"I wish we could meet soon in Colima," she said. "Will Angelina be going away ... perhaps?"
"To Guadalajara?"
"Yes."
"Since Caterina's death, she doesn't seem to want to go away," he said. "I've suggested it.... No, she refused."
"How long has she known about us, do you suppose? Do we know how difficult we've made her life?"
He didn't know, but he knew he should never have married Angelina, that he had been carried away by her prettiness, by fancy, by passion, lopsided but nonetheless real, nonetheless foolish, passion for her city manners, her frailty....
Really, how long had Angelina known?
Lucienne felt they had been considerate, as she thought about it, but she wasn't sure. It struck her, with brief but keen poignancy, that Angelina had never been married to Raul. What about her charming, corrupt friend, little Estelle, her secrets?
Her head against him, her hand in his, he sensed the beauty of her garden, tall poinsettias, cerise bougainvillaea, roses, honeysuckle, azucenas. A row of lilies crossed a stretch of grass under crooked cypress.... This was Lucienne's workshop. She neglected her friends for her garden, a collector's garden: rare columbine, carnations, violets, asters, unusual willows, acacia, papaya, fig, breadfruit and zapote. She grew pittosporum, succulents and cacti. She had Humboldt fever ... her hands felt rough. Something was always germinating in her glasshouses. When she had come back from Europe, along with her Parisian lingerie, Swiss jackets, and Italian hats, she had smuggled seeds or plants. A Japanese rosewood on one trip, a Greek olive tree on another.
"What happened to the camellias, the northern ones?" he asked, after a long silence.