Twilight Fires

By Sabine Oishi

Recently widowed, Gabrielle is paralyzed by grief and overwhelmed by the demands of a large property. A chance encounter not only transform her beloved garden, but offers her an unexpected second chance at happiness.

Gabrielle, a young French woman and Paul, an aspiring American attorney, meet and fall in love in Paris. They start married family life in Baltimore, renovate an old carriage house, and turn an overgrown patch of land into a beautiful garden.

After Paul ‘s sudden death, Gabrielle, now in the twilight of her life, feels unequal to the task of maintaining their creation. Convinced that her best years are behind her, she loses herself in memories of her childhood during WWII where, being half-Jewish, she had to hide in plain sight. A grandchild’s struggles trigger long-suppressed memories of forbidden love, and at every turn she is reminded of the ups and downs of her life with Paul.

But when a friend introduces her to Leila, a landscape architect, everything changes. The process of redesigning the garden together to make it more manageable, effects a transformation in Gabrielle as well. Will she dare to open her heart and reach for a new beginning?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665740784

Sabine Oishi

Sabine Oishi was born, raised and educated in Switzerland, England and the US. She is a child psychologist with a varied career in research and therapy, with two books on autism to her credit. Since her marriage, she has lived in Baltimore, where she raised a family with her husband. Twilight Fires is her first novel.

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Copyright © 2023 Sabine Oishi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4077-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4078-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905076

Archway Publishing rev. date: 5/11/2023

CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Acknowledgments

ALSO BY SABINE OISHI

The Hidden Child, Woodbine House, 1987

Behind the Mirror, John Hopkins University Press, 2021

For Gene

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PREFACE

I wrote my first work of fiction—a collection of somewhat derivative tales—at age nine, while I was recovering from a lengthy bout of bronchitis.

This novel, my second work of fiction, incubated over several decadesof my later life. Its seeds were sown by my husband. At work on a novel, he was dissatisfied with his portrayal of a female character—the wife of his hero.

I can’t do women, he told me. I can’t get into their skin. Could you come up with a credible background and personality for me?

He gave me the parameters: she had to be French and half-Jewish, and her father had to be a professor, or the like, who fled France during the German occupation in World War II. I came up with the goods, and he incorporated my character into his story.

Much later, having witnessed the deaths of husbands and wives within my family and circle of acquaintances, I became preoccupied by the question of how the rest of one’s life might play out after the loss of a lifelong companion.

And so, starting with the character of a half-Jewish French woman, a story started to take shape in my head, and then on paper, and wouldn’t leave. Other characters appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and soon the story took on a life of its own, carrying me along.

The geographic and historical frameworks of the novel are largely accurate, reflecting a number of my own itinerations through life, but all of the characters, relationships, and adventures are purely figments of my imagination and bear no resemblance to any person, living or dead, within my ken.

CHAPTER ONE

N ot again! Merde alors ! For the third time the shears jammed on one of the high-waving wisteria vines Gabrielle was stretching to trim back. With a surge of anger at Paul for not having been there in the fall to clean, oil, and sharpen the tools at the end of the season, she gave a sharp downward pull. But the shears wouldn’t release, and no amount of tugging broke the fibrous strands. The harder she pulled, the farther the shoots extended, until a last, vicious tug tore them free. She came down hard on her bad leg, almost toppling backward.

The wisteria arch was one of Gabrielle’s favorite garden features. It framed and defined the entry into the backyard, but it wasn’t easily tamed, and it required constant vigilance. Giving up on the trimming, she yanked at the roots of some predatory shoots that had snaked along the ground and had, seemingly overnight, established beachheads in the beds, where her prize dahlias should long since have been planted. Her knee protested, and an ominous twinge in her shoulder warned of potential further joint problems. There was no getting around it—the garden was going to rack and ruin after more than a year of neglect, and so, since Paul’s death, was she.

It was unseasonably hot for mid-May, and she wiped away the sweat dripping into her tearing eyes with the back of her glove. Dropping her tools helter-skelter in the shed, she headed back to the house. Paul would have had a fit, but she was already behind schedule. She was expecting her friend Caroline for tea, and little escaped Caroline’s gimlet eye. It was probably too much to hope that she wouldn’t notice the creeping effect of neglect in the garden. But she could at least make herself presentable.

As she scrubbed her hands and nails, and used a washcloth to remove the smudges under her eyes left by the glove, Gabrielle felt a little like Eliza Doolittle, preparing to meet Professor Higgins: I washed my face and ’ands before I come, I did! Her mood lightened.

She had met Caroline, a British expat and, at seventy-two, her senior by three years, at a native-plant seminar some nine years earlier. She had immediately liked her no-nonsense approach to life. Though Caroline rarely pulled her punches, her frank comments were never malicious, more like a dose of salts—salutary, if not always easy to swallow. Their common European roots helped cement their friendship, and Caroline had been one of her most stalwart supporters after Paul died.

