Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
“That’s the idea. We have eight or nine greenhouses, and they’re all well hidden. I think visitors are supposed to believe the fairies grow the flowers.” Glenda laughed and tossed her gold-streaked auburn hair.
Laura was delighted with the information she’d received—both for her book and for use in her own garden—but she couldn’t shake the feeling that what she really wanted was to get better acquainted with Glenda herself. She sought for a way to bring the conversation from roses to the rose grower. “Where did you go to school?”
“I got my horticultural degree at Windsor—King’s College. I’d like to go to Guelph for some advanced work. It’s the top school, but it’s in Ontario, and I hate to go so far away now—” She sighed and took a sip of her cuppa. “I just don’t know.” She finished with an indeterminate shrug of her shoulders.
“Um,” Laura searched for another question that might give the girl a chance to open up to her. “When do you get your vacation?”
“My holiday? Anytime but planting time. Growing season isn’t a good time to be gone either. Now to April is good. I have two days off coming to me. I keep hoping the bugs will take some days off, too, but it never works out that way.” Glenda hesitated. “I was hoping I’d need a few days of vacation—for something really important. But it doesn’t look likely.” She took a sip from her steaming teacup. “Mmm. Hot in here, isn’t it?” She unzipped her coverall and pushed the collar back.
The gesture revealed a small gold fish hanging from a slim chain around her neck. “Oh, me too.” Laura held out her hand to show her ring with a similar engraving on the band.
The women smiled at each other in recognition like first-century believers who used the symbol as a secret code. “I wonder …” Glenda hesitated. “Maybe you’re just the person I’ve been looking for. I need someone to talk to. And all our friends here are really more Kyle’s friends than mine, so I don’t feel comfortable going to them …”
Nearly an hour later Laura hurried toward the car, her mind whirling with the remarkable conversation she and Glenda had just had. “Tom, thank you for waiting so patiently. You can’t imagine what’s happened.” She jumped in beside him.
He looked up from his screen and blinked as if trying to figure out who she was. He methodically saved his work, turned off the computer, and lowered the screen. “Well, you look excited.”
“I am. It’s absolutely incredible—one of those truth is stranger than fiction things that I couldn’t use in a novel plot because nobody would believe it. But the Glen I thought I was meeting turned out to be Glenda, and she’s absolutely Gwendolyn—looks like her, knows everything about roses,
and
she’s having romance problems!”
“Which you, in the best fairy godmother tradition, can solve for her.” Tom started the car.
“Well, no. As a matter of fact, it may be rather the reverse.” She wasn’t ready to travel that conversational path yet, so she hurried on. “I can guarantee to solve Gwen’s, but not Glenda’s. But it did help for her to have someone to talk to.”
Tom turned onto the highway toward Victoria. “So, are you going to let me in on the agitations of Glenda/Gwendolyn?”
“Not if you’re going to be snide about it.” It was his tone, really. And she so needed this conversation to go well. So much depended on the right lead-up.
“Sorry.”
“Right. That’s better. Glenda met Kyle at church when she first came here more than a year ago. It was love at first sight—at least on her part. They’ve been dating ever since, and Glenda’s feelings have been growing all this time.”
“Blossoming like her roses.”
Laura bit her lip.
“OK, sorry. Didn’t mean to scoff.”
Laura continued, but in a subdued tone. She had to be so careful what she said. And how she said it. “She’s sure Kyle loves her, but she can’t get him to make a commitment. You see, he’s a psychiatrist—specializing in marriage counseling—” She rushed on, not daring to look at Tom, as much as she wanted to know how he would react to that information. “Whenever they talk about their own relationship, he says he sees so many messed-up marriages he’s not going to get married until he can give the relationship all the attention it really needs.”
“Hmm.”
“The thing is, his parents died a couple of years ago, and he has the sole responsibility for raising his kid brother—15 years old and terribly mixed up. Glenda says he’s enormously bright—which may be a lot of his problem. He’s bored in school, in with a bad group of friends. Kyle suspects some of them may be into drugs …”
“Glenda must be in love if she’s willing to take on a mess like that.”
