Free Girl in the Afternoon by Serena Burdick

her breasts, feeling, alongside her anger, a sense of anticipation. Henri was still in Paris.
    â€œWe will not speak of it,” Madame Savaray said. “Unless, of course, your parents saw the painting, in which case we should prepare ourselves.”
    Aimée did not answer. Madame Savaray noted the rise of color in her petite-fille ’s cheeks and the flash in her gray eyes. Aimée was not going to leave this alone.
    *   *   *
    It was after dark by the time Colette and Auguste returned home. From her bedroom window Madame Savaray watched them stumble up the path. Colette tripped and caught Auguste’s arm, her laugh stabbing the air as they disappeared into the house.
    The white thread of a new moon crested the horizon, and Madame Savaray lifted her gaze. She wondered how it was God allowed that shimmering strand so many chances to grow fat, and then thin and new again. She would have liked that chance for herself. No one would think it to look at her now, but she’d once had a fine figure. What she wouldn’t give to feel herself in that body again. She laughed out loud, a sound pinched off by something dangerously close to a sob. It was too late for any of them to begin again; she knew that.
    Bowing her head, she clasped her hands and prayed that Henri not be found.
    *   *   *
    Aimée sat alone in the parlor, the fire burned down to a bed of coals. Her parents startled her out of a deep quiet. They tumbled into the room laughing, full of whatever they’d had to drink, clearly unaware of her presence. Her papa pressed her maman up against the tapestry wall and kissed her hard, their hands entwined. Aimée watched. This was what she knew of passion, this dark intensity laced with a kind of danger. Whether they were actually in love was questionable, but not impossible. At times Aimée thought she saw something of it between them, before it clouded over.
    Auguste pulled away, watching his wife wipe her slightly parted lips with the back of her hand. She hadn’t given in to him in a long time, and he’d never force her. He waited for times like these, when it seemed she might almost desire him again. He took her hand and turned away, intending to lead her from the room when he saw his daughter, sitting, white faced, on the sofa.
    â€œAimée?” He dropped Colette’s hand and stepped forward. After all he’d had to drink, he could be seeing things, and Aimée looked so ghostly.
    â€œYes, Papa?”
    â€œWhat are you doing up?”
    â€œIt is early yet.”
    â€œIs it?” He looked over at Colette.
    â€œI wouldn’t know.” Colette peeled herself from the wall and headed for the door, her movements languid and sloppy. “I’m going to check on Jacques, and then retire for the evening.” She kept her eyes on Auguste. He knew that look. She’d consumed more spirits than usual. He’d follow, quickly, before she changed her mind.
    â€œYes, yes, me too, I’m all in.” He glanced at Aimée. “Everything all right?”
    â€œPerfectly,” she said.
    It was in the doorway when Auguste thought to turn and say to his daughter, “Well done today.”
    Aimée did not answer.
    *   *   *
    It was not because Colette had had too much to drink that she let Auguste sleep with her that night; it was because she’d seen the painting, Henri’s depiction of Aimée, and it threatened the order of things. It made her feel as if Henri was lurking on the outskirts of their lives, about to take up residence in Auguste’s heart again, about to take away what was rightfully hers.

 
    Chapter 9
    Kneeling on aching knees with hands latched over a fat brush, Leonie scrubbed the hearth with all her weight, waiting for Aimée—who hovered above her—to say whatever it was she’d come to say.
    Leonie had not heard from Aimée in a week, and since