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Lorrelai stayed downhill of the Moreton Bay fig trees. Her milk dried up. She had to force even toast and jam down. She could feel her hip bones against the inside of Maria’s dress as wintry winds tore through the park.
Pierre coughed and coughed. The doctor came, leaving more penicillin and instructions with Lorrelai as if she was his nurse.
Dora returned a couple of weeks after Ned had asked Lorrelai to leave. Lorrelai watched from behind a tree as Dora got out of the vehicle. She wore a skirt, blouse and coat, her hair in a plait down her back. Fig leaves shook in the wind and obscured any sound.
While Lorrelai watched, Blossom emerged from the crowd of tents and strode downhill. She knocked on Pierre’s door and looked around until she found Lorrelai beneath the tree.
‘You two no good anymore?’ Blossom nodded uphill, but Dora had disappeared inside the caravan and the door was shut.
Lorrelai leaned back against the tree, shook her head.
Blossom didn’t look too worried. ‘Men,’ she said, like it explained everything. She lifted a red book. ‘Here’s your portrait. Want to see? I had to improvise a bit because you never posed for me.’ She opened the book’s cover to reveal a picture. ‘Come out where it’s light.’ She walked out from under the canopy and gave the grey clouds a wary look.
Lorrelai followed and looked over Blossom’s shoulder. ‘Blossom, it’s gorgeous!’ It could have been a black-and-white photograph. Lorrelai, posing in front of one of the fig trees, long curly hair blown over one shoulder, smiling slightly like she knew a secret. She wore an off-the-shoulder evening dress, hugging her body all the way to her ankles and high heels.
‘When I get paint, the dress will be red.’
‘Blossom, you’re really talented. You could easily sell that.’
The girl blushed, dropped her head. She quickly flipped to the middle of the book and lifted it for Lorrelai to see.
It was Lorrelai with the baby at her breast, her head tilted down, a dreamy look on her face.
‘You knew?’
‘Ma saw you at the markets. Look at the others. They’re all of you.’
Lorrelai took the book and slowly turned the pages. Page after page carefully captured scenes of Lorrelai gardening, baking, milking.
She closed the book and handed it back to Blossom. ‘I can’t stay here anymore.’
Blossom took the book and slid it up beneath her arm. She reached for Lorrelai’s hand. ‘It’s okay,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s run away together.’
Lorrelai gave the girl a long look. ‘Yes,’ she said, and something jumped inside her, the first spark of life she’d felt for days.
Blossom’s face lit up. ‘Really? When?’
Lorrelai looked around, saw the sludge of cloud darkening the forest. ‘After the storm.’
The roar of Pierre’s car came down the lane between the fence and trees, with one of the older boys at the wheel. He had taken over while Pierre was unwell. Pierre had a cough that rattled through the caravan every night.
Blossom put her arm around Lorrelai’s waist, grabbed a handful of her dress, and squealed.
‘Blossom!’ Peggy’s voice came from uphill.
The girl’s smile dissolved, but a determined look replaced it. ‘Neither of us belong here,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll pack tonight.’
‘Honey, are you sure?’
‘I like women.’ Blossom turned. ‘I can’t get married. I can’t. Don’t hate me. I know I’m different.’ Lorrelai reached over and took Blossom’s hand.
‘Oh Blossom, you poor thing.’ Lorrelai shook her head. ‘I won’t hate you, no matter what.’
‘After the storm,’ said Blossom quietly and moved away. Book beneath her arm, she strode up the hill.