Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
“Americans are polite too—usually.”
“Yes, but Canadians seem to give you more time with their courtesy. Small things, like calling me Mrs. James, rather than jumping into first name intimacy in a casual acquaintance.”
Before Tom could reply to her sociological observations a waitress presented them with a tray of tiny finger sandwiches: delicate ham with just a hint of Dijon mustard, turkey with mayonnaise, roast beef with a suggestion of horseradish cream. The yellow buttercups blooming on Laura’s plate were soon covered with delicacies. She couldn’t remember when eating had ever been so much fun. She never once worried about the low-fat strictures she usually imposed.
Smiling, she piled her last bite of scone high with cream and jam. Too high. The whole wonderful concoction slid off halfway between plate and mouth, streaking the front of her blouse. “Oh, no. What a place to be a klutz.” She scrubbed vigorously with her linen napkin.
“That’s OK. They’ll just put it down to the fact that you’re an American.”
“Right. More casual and relaxed.”
“You really are, aren’t you?” Tom sounded so encouraging, his candid question was the perfect opening for Laura.
“Oh, yes. Can you tell already?”
“I could tell when I saw you half a block away. You look about five years younger. And—it’s funny, but you look taller.”
“Tom, that’s a perfect observation. It’s because I’m not afraid to stand up straight.”
“What?”
“Well, at this point I’m still telling myself I don’t need to be afraid, but I’ll have it internalized soon.”
“Explain.”
“Well, I guess the most astonishing thing I learned was that the devil didn’t make sex; God did.” And she even said the word right out, without so much as gulping first or blushing after.
Tom continued munching sandwiches, but he leaned toward her, wearing the slight frown that always meant he was concentrating. At last he shook his head. “Laura, I never knew. I just thought you didn’t like me. Why didn’t you ever
say
anything?”
“Because I never had any idea I was any different. Oh, different from popular stuff on TV and the terrible things you read in the paper—and thank goodness. But I thought all
nice
women felt the way I did.”
The waitress held the pastry tray in front of them with maybe a dozen kinds of enticing confections. “Oh, how can I choose?” Laura groaned.
“You can have two if you want—or more,” the waitress offered.
Laura looked at Tom and laughed. “You may have to roll me out of here, but I’m going to do it. This one and that one, and—” She hesitated, and before she could settle the issue with her conscience the waitress added a mocha almond truffle to the collection on her plate.
“I don’t know what’s come over me.” Laura laughed at Tom’s amazed expression. “I haven’t abandoned all restraint like this since … since … Well, I must have let myself go sometime before.”
“I don’t think so. If this is the new Laura, I think I’m going to love being married to her.”
“All 300 pounds of her?”
“Maybe we can find some other way to channel her released inhibitions before that happens.”
The pastries were so rich that Laura left the milk out of her tea to help them go down. “I’m glad we’re not flying out tonight on that bouncy airplane.”
They were laughing together over that awful experience when the waitress brought long-stemmed dishes of creamy white syllabub topped with chocolate-dipped strawberries. Laura took a spoonful of the tangy, light pudding. “So that’s what it tastes like. I’ve always wondered. Jane Austen’s characters ate gallons of syllabub—not all at one time, of course.”
And then the bill came—topped with tiny moussefilled chocolate cups—which, of course, had to be eaten before the bill could be paid. Laura poured the last few drops of tea. “Time to quit. The pot’s empty. Now let’s go work this orgy off by shopping.”
“Uh-ho, when you get that gleam in your eye I’m in trouble.”
“You aren’t, but your pocketbook is!” Laura took her friend’s arm and they started their survey of the shops: Scottish tartans, English China, Canadian furs and ivory … “This looks like a good place to buy some gifts.” Laura indicated a shop displaying an abundance of maple leafs and union jacks. Even though the queen no longer signed Canadian bills into law, it was obvious the people carried a dual loyalty in their hearts. “Have you noticed how they put up pictures of the royal family everywhere—like most people put up pictures of their favorite aunts and uncles.” Suddenly every detail took on new meaning because she could share it with her friend.
Laura selected demitasse spoons, one decorated with a figure of Queen Victoria and another with enameled white dogwood blossoms—the provincial flower. Tom joined her at the cash register. “See what I found for Phil.” He held out a finely etched piece of scrimshaw.