“Of course she is. That’s one of her main points for wanting to get married now, so she could really help Kyle—share his problems. She wouldn’t try to be a mother to Darren, more of a big sister, but she’s sure she could help. As it is, Darren seems to think she’s interfering when she’s around, since there’s nothing official between her and Kyle.”
“Sounds like a plot complication made to order.
What’s Gwendolyn going to do?”
“Oh, Gwendolyn will probably do something absolutely heroic, like leading the investigation against the drug pushers and rescuing the kid just before he shoots a fatal dose of heroin, whereupon both he and Kevin will swear they can’t live without her another moment. If only things were that simple for Glenda.”
“It doesn’t sound very simple.”
“No, waiting for life to straighten itself out and praying for guidance
sound
much simpler—but they’re probably the hardest things in the world.” Laura moved closer to her husband, admiring, as always, his crisp, clean look, his clear profile.
And telling you all that was the easy part for me. Now I’ve got to get this around to us. How can I do it without erecting a wall or igniting an explosion? Give me the words—just some way to start.
“What did you mean when you said the fairy godmother role may be reversed?”
Laura gasped. Why did answers always seem such a shock? She’d asked, hadn’t she? She took a deep breath. She had her opening; there was no going back now. “Well, I meant Glenda might be able to help me. Tom, I want so desperately to make you happy. And I know I don’t.” Her hand touched his arm. He didn’t shrug it away. “Like I said, Kyle is a marriage counselor. This whole thing could be made in heaven. Literally. You don’t mind if I make an appointment to see him, do you?”
They were at a stop sign, so Tom could take his eyes from the road and really look at Laura. There was no anger, only confusion. “What are you saying, Laura? You don’t really think you need professional help, do you?”
“I don’t know anything else to do.” Her voice broke. “I want to make you happy.”
Laura hummed softly as she brushed her hair. Tonight would be different. Last night had been the dark before the dawning. In the glow of Tom’s new mellowness on the drive back and the confidence of having an appointment with Dr. Kyle Larsen for the next morning, Laura was determined to strew their bed with metaphorical rosebuds, to blossom fullblown under her husband’s caresses …
Her mind whirled with images from the garden. Tom had been so prickly that morning, but as Glenda pointed out, a cold winter produced thorns. And Tom had held on through seven cold winters. Now some of the expert advice she received on rose nurturing she would apply to husband nurturing as well. She sprayed a mist of floralscented perfume on her hair and went into the sitting room.
Tom was at the small desk, talking on the phone and jotting figures on a pad of paper, then making squiggly doodles down the sheet. “… Yes, I see what you mean … Yes, I understand perfectly … Oh, yes, an enormous sum of money.” He jotted more figures. “Yes, I won’t forget. Good night, Marla.”
Laura stood frozen to the spot, the pale green carpet hardening around her bare feet like cement. “Marla! That was Marla?
Marla?
What’s she doing here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not here. She called me from her office in Boise.”
“I don’t care where she called from. She’s here. If you’re still doing business with her, she’s here—right here between us!” Laura’s voice rose on a hysterical note.
“Laura, be sensible.” Tom stood and gripped her shoulders.
Laura tore away. “No wonder you didn’t come to bed till all hours last night. No wonder you kept pulling away from me all morning. Were you on the phone to her all the time I was at my interview? You don’t want me. You want her. Marla. Marla. Always Marla!”
Now Tom’s anger flared to match Laura’s, but he didn’t shout and cry as she did. Instead, his eyes narrowed fiercely, and his voice bit with icy control. “Use your brain, woman. Think. What greater way could I possibly show my love for you than by self-denial!”
“Denial?”
“Denial. Saying no to what every electron in me was screaming for. When I was aching for you so bad I could taste it. But I knew how distasteful my lovemaking was to you. So I denied myself.”
Laura shook her head against his words. “No, that’s not true. I never refused. Not once. I always let you …”
“Let me?
Let
me! Don’t you have any idea how much more there is than that? I don’t want you to
let me.
I want you to
want me.
I want you to make love to me.”
Laura pulled back in horror, her eyes wide with anger and fear. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!” Her outrage made her stutter. “A lady does not make ad-ad-advances. You—you—you want me to behave like a—a prostitute!
