Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
Had they at last found the key? Could it go on and on this way as Kyle said? It must. Now that she had glimpsed Paradise, nothing less would do. Laura knew she could never go back to the old mundane routine without this touch of magic in her life, without the “two shall be one” experience of a true marriage. And, of course Tom agreed. Even if he didn’t exactly say so. All would be well now.
After a time a liveried footman entered their charmed circle and served stemmed glasses of English trifle, prepared from the recipe Escoffier created when he served Queen Victoria in Windsor Castle. The trifle was accompanied by Murchie’s Old England Inn tea in a round pot wearing a red velvet cozy. And again, the richly wrought 18th-century music swirled around them, adding its flavor to the dessert.
Laura took tiny bites, stretching every second to its fullest, caught up in her resplendent vision of the future—their future.
A white-capped waiter entered the far side of the dining room and began snuffing candles, putting the dining room to bed. Only one other guest remained in the room—a single man who sat with his back to them, stooping over his plate. What a pity to be alone in such a romantic place. But Tom and Laura were together, sitting in the glow of their single candle—Tom and Laura, Laura and Tom, and the two shall be one …
In the hovering gold shimmer of that relaxed, stepped-back-into-history atmosphere Laura was thinking what fun it would be to go upstairs to one of the antique furnished rooms she had read about when, as if he read her thoughts, a footman appeared bearing a salver with cameo mints on a lace doily atop the check. “We’d like to invite you to go upstairs and view our rooms. The unoccupied ones are open.”
With the music accompanying them like a royal procession, Tom and Laura ascended the baronial staircase. The atmosphere remained unchanged since the days when the inn was a private home, and Laura felt that it could be their home—the lord and lady of the manor retiring for the night.
The first room they peeked in was the Victorian room: high brass bed with a delicate lace canopy, floral carpet, rose-patterned wallpaper, and an old brick fireplace. “This bed is too fluffy, said Baby Bear.” Laura put her hand in Tom’s and they strolled on down the hall.
The next room was titled Edward IV: an enormous room with gilt mirrors, baroque chandelier, and purple velvet hangings on the bed. “This bed is too grand, said Papa Bear.” Tom grinned at her.
Laura glanced up at the glittery golden heart set in the stucco of the archway as they went to the room at the end of the hall, the Elizabethan: richly carved furniture, tapestry hanging, a red velvet curtained bed that might well have provided slumber for Elizabeth I. “This bed is just right, said Mama Bear.” Laura said it with a laugh, but she longed to snuggle under that fur and velvet quilt with Tom.
They descended the stairs with slow steps. It was late—only the solitary guest sat in the dormer, his head bent over a book. In her heart, Laura bid farewell to each item: the cozy 16th-century sitting room, the armored knight by the fireplace, the Brontë’s refectory table … As they exited Tom paused to pick up a brochure about the replica of Anne Hathaway’s cottage in the adjacent Tudor village. “This looks interesting. Shall we come back tomorrow?”
Laura agreed enthusiastically. But as they drove toward the Empress she was thinking,
That will be lovely tomorrow. But first—tonight.
Late into the night Laura sat over her journal, still unable to believe what had happened. Tom breathed heavily on the far side of the bed. Even asleep his back looked angry.
I understand that I must be totally, ecstatically abandoned to Tom—utterly and joyously give myself to him. And I wanted to. I thought I could. But how could I when I felt so rushed? So unprepared?
And Laura’s mind played the scene again: Wanting to take time for a bath, to go to her lover in satin and lace and perfume; longing to be touched—kissed—caressed—to hear Tom’s voice expressing his thoughts and feelings in truly revealing, honest words; needing to feel desired and cherished as a person, as his wife, not just a body to give him pleasure. And then it came, the stifling, choking feeling that she was drowning, that she couldn’t get her breath. It had nothing to do with impressions that God or her mother were watching. But how could she respond as Tom demanded when she couldn’t even get her breath?
And Tom was so terribly angry—so much angrier than she’d ever seen him before: “I thought we agreed with all that stuff Kyle said—intimacy. Sounds great, huh? But after all those come-hither looks and touches all evening, it’s still the same old Laura. Same old frigid rejection.”