“Great! That’ll be perfect on his desk. And what a beautiful plate—your mother will love it.”
Tom started to reply, but the clerk held out a pen. “If you will please be so kind as to sign right here, Mr. James.”
They drifted on up the street. “Oh, look. A whole shop of Crabtree & Evelyn products. Let’s go smell their soaps. You could get a gift for your sister here.”
Half an hour later, with Laura carrying a bag smelling like a country garden, they went on to Trounce Alley with its historic shops dating from the gold rush days.
“It’s about closing time. What else do you have on your list?” Tom asked as they left a shop of Australian and New Zealand imports.
Laura consulted her notes. “Roger’s Chocolates, home of fine Victorian creams since 1885.”
“Don’t tell me you’re hungry already?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again. But I’m told you can’t come to Victoria without buying Roger’s chocolates. I don’t think they let you through customs without them.”
“Yeah, the officials probably confiscate them and eat them themselves.”
They entered the rich atmosphere of dark oak paneling, tartan wallpaper, stained glass, and red-lighted art nouveau lamps. “Oh, just
breathe!”
Laura followed her own command. “I wonder how many calories one takes in simply breathing in here?”
They crossed the marble floor to the high oak counter. Tom chose the flavors: cherry, mint, peach, vanilla nut … As he named them a girl plopped chocolate creams the size of baking powder biscuits, wrapped in shiny red and gold foil, into a bag.
It was getting dark by the time they emerged again into the sea-scented evening air. “Look,” Laura pointed. “The Parliament Building is lit. Let’s walk around the harbor.”
The last pale tinges of the sunset faded as they strolled along the Waterfront Promenade. The ivy-covered stone walls of the Empress looked even more castlelike when aglow with lights. Laura looked up to the green-roofed gables and turrets. “The rooms with those tiny windows way up there—those must be the garrets where the dollar ladies lived. Can’t you just imagine them bravely making the best of the situation, declaring the view to be much improved in their new rooms while they brewed reused tea leaves.”
And then the cathedral-shaped Parliament Buildings came into view with their etching of thousands of amber lights. Laura stopped. “Can you believe that’s real? I mean—not real at Disneyland or something—but a real government building, where real laws are made.”
“Makes you think of something Eastern—like Scheherazade or the Taj Mahal, doesn’t it?”
“Exactly. And here it is, an offspring of the Mother of Parliaments.”
“Can you imagine replacing those lightbulbs?” Tom shook his head.
“I read an article about it. Some of the original carbon filament lights were still functioning when they did extensive restoration a few years ago.”
They continued their stroll, admiring the building and the lights reflected in the harbor. “The architect was a genius. Same fellow who designed the Empress, wasn’t it?” Tom asked.
“Yes, and the Crystal Gardens and the Bank of Montreal. What would Victoria be without Rattenbury? But I think the Parliament was the first—at least he did it before the Empress. I read that he was only 25 years old when he won the design competition. Later he went back to England and married a young wife. She and her lover poisoned him. The murder trial was a sensation.”
Tom laughed. “What an amazing storehouse of information you are!”
Laura considered pointing out that in spite of his complaints, traveling with a compulsive researcher could have advantages; but things were going too well to take any chances on raising a controversy.
They paused before a statue of Queen Victoria. Laura started to comment on its enormous size when she caught her breath. It had only been a quick movement in the dark, but she was sure. Almost. “There’s someone hiding behind the statue,” she whispered.
They backed away, then circled wide around the huge sculpture. When they reached the back, three large, loud seagulls squawked away with an indignant flapping of wings.
Laura laughed. “See, what did I tell you? Lurking to nab our chocolates, they were.”
Tom’s arm was warm and strong under her hand, and they strolled so slowly she could have rested her head on his shoulder.
A perfect day is one in which you’ve made a new friend,
Laura recalled from somewhere—probably a greeting card. She squeezed Tom’s arm.
The Empress welcomed the strollers with her gracious charm. They entered the elevator and smiled at each other with amused amazement when a lady joined them—bringing her bicycle with her.
“I suppose the Empress has seen everything in her lifetime,” Tom said when they got off.