Is
that what you want?”
“No, Laura. I simply want to be wanted by my wife.”
Clutching her robe high against her throat, Laura turned and rushed into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
It seemed like hours later when Laura, calm but redeyed, crept to bed. The roses she had mentally wound around the posters had wilted and the petals fallen off. Only the thorns remained.
“I always feel like God is watching to see if I have my clothes on.” Laura sat very straight with both feet flat on the floor, her hands clasped in her lap. Tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead betrayed the enormous effort it required for her to verbalize her feelings to Dr. Larsen sitting across from her, relaxed in a high-backed brown leather chair.
“The first thing my mother ever taught me was ‘get your pants on.’ She didn’t put it in such crude words. It was just her long-faced attitude. ‘Cover up, cover up.’ I had the worst posture in the whole school. I always wore a cardigan sweater and stooped so I could pull it tighter around me.” Instinctively Laura clutched at the lapels of her navy blue blazer, then forced herself to let go. Her college roommate had ridiculed her out of her slumping reflex, and she had no intention of going back to it. With a jerk she pulled her hand away from her mouth. Biting her fingernails remained to be conquered.
Kyle Larsen regarded her calmly and quietly. When it was clear she had said all she wanted to for the moment, he leaned forward and held her attention with his deep-set dark eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses. “Laura, the first thing I want you to understand is that the devil didn’t invent sex. God did.” He paused to allow Laura’s mind to repeat the words back to herself.
She shifted in her seat, as if trying to make room for the new thought. The idea offered comfort and relaxation. And terror. Accusing God of such a thing was akin to blasphemy. “But wouldn’t any
good
girl feel like I did—do? I know the whole concept of being good is laughably oldfashioned today. Even the idea that such a thing as goodness exists is considered anti-intellectual. But postmodern thought doesn’t change the truth. The farther society goes over the deep end in immorality, the more important it is that someone hold up a standard of purity.”
Kyle smiled. “Let’s go back to your first question. Combating deconstructionism might be a bit much to tackle in your first session. And certainly, a normal amount of modesty is a lovely virtue. But it can be out of place in the bedroom with your husband.”
Laura had the lapels of her jacket clutched tight around her throat before she caught herself. She forced herself to sit back in her chair.
Kyle nodded his approval of her restored posture. “I would like to help you develop a practical theology of sexuality. You’re absolutely right about society. Until a few years ago—the ’60s, I suppose—sexuality was viewed in many quarters with fear and dread, as a peripheral and dangerous aspect of our lives …”
“Er—so who’s right?”
“Like most things, truth seems to hide out somewhere in the middle. Finding the right middle is the trick. I’d like to help you find and understand the Creator’s intentions for sexuality.”
“Is there any doubt about that? S-s—it’s for having children.”
“Yes, that. But for pleasure too.”
“Pleasure!” Laura was on her feet, looking around for her briefcase. She wasn’t going to stay here and listen to this nonsense.
Kyle held out his hands. “Please, just hear me out.” He gestured toward the chair. “Don’t think of this as counseling. Think of it as the history of philosophy.”
Research. Laura could deal with that. She took her seat and pulled out her notebook. She always took notes on lectures: Greco-Roman dualism—universe divided into opposing forces: spiritual and material. Human dualism reflected both: soul—the higher spiritual nature; body—the lower, material nature. Body must battle temptations and weaknesses of the flesh so the soul could escape corruption.
“Do you see?” This could have been Professor Larsen standing in front of a university classroom. “This idea that flesh and spirit are separate and hostile is pagan, not biblical. Unfortunately it was promoted by the sainted Augustine who taught that the greatest threat to spirituality—to developing the higher nature—was sexual intercourse. It was Augustine’s idea that intercourse should be engaged in only for procreation and then only in a manner that did not bring pleasure. The idea that it is a sin to enjoy the marriage bed comes from Augustine and the pagan world. Don’t blame it on God.”
The notebook snapped shut. “Are you trying to tell me I have a spiritual problem?” If anyone had a spiritual problem, it was this so-called doctor. Imagine saying such things about God. She was amazed the man wasn’t struck by lightning before her very eyes.