Chapter 50: The Petal-Sky Afternoon
The morning began with sun on the windowpanes and the smell of peaches. Eva sat at the breakfast table with her small legs swinging beneath her chair, spooning yogurt into her mouth without quite tasting it. Her eyes sparkled—not from the sweetness of the fruit, but from anticipation.
"Is it time yet?" she asked for the third time, turning toward her mother with a hopeful tilt of her head.
Evelyn, in a soft linen blouse and rolled sleeves, was finishing her tea. "Soon, little sprout. Vivienne is nearly done packing."
"I helped!" Eva added quickly. "I put the strawberries in the tin. And I didn't squish them."
"Only one was squished," Vivienne called from the kitchen, her voice amused. "And someone may have eaten two."
Eva giggled.
Their outing was planned days in advance. A quiet green park just outside the city, secluded and scenic. Not the sort of place most children played—too quiet, too tucked away, too ideal for philosophers and old poets—but perfect for them. For Eva. For something soft and sacred between mothers and daughter.
The picnic basket was packed with care—cheeses, fresh bread, the slightly squished strawberries, and a small thermos of lavender lemonade. But Eva added her own contributions: a folded napkin with five cookies wrapped inside, a mini wooden box of crayons, and her newest treasure—a small canvas, paints, and brushes she'd begged Vivienne to let her bring.
She was wearing her favorite dress, ivory with little bluebells along the hem. A wide sunhat perched askew on her curls. And she was nearly bouncing as they climbed into the car.
"Fifteen kisses," she declared once they were on the road.
"Fifteen?" Vivienne asked, glancing back from the passenger seat.
"Yes," Eva said firmly. "Each. Fifteen from Manman and fifteen from Mère."
Both women blinked.
"Mère?" Vivienne repeated.
Eva looked only slightly sheepish. "That's what you are sometimes. Not just Aunt Vivienne."
Vivienne turned slightly in her seat. Evelyn glanced in the rearview mirror.
"I know it's not true," Eva added quickly. "But today… Can we pretend it is?"
Her voice was soft. Not quite pleading. Just… honest.
"Of course we can," Evelyn said at once.
Vivienne's voice was slower, but warm. "You can call me Mère anytime you like, little mouse."
"I want both of you," Eva said, hugging her bunny close. "Even if it's not how the world sees us."
Evelyn reached a hand back, palm open. Eva clasped it tightly, and they stayed like that until the trees blurred by.
*****
The park was dappled in late spring sunlight, the grass tall and gold-tipped, and the sky so brilliantly blue it looked like it had been freshly painted. A few families strolled in the distance, but they kept to themselves. The world felt wrapped in silence and leaflight.
Evelyn laid out a thick blanket beneath the shade of a great oak, while Vivienne opened the basket and began arranging plates and jars. Eva unpacked her canvas with great seriousness, her brow furrowed.
"Today I will draw the whole world," she announced.
"That's ambitious," Vivienne said, cutting cheese into careful slices.
"Well, not the whole world," Eva corrected. "Just you and Manman and me and the sky. And the grass. And the horses."
"Horses?" Evelyn raised a brow.
"You said we might ride," Eva reminded her.
Evelyn smiled. "We will."
*****
The stable was only a few minutes away from the park's edge. A single path led up to a gentle paddock where several patient ponies stood under shade. One was smaller, chestnut with a white diamond on its forehead.
When Eva approached, holding both Evelyn and Vivienne's hands, she didn't tremble. She only stared.
"He has kind eyes," she whispered.
"He does," Evelyn agreed.
The stable hand helped them adjust the saddle and reins. It was Eva's first time riding, and Evelyn insisted on sitting behind her to steady her grip. The moment they lifted her onto the saddle, Eva gasped—not from fear, but wonder.
Everything looked different from above. The trees were greener. The wind moved slower. And when Evelyn settled behind her, wrapping her arms carefully around her waist, Eva leaned back into her.
"I love you, Manman," she said.
"I love you too, my starling."
They made one slow lap around the paddock. Then another. Eva held the reins loosely, her hands small and uncertain, but she didn't want to stop.
"Look, Mère!" she called across the fence.
Vivienne had her camera out, but paused to wave. "You're flying, little mouse."
"I am!" Eva beamed.
She didn't cry when they dismounted. She didn't pout when it was over. But as they walked back to the blanket, she reached up and took both their hands again, one on either side.
"I'll remember that forever," she said solemnly.
*****
Lunch was full of laughter and lemonade. Eva ate slowly, savoring every bite, occasionally feeding crumbs to passing ants or tossing fruit peels into the bushes "for the squirrels."
But her focus shifted again once she finished: she took up her canvas and opened the small set of paints, humming softly.
Vivienne leaned closer. "What are you painting, my love?"
"You," Eva said. "And Manman. And me."
"Can we see?"
"No," Eva said, dipping her brush. "Not yet. It's not ready. It has to be… like a dream."
So they let her paint. Occasionally, the wind blew a leaf into her hair. Occasionally, a streak of color dripped down her sleeve. But Eva didn't mind.
She was making something sacred.
The painting—when she finally let them see it—was vivid, emotional, messy, and utterly enchanting.
In the middle of the canvas stood three figures: two taller, one small. They were holding hands beneath a tree with rose-pink blossoms. The sky behind them was a surreal gold, and wild grasses brushed their knees like waves. One figure had a crown of stars—Manman. The other held a book and wore a red scarf—Mère.
The third figure was smaller than scale demanded. But it glowed.
Not perfectly drawn. Not clean. Some lines were crooked. Some smudges dragged across the page where Eva's elbow slipped. But the soul of it radiated from the colors.
There was a poem on the corner, in childish, slanting handwriting:
three flowers in a field
one glows like dawn
one sings to the wind
and the last is the seed
who wants to grow into both
Vivienne's throat caught.
Evelyn reached for a napkin, dabbing her eyes.
Eva blinked. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," Vivienne said gently. "You did something very, very right."
"Fifteen kisses now," Eva said, stretching her arms wide.
Evelyn scooped her up first. "One," she said, kissing her forehead. "Two," on her nose. "Three, four, five…" trailing down her cheeks.
Vivienne took over at eight and continued up to fifteen, finishing with a kiss to Eva's shoulder.
Eva sighed with deep contentment. "Now I'm full."
*****
They stayed longer than planned.
Eva fell asleep curled between them on the blanket, the sun dipping lower in the sky. Evelyn read quietly while Vivienne sketched leaves on a notepad. When Eva stirred, she murmured without opening her eyes:
"Don't go."
"We're right here," Evelyn whispered.
Eva reached toward Vivienne. "Mère, too."
"I'm here, little blossom."
"You're my parents," Eva said drowsily. "Even if it's pretend."
"It's not pretend," Evelyn said, brushing a curl from her forehead. "It's real. All of it."
Eva didn't answer. She was already dreaming again, her bunny tucked under one arm, the painted canvas drying in the sun.
They didn't wake her until the stars began to appear.
And when they carried her home, she didn't stir.
But the poem stayed with them. The picture. The crown of stars. The seed trying to grow.