Authors: Katharine Davis
“I can't believe you have so much land in the city and such wonderful old walls,” she'd exclaimed on her visit that fall. “People in Connecticut would die for old brick walls like these.” Madeleine had given Annie a book on garden design, and the catalogs she'd suggested were already arriving with the afternoon mail.
The scent of coffee led her to the kitchen at the back of the house. Wesley remained bent over the shiny black espresso machine that sputtered on the counter. She crept up behind him and drew her arms around his waist.
“It's cold out,” she said. “And it smells like Paris.”
“It smells like Washington,” he said.
Annie hugged him tighter and burrowed her nose in his collar.
“I hope this time it's strong enough.” He reached up and took two mugs down from the shelf. He had been trying to duplicate the perfect cup of French coffee ever since they moved into their house in Georgetown.
“It's not the machine, it's the water,” she said. “Anyway, it smells delicious.” She kissed the back of his neck. “All I need is you anyway.”
He turned and kissed the top of her head. “I'm glad to have a glimpse of you before you vanish into your study.” He drew his hands through her hair. It was longer now, and most of the layers had grown out. “I think you work far harder here than you ever did in Paris.”
“I break loose from time to time. You're just not here to see me.”
Wesley was working hard too, and she'd never seen him happier.
“Sophie called yesterday,” she said. “I forgot to tell you. She said she was bringing Daniel when she comes next weekend.”
“Umm. This sounds serious.” He kissed her on the lips this time and turned back to the machine, purring quietly on the counter. “What time will you be home tonight?” He poured Annie a mug of coffee.
“I just have the seminar this afternoon. No evening classes this week.” Annie added milk to her coffee and stirred. She taught poetry at the Writers' Studio, a community-based organization for writers. She loved teaching, and for the first time in her life she had writer friends. “Will you be home in time for dinner?”
They made their plans and Wesley left for the office. Annie carried her coffee up to her study, the tiny third bedroom at the back of the house. She sat in the window seat and looked out at the landscape, silent and still in the pearl-gray light. A pair of doves, the same color as the mottled bark of the crepe myrtle tree on which they sat, reminded her of a poem she'd started last week. She'd begun a series of narrative poems on gardens in different seasons and the creatures who inhabited them. She watched the two birds for a moment and reflected on how they blended in with the colorless winter world, their feathers serving as camouflage.
When they began to sing, early in March, at the first signs of spring, she would plant the new garden. She could picture flowering shrubs and pansies with their velvety smiling faces. No winter solstice
party this year. Instead she would celebrate the summer solstice with a party in the garden. She would have roses in bloom by then, New Dawn, Aunt Kate's favorite. Yes, she would have climbing pale pink roses interspersed with Japanese iris and a border of candytuft at their feet. Wesley had promised to build her a trellis.
She wanted her garden to be the perfect combination of symmetrical forms balanced with poetic freedom, neat geometric beds filled with the gentle old-fashioned flowers she remembered from childhood. She thought of the garden at God House and what it looked like on a winter morning such as this: the loosely planted hillside, beautiful and wild, glorious in neglect. She thought often of Daphne and the early days of their friendship. Now and then, she allowed herself to think of Paul. She still felt the burden of guilt, but she was becoming more and more adept at pushing it away. Like Hélène had said, it did no good to look back. She had given up Paris, but she had come to love Wesley in a whole new way.
Annie went to her desk and removed the cover of her fountain pen. The pen, a brilliant peacock blue that matched her favorite South Sea Blue ink, had been a housewarming present from Wesley. He'd found it in a local antiques shop. Annie loved the flat nib and the way the ink flowed lushly across the page. She knew that words came from somewhere beyond a pen, but she liked to think that writing with it made a difference.
To the right of the desk, where she could see it from her chair, she'd hung the photograph of the lovers in place de Furstenberg, Paul's parting gift, a perfect souvenir. Their book was on the bookshelf below. She didn't bother to leaf through it much anymore. Her writing was changing. She could feel a different voice coming in, a voice with new things to say. Now, with her back to the windows, she opened her notebook, lowered her head, and began to write.
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