Wanda
Wanda and Ronald Martin are just sitting down to supper in their London townhouse when they hear someone wiping their shoes on the doormat outside. It’s Marble. They recognize the weight and drag of those feet. They recognize the way she presses her finger against the doorbell.
“I didn’t know she was in London.”
“Nor did I.”
“Why doesn’t she let herself in?”
“Maybe she left her keys in Rome.”
Wanda pulls open the front door, her chest swelling with the feeling that the arrival of her daughter always brings, but when she sees Marble’s face, everything falls inward. She knows, instantly, why her daughter is here unannounced.
Fifty years.
Their daughter is almost fifty years old.
Wanda had hoped that after five decades, they’d be safe.
Wanda had hoped that she and Ronald would never need to have this conversation with Marble, this talk about another woman, a young, unwed mother from the Caribbean. Their daughter’s birth mother. Wanda’s true life began when she took little Mabel into her arms all those years ago. Now, looking at her daughter’s face, Wanda fears that the charmed life that she and Ronald and their child have lived all these years is about to crumble.
Benny
What a strange feeling. Benny is about to meet her long-lost sister for the first time. Marble Martin is coming to the United States and, after several weeks in New York, Benny is on her way back to California to join Byron. When Benny first heard the name Marble in her mother’s recording, it had seemed familiar to her, but it had taken a while for her to place it.
Back in the fall, a friend had told Benny about an expert she’d seen in the UK who was doing shows about indigenous foods. Benny had written down the name in her agenda, but she had never looked it up. She’d had a lot on her mind. Making a living, trying to get a business loan, going to therapy. Then Benny’s mother died and she had gone back to New York weighed down by everything that she had just learned about her family.
Marble Martin.
Benny has decided she doesn’t want to look her up at all. Byron says Marble Martin looks like their mother. Benny doesn’t want to see that. She’ll wait to meet her.
Benny is hunched over her sketch pad in an airport lounge when a woman in an emerald-green jacket stops next to her.
“That’s pretty,” the woman says. She must be as tall as Benny. And beautiful. “A hair comb?” she asks.
“Yes, a peineta,” Benny says, holding up her sketch pad so that the other woman can take a better look.
“Oh, yes, one of those things those Spanish ladies wore to hold up their mantillas,” the woman says, lifting her right arm into the air with a flourish that calls to mind the flamenco. The broad sleeve of her jacket falls back to reveal a wrist the color of copper and a bracelet with a stone like the iris of someone’s eye.
“Exactly,” Benny says, chuckling.
“This one looks really special.”
“It is. It’s my mother’s. Was my mother’s. Tortoiseshell.”
“Or an imitation. You’re not allowed to make things out of tortoiseshell anymore.”
“I know, but this one’s really old.”
“Is it?” the woman says, nodding. Lingering. Benny runs a finger along the side of the design.
“So, my idea is to do a cake decoration topped by something like this. My hairdresser in New York is getting married.”
“What a great idea! You make cakes?”
“I do.”
“And you’re an artist?”
“Well, I did go to art school,” Benny says, “but I also took pastry classes.”
“Do you take commissions?”
“For cakes? Or drawings?”
The other woman laughs. She hands Benny a business card. “I’d like to see the drawing of that comb when it’s finished.” She points at the business card. “Could you send that to me? We’re always on the lookout for a good illustrator. You never know.”
Benny looks at the business card. An art director at a home brand company. High-end. Is this woman really asking to see more of Benny’s artwork? As the woman walks away, Benny puts the card to her nose. Sandalwood with hints of vanilla and cacao. Benny smiles to herself.
Marble
Someone should have told Marble about this long ago. Someone should have prepared her for this moment. They should have let her know about this single-family, bungalow-style home in Orange County, California, not far from the Pacific shore, with the smell of jasmine in its backyard, and a living room filled with photos of a brown-skinned woman who looks just like her.