After Monet’s Le Lilas, Temps Gris, by Liza Nash Taylor

Le Lilas, Temps Gris, by Claude Monet (France) 1872

After Monet’s Le Lilas, Temps Gris

The weather had not improved. A gray scrim seemed to descend once they crossed the  footbridge over the pond, turning to mist as they continued down the path towards the river,  Oscar and Sophie chattering about wildflowers and birds, as if, Eva thought, the weather was glorious. Following behind, Eva only listened, playing a game with herself, slowing her steps,  wondering how far ahead Oscar and Sophie might get before noticing she was not immediately behind. She half-wished (while admitting her own pettiness) that they would go far ahead, and  she could bask—or perhaps more aptly--wallow—in self-satisfied triumph. The idea of it caused  her mouth to twist unbecomingly. But there was no one to see.
 
But Eva was not to claim that satisfaction, for only a few moments passed before Sophie turned back, beckoning, calling merrily, “Come along! Oscar says it will be dry beneath the  trees.” 

The path narrowed as it wound beneath the canopy of lilacs. Oscar went first, the basket over one arm. With the other he held back branches, waiting, patient and deferential, until  Sophie, then Eva, passed. Eva hugged the picnic blanket, sulking. When they reached the bower  of lilacs where they usually sat, Oscar set down the basket and dusted his hands before appropriating the blanket. Rather officiously, Eva thought, as he busied himself arranging it on  the grass just so, then making a show of helping Sophie lower herself to sitting. She preened and  plucked at her dress, arranging the fabric into careful folds. White linen, Eva thought, on a day  like this. It will be her own fault it the hem is spoiled with mud. 

Oscar unpacked the hamper, holding up each item for Sophie’s inspection while speaking  in an affected voice, describing the simple picnic fare as something grand. Eva, still standing, waited petulantly to be noticed as her husband continued his  performance, calling the flask of tea fine Champagne. The bread and butter, he proclaimed, were  orange petit fours and cream, from Ladurée, on the Rue Royale. The jam, he said, was fine caviar  from Russia. Sophie giggled, continuing to arrange her dress.  

Eva sat, without grace, placing herself as far from Oscar as she was able, without sitting  in the dirt. She observed her husband through narrowed eyes. She thought, he’s making an utter fool of himself. Above their heads, the lilac blossoms bowed and swayed and lazy bees droned. 

Eva found the sweet fragrance cloyingly, and the buzz of the bees an irritation. She wished she  had thought to bring a novel. 

Oscar poured tea, and when he turned to offer a cup to Eva. She thought, Ten years. For  ten years, he has seen me drink tea. And he does not recall that I do not take milk. Sophie turned, touching her lace-gloved hand to Eva’s arm. “Don’t be cross, Sister dear,”  she said, “The weather will pass.”

Liza Nash Taylor
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Liza Nash Taylor is the author of two historical novels; ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS (2020) and IN ALL GOOD FAITH (2021), both from Blackstone Publishing. She was a 2018 Hawthornden International Fellow and received an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts the same year. Her work has appeared in Gargoyle Magazine; Deep South, and others. A native Virginian, Liza lives in Keswick with her husband and dogs, in an old farmhouse which serves as a setting for her novels. Find out more at lizanashtaylor.com, Instagram, and Facebook.