Facing the mirror, Gabrielle combed out remnants of leaves and small twigs from her hair. Its burnished chestnut had begun to fade to the color of dry beech leaves, but it was still thick and wavy. She quickly braided it back into the single plait she had favored on and off since she had grown out of pigtails.

She had always been what in France was called une fausse maigre—slender but with well-defined curves in all the right places. Thanks to her housekeeper, Mrs. Mitchell, she had regained the weight she had lost after Paul’s death, and the pale-yellow linen dress she slipped on fit properly again. As she stepped into her favorite, open-back sandals, Gabrielle hoped that, at least outwardly, she would live up to her friend’s exacting standards.

Caroline arrived punctually, as always. She was wearing one of her signature twin-sets, this one in superfine cotton, partnered with a wraparound skirt of polished poplin adorned with garlands of twining flowers. The design reminded Gabrielle of a Wedgwood teapot. But whatever her attire or the occasion, Caroline always looked every inch the lady. Was it breeding or an innate conviction of British superiority that did the trick? Or simply good posture?

I thought we’d have our tea in here, Gabrielle said, ushering her friend into the sunroom, which overlooked the backyard. The wasps are already out. We’d have to fend them off the jam in no time.

Pity, that! It would have been pleasant to sit on the terrace. Before we know it, it will be June and too hot to sit outside.

Caroline looked with approval at the table laid ready for tea. Scones! How lovely! You’re so lucky. Your Mrs. Mitchell does have a magical touch with pastry. And clotted cream as well. I’m being spoiled.

Gabrielle had made the cucumber sandwiches herself, not trusting Mrs. Mitchell to cut them thin enough or trim off the crust. Now she extended the plate to her guest. You deserve it. It’s as close to a proper English afternoon tea as I could make it, though we’re missing those little cakes with the pink icing that seemed to be de rigueur when I was in England.

Ah, yes, the pink icing, Caroline said with a dreamy look.

How anyone could have fond memories of what, even as a student, she had considered a culinary abomination, was beyond Gabrielle. Well-schooled in English etiquette, she poured the tea through a strainer before passing Caroline her cup, then a small pitcher of milk, watching with an inward shudder as the liquid turned mud-colored and opaque. One lump or two? she asked, sugar tongs at the ready.

If she had hoped to avoid a closer scrutiny of her disheveled yard by offering up this bounty and moving the venue indoors, she was to be disappointed. For once Caroline had swallowed the first bite of her scone, with a liberal application of buttery cream and jam, her glance roamed over the scene outside and predictably it came. Your garden’s looking a bit ragged. But then, as if to take the sting out of her frank appraisal, she added, knee still giving you problems?

Gabrielle dismissed the query with a shrug. It’s nothing.

But Caroline wasn’t fooled. Tell you what. I’ll send you one of my helpers. His name is Alvaro. He should see you right in no time at all.

Caroline seemed to be able to call on an inexhaustible supply of help for any eventuality. It was a mystery where she found these people, but from what Gabrielle had been able to observe, she owed their loalty in good part to the close interest she took in them and their families, often quietly helping out where she perceived a need. It was the same with her large circle of friends, whom she valued individually, managed collectively, and helped generously. In turn, she expected them to fall in with her schemes.

That would be very kind of you, she said agreeably. You’ll need to let me know what the going rate is, these days. I haven’t used a gardener in, like, forever.

From the subject of gardens, the conversation meandered through that of children and grandchildren, then headed inexorably in the direction of Caroline’s latest project: engineering Gabrielle’s reentry into the larger world.

I’ll have an invitation sent to you for the reception we’re having for the new curator of the modern art collection, Caroline said. I hope you’re free. There should be some interesting people there.

Ah, yes, I read about that in the paper just yesterday. He sounds like an interesting choice.

As a member of the museum board, Caroline had most likely been involved in the decision, though as far as Gabrielle could tell, she was not particularly interested in postmodern art. But she was an indefatigable fundraiser for the museum and a number of other cultural organizations, and the Brooks family had also donated some fine examples of early American furniture to the museum’s American wing: a selection of pieces from the property her husband had inherited in Maryland horse country.

It’s kind of you to think of me, but standing for any length of time is difficult for me just now. It was the most acceptable excuse she could come up with. But the truth was that she had always disliked cocktail parties—a crush of people, where it was never possible to have any kind of substantial conversation.

Well, there’s a director’s luncheon coming up with a preview of the new gallery, Caroline said. I’ll take you as my guest. You’ll enjoy that.

To which Gabrielle—happy to have escaped one snare—responded noncommittally. We’ll see, but thanks for the offer.

By the time Caroline left, the afternoon was almost over. Gabrielle returned to her seat by the window, settling back into the nest of pillows that over the years had molded themselves to her shape. She loved this time of day the French called l’heure bleue—so much more evocative than twilight—those magical moments before the sun set completely. There was beauty in the gradual change of colors, and only a little melancholy in the thought that her life, like the day, was slowly edging toward evening.

