She was still figuring out the proper mode of interacting with strangers in New Orleans. It was a whole different gestural vocabulary. Coming from a town where everyone knew each other, Greta was used to waving hello. But her experience in Portland, Maine, for college had been one where if you didn’t know someone, their overtures generally portended creepiness. Here, though, a thin veneer of formal charm overlaid everything, and it took some getting used to.

She’d asked Carys for a gloss, and Carys had said, “Pretend everyone is your grandma’s second-closest friend.”

That hadn’t been terribly helpful, since Greta’s grandparents lived in Ohio and she’d only met them a handful of times. Still, it was better than nothing.

Muriel’s garden looked even lovelier than the last time Greta’d been there, and when she pushed open the gate and called, “Good morning,” Muriel breezed out of the kitchen door, coffee tray in hand.

“Hello, darling,” Muriel said. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

She put the tray on the beautiful mosaic table and kissed Greta on the cheek. Muriel’s silver hair was caught up in a large bun and secured with a silver and turquoise hairpin. She wore a flowing kaftan of yellow, peach, and black in a floral print that reminded Greta of some grand sixteenth-century tapestry.

“Will you help me with the other tray?”

Greta followed her into the kitchen and picked up a tray laden with pastries and fruit. “God, this looks amazing. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble.”

“Pleasure is worth a bit of trouble,” Muriel said and swept back out into the garden.

“Yeah, okay,” Greta said, following.

Muriel poured strong chicory coffee for them both and added cream and sugar. She leaned back, took a deep breath, and sipped the coffee.

“This is one of my favorite things,” she said.

Greta was fairly certain she’d never simply sat and enjoyed coffee in her life, always slopping it on her shirt trying to drink it while she watered the plants in the morning or as she got ready for work.

Now, she did as Muriel had done: leaned back, took a deep breath of air that smelled so different from the air at home, and sipped the coffee slowly. She hadn’t tasted chicory before coming here, but she enjoyed it—an herby infusion that tasted of river and leaf, particular and assertive.

They chatted easily, about the things Greta had seen in New Orleans so far, about Muriel’s garden, and ate croissants so flaky with butter they melted in Greta’s mouth and pine-apple softer and sweeter than any Greta had tasted. Muriel took the last bite of her croissant and dragged it through the pink-sugared dregs of her coffee cup, popped it in her mouth, and sighed once more.

“I wonder if you’d be willing to help me with something,” she said.