Laura grinned up at him. “That’s what makes her a great lady—she never flutters.”
Tom held the heavy door to their room open and Laura entered, dropped her packages, and sank down on the floral love seat. “Oh, why didn’t I bring my tennie runners?” She kicked off her medium-heeled pumps.
“Because you never remember to take your tennis shoes anywhere.” Tom knelt in front of her and began massaging her tired feet.
“M-m-m, clever plan, huh? If my feet didn’t hurt, you wouldn’t rub them for me.”
Tom massaged the balls of her feet, the arches, the back of her heels. Laura slid deeper into the settee, her whole body relaxing to his touch. Then his fingers made their way up her leg. When they reached the sensitive spot inside her knee, she jerked. The response her action brought to Tom’s eyes was not one of pleasure. “I’m sorry.” She giggled to cover her tension. “It tickled.”
“That’s OK.” Tom stood up. “I need to call Phil before we get carried away.”
“At this hour?”
“He needs some figures for a meeting in the morning. I couldn’t get hold of him before we met for tea. You run along to bed. Hopefully this won’t take too long.”
A few minutes later Laura was in bed, bits of Tom’s business conversation carrying in to her from the other room. She reached for her journal:
One of the best days of my life! Beginning a whole new chapter: Friendship with Tom.
She chewed the end of her pen for a moment.
Goals: cultivate companionship; nourish our relationship. I’ll get my horticultural degree in love-growing. Love doesn’t come like a bush of full-blown roses; it doesn’t stay in bloom without feeding, pruning, protecting. Like everything else that’s alive, it must be kept growing through care or it will wilt away. The aphids, blackspot, and mildew almost won, but now they’re on the run …
Tom gently removed the pen and book from her hands and placed himself there instead. She happily, freely returned his kisses and caresses. This was so wonderful, so right. It had been so long since their love had been nurtured with such simple affection.
Then everything changed. Tom drew closer to her. Suddenly Laura’s whole body stiffened. A sob of protest caught in her throat. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she pushed him away. What was happening? Hadn’t she explained about the friendship part? It was supposed to be like when they were just dating, when going beyond kissing wasn’t a consideration. Didn’t he understand?
She didn’t have to push hard. Tom was out of bed in a single jump. He turned back to her in cold fury. “What kind of a put-on is this? Everything was just hunky-dory all day until it comes to the big test. But nothing’s really changed, has it? All those great platitudes about love and friendship that quack fed you—they don’t mean a thing when it comes to putting up or shutting up.”
“Tom! I’m sorry!” She clutched the comforter, pulling it to her chin. “I didn’t mean to do that. Honest. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t even you I was pushing away. I—I—I don’t know. I wasn’t even in this room. It sounds crazy, but it was all dark, and I heard kids talking and spoons rattling and—like in a cafeteria or something—Tom! Don’t look at me that way! I’m not making this up!” She tried to go on but choked. “Tom, please, can’t we take Kyle’s advice and just be friends? Just for a start? It will work. I know it will. Please.”
“Friends
. A fine excuse to keep me on a leash while you keep your prudish, virginal distance. Sure, just friends. I’ll carry your books home from school, and you can share your jelly beans with me. No thanks. I outgrew jelly beans in the sixth grade.” He yanked the quilted spread off the foot of the bed, grabbed a pillow, and stalked into the sitting room.
Long into the night Laura lay curled in the middle of the bed, a tight ball of misery.
I thought it was solved. I really did. Not all finished, but the first, right steps. Enough to make a difference. O God, what next? What else is there? I was so sure, but it went so wrong. What can I do?
But when she listened for an answer, it wasn’t the voice of God she heard. It was the voice of her mother. Not the gentle, loving voice of a nursery-picture mother, but her mother, turning on her and snarling like a cat. “That did
not
happen, and don’t you ever talk about it again! I’ll not have you making up disgusting lies like that.”
And then it all flooded back.
The pictures filled her mind, holding her in a nightmare. But this was no figment of a creative subconscious. It was a clear, vivid memory, as sharp and painful as the moment it happened. She lay still, barely breathing. She wanted to turn away, to smash the awful scenes like a mirror. But it wasn’t a mirror. It was herself.