She did not usually think about aging—about time running out—but she no longer made long-range plans, either. She and Paul had made so many when he had finally retired, two years ago, at sixty-nine. A few months later, without any warning, he had dropped dead, felled by a brain aneurism.

Every time she thought about it, the scene played itself out as on a looped film: Paul carrying the Norway spruce they had cut at the tree farm in preparation for trimming it for their grandson; Paul straining to lift the heavy tree onto the car; the sudden faltering—a hand groping for his head; Paul collapsing soundlessly, except for a soft moan—jerking once. By the time she had reached him, he was lying still, his mouth lopsided, as if wryly amused. He had been pronounced ‘dead on arrival’ at the hospital.

Gabrielle had sat dry-eyed through the funeral service—brave for her weeping family, or so it appeared to admiring friends. In reality, she had been anesthetized by shock. Grief came later and with it rage at a malicious fate that had robbed her of her husband and their future. With returning reason, she had chided herself for being self-centered and ungrateful. Whatever happened, fate could not take away the past. She was reasonably healthy and had children and grandchildren to treasure. But after a year and a half she still felt most comfortable holed up in the house where Louise, their youngest daughter, had been born and in the garden she and Paul had designed and maintained together. Her most pressing worry now was how much longer she could keep it all going on her own.

Even though she wasn’t really hungry, Gabrielle checked the refrigerator for whatever Mrs. Mitchell had readied for her. After Paul’s death she had stopped cooking, mostly making do with irregular scratch meals of sandwiches and fruit and the occasional omelet, with a prepared salad from the delicatessen.

Louise, a nurse, had unexpectedly come home for a visit and discovered the refrigerator bare of anything but some cheese and a carton of orange juice. She had been appalled, though being Louise, empathetic.

I know how hard it is to cook just for yourself, she had said gently. I don’t know how I’d manage without the hospital cafeteria as back up. But you’ll ruin your health if you don’t eat right.

She had quoted chapter and verse about malnutrition in the elderly and suggested that her mother hire someone to come in at least three days a week to cook and do general housework.

Gabrielle hadn’t been keen. I hate having people in the house, she had complained to her son, Simon, when he called. And I can’t bear to sit around while someone else works, which kind of defeats the purpose of hiring help.

But primed by Louise, he had endorsed the plan and also gotten his sister Nicole on board. Since Nicole lived in town, there was no escaping her scrutiny, so Gabrielle had given in, in good part because she didn’t want the children worrying about her.

She had been lucky to find Mrs. Mitchell, who had time on her hands since her fiancay, a long-distance truck driver, was often absent for days on end. Mrs. Mitchell’s passion was baking. Other than that, she might best be described as a plain cook with a penchant for deep frying and an aversion to raw greenery, which she called rabbit food.

Part of tonight’s stuffed cannelloni disposed of, Gabrielle poured herself a second glass of wine and took it with her to the terrace, taking advantage of the warm evening before the mosquitoes made it unpleasant to linger outside after dark. She had allowed herself a couple of glasses of wine every evening as long as she could remember—a lifelong habit, which had started with a few symbolic drops in her water glass at Friday-night dinners with her grandparents in Paris.

CHAPTER TWO

E very Friday, well before the sun had fully set, Gabrielle and her parents walked from their apartment in the Marais, the old Jewish quarter, to the tall townhouse where her father’s parents, Zaydeh and Bubbe , lived in an apartment full of stiff, carved furniture, fading brocade curtains, and rug-covered parquet floors.

The table would be set for five with a blindingly white starched tablecloth, cut crystal glasses, damask napkins, and heavy silverware, engraved with twining initials. Gabrielle’s chair had a thick pillow, so she could more easily reach the table. Zaydeh always insisted that his bubalah sit next to him, his soft, neatly trimmed beard tickling when he kissed her. Out of the corner of her eyes Gabrielle watched to see whether the little silk skullcap clinging to the polished dome of his head would slide off. Miraculously, it never did.

At the head of the table, Bubbe presided over the challah, covered with a white cloth, next to an open bottle of wine and candles in ornate silver candlesticks. She was a small woman, tightly corseted and pigeon-breasted, with a choker of jet beads imperfectly hiding her impending jowls. Indoors, a small black cap perched on the tower of her upswept hair. Outdoors, she favored a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with glossy black feathers.

Illuminated by soft candlelight, Bubbe seemed to grow in stature—a priestess intoning a powerful incantation. "Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu . . .," meaningless words to Gabrielle, yet so much a part of the Friday night meal that for the rest of her life she could never see or taste a loaf of braided white bread without hearing the blessing softly play in her head.

When she was five, the war and the family’s flight from Paris had put an end to that ritual, but years later, in a Buddhist temple, Gabrielle had been struck by the familiarity of the gesture the monks made after bowing before the image of the Buddha—a reverend sweeping of the smoke spiraling from burning incense sticks over their bodies and heads. Just so had Bubbe gracefully swept the air above the burning candle over