Laura bit her lip. Hadn’t he heard
anything
Kyle said? Had they been sitting in different rooms? Months, years of shared experiences, Kyle had said. Not just one romantic dinner and then everything would be fine.
“Tom, I’m not rejecting you! I want you so much my body aches! But I can’t just turn it on. I need more time.”
“Well, that’s just fine. Take your time. Take all the time you need. How about another seven years?”
It was to have been the best night of her life. It was the worst. Far, far worse than before because she could see nothing more she could do. She had glimpsed a flowerfilled paradise, but when she entered it the frost had been there, producing buds that would not open and turning the full-blown blossoms brown and ugly. Her paradise was a garden good only for rocks, weeds, and thorns.
I have caught a bright vision of the eternal, only to have it snatched away. It’s so cruel. I can’t have it. Yet I can’t live without it.
O Lord, do not rebuke me. This is a load heavier than I can bear. I groan alone in my heart’s longing. O Lord, all my lament lies open before You and my sighing is not secret to You. I call You to mind upon my bed and think on You in the watches of the night, remembering how you have been my help. Hear me, O God, hear my lament. My whole being cries out to You. My heart pines with longing. I turn to You for counsel. How can I sing the Lord’s song with a heavy heart?
The next morning the tension in the air felt like a static-filled radio at high volume. One thing was certain. The trip to the Tudor village was off. Tom hadn’t spoken a word, but he didn’t need to. Besides, even if he wanted to go, there was no way Laura could imagine spending the day like happy-go-lucky sightseers. They were scheduled to return home tomorrow anyway. Home? Would anyplace ever be home again with things like this between her and Tom?
Laura shrugged and pulled herself out of bed. Might as well begin packing. Her heart sank as she thought of the tea cozy gifts, the fancy sweets, the red caftan—everything that she had purchased in such high expectations of all that would follow. How could it have come to nothing? Kyle and Glenda apparently hadn’t had their promised talk yet, either. She hated to leave having accomplished nothing.
She was in the back of the deep closet yanking at her suitcase when the phone rang. She heard Tom answer it. A muffled conversation ensued. Probably Marla. Laura shook her head. Fine. Let him make any plans he wanted to. She didn’t care. She just couldn’t fight anymore. She reached for her ivory turtleneck, rolled it into a ball and stuffed it in the corner of her bag.
“Laura, I’m sorry.” Tom stuck his head in the dressing room/closet. “Change of plans.”
She shrugged her shoulders. Change of plans? You sure could call it that. Dismemberment of their marriage was certainly the last thing in the world she had planned on.
“We’ve got an extra passenger for the excursion today.”
Excursion?
“Don’t look so blank. Tudor village, remember?”
“I remember. But I didn’t realize we were still going.”
“Might as well do something with our last day. Won’t be coming back.”
No. They wouldn’t. “Er—extra passenger?”
“Yeah, funniest thing. That was Darren, Kyle’s little brother. Seems he’s doing a project on Shakespeare at school and needs to visit Anne Hathaway’s cottage, so he asked if he could go with us.”
She shrugged again. Strange, she didn’t realize Tom had told Kyle where they were going today. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore.
The television news was on in the background. “Highs today near
12?”
“Celsius. Remember?”
“No. Poetry sticks like glue—no room left for math, I guess. What does 12 Celsius mean?”
“It means you’ll need a jacket.”
Laura pulled her turtleneck from the suitcase and took her blazer off a hanger. Tailored professionalism on the outside should help bolster the inside. At least she could hope having Darren with them would reduce the awkwardness of being alone with Tom after last night.
When they picked the boy up, however, it seemed likely she had overestimated the value of Darren’s presence. The small, dark-haired youth was so silent as he sat withdrawn into one corner of the backseat that it was hard to remember he was there.
The drive back to the scene of last night’s happiness seemed long and desolate without the glow that had accompanied them then. Was there nothing she could do to recapture it? Was there anything anyone could do? Their time with Kyle yesterday had been their final appointment. He had given her a book to read on steps to recovery and told her—and Tom too—to find a counselor to help them in Boise, emphasizing that they had just started on the path.
