto the stool.
His mother straightened her apron over her dress, and he suspected she was straightening her thoughts as well. He knew she rarely began serious conversations without saying a brief prayer. She had told him that years ago after explaining why Gabriel would probably no longer see his father. He had shouted words he heard men in the streets use, words never allowed in the house. Instead of a harsh punishment, she brought him the Bible and pointed to Proverbs 12:18. “There is that speaketh like the piercings of a sword: but the tongue of the wise is health.” It was then Gabriel realized that some punishments stung more than a hand.
“I am proud of the young man you are becoming,” she said now. “I wish you had an older man to guide you. There are times, perhaps, when only a father can provide the words a son may need to hear.” She placed her hand on his shoulder for a moment. “So I understand that this may be one of those times.”
For his entire life, Gabriel had thought of Rosette as his mother. As only a mother. But now, listening to her, he sensed a clarity he had not felt since learning to read. How remarkable to learn that those lines and curls and circles formed meaning. And for the first time, he looked at his mother and saw a woman. A woman who loved a man and bore him two children. A woman who still loved a man but learned to live without him.