Well, if they had started on a path, they sure got on the wrong one somewhere. Was there any way she could find her way before it was too late? Or was it already too late?
Desperate to break the stony silence between them, Laura dug in her briefcase for her guide notes about what they were to see. “When the owners of the inn decided to build a replica of Anne Hathaway’s cottage, they went to Stratford-on-Avon and got permission to photograph everything and take all the measurements of the original building.” This was hardly Tom’s style of real estate development, but she could hope the topic would interest him.
“You mean they did it themselves? Didn’t just hire the Hathaways’ architect and say we want one like it? A whole subdivision of thatched cottages—might have potential.”
Laura smiled, appreciative that Tom was making an effort. “Isn’t the personal touch great. They did it because they loved it—like Jenny Butchart hanging over the sheer rock cliff on the quarry wall in a boatswain’s chair shoving handfuls of ivy into every niche and nook.” She turned to the backseat. “What a rich heritage you have here, Darren.”
He shrugged. “It’s all right, I suppose.”
No wonder Kyle was showing the strain of single parenting. Darren’s intense, dark eyes evidenced an intelligent mind, but the boy seemed uncomfortable with himself. Laura sensed that he wanted to be liked—but was afraid to be. Poor lad, his parents’ sudden death must have rocked him badly.
She wondered about Kyle’s concerns. Darren didn’t seem like the type to take up with a rough crowd—but then, what did she know about teens today? If what she glimpsed on MTV when Tom indulged in an occasional spot of channel surfing was any indication, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know about the youth culture.
But this young man wasn’t youth culture in general. He was a human being with a great deal of potential. And her friends’ happiness depended on his getting on the road to developing some of that potential. She would love to help in some way. If she could only find something to draw him out. “Tell us more about your project, Darren.”
“Project?”
“Something about Shakespeare—needing to see Anne Hathaway’s cottage?”
“Oh, yeah. Oh, just the usual thing. Boring.”
“Don’t you like Shakespeare?”
“He’s OK.”
Now she was landed with two silent males. It was a good thing her characters in her head talked to her.
They went first to the Tudor village Laura had merely glimpsed from the dining room window the night before. Walking along the uneven sidewalk of Chaucer Lane, peering in the little bow windows of the shops, Laura was once again transported to bygone days. “It’s so realistic. I keep expecting a chambermaid to yell, ‘Guardyloo!’ and dump a slop basin out of an upstairs window.”
“That might be overdoing the realism just a bit.” Tom glanced at his gleaming shoes. He never left the room without buffing them.
The village buildings were all replicas of famous Tudor structures, collected around a village green complete with stocks and presided over by gnarled old oaks and stately Douglas firs. Everything looked as authentic as if it had been wafted to that spot by a magic wand—or as if the visitors had been conveyed back in time and space. Costumed Tudor young women hurried by on their actual chambermaid duties since the replica buildings housed guestrooms. In the distance the voices of children laughed and called, sounding just as children must have sounded in the 16th century.
Laura pulled out her notebook and started to make a note.
“I’ll take that for you.” Darren’s sudden words startled her so she almost dropped her papers.
“What?”
“Your briefcase. I’ll carry it for you—leave you with both hands free to write.”
“How nice!” She was almost speechless that he should be so thoughtful. But then, it was easy to see that he had been raised well. She hated to discourage his courtesy, but she really needed her bag. “Thank you so much, but it isn’t heavy, and I need stuff from it all the time.”
Darren jerked a nod and withdrew into his shell. Laura regretted having rebuffed his offer. Maybe she should let him carry her things even if it was inconvenient for her.
Perhaps Tom noted her dilemma. At least he took over some of the responsibility of hosting Darren by pointing out the signs on each of the buildings. The Harvard House—home of the mother of the founder of Harvard University; the Garrick Inn—dedicated to the greatest English actor of his time known for having revived Shakespeare’s plays in their original form; the tavern where John Oglethorpe met with other pilgrims to plan their perilous journey to the new world …
Darren was polite, if unresponsive. But it was a joy to Laura to watch Tom relate to the youth. Now she saw how good he must have been with his Boy Scouts. How good he would be with his own son. If only …