Floral knowledge was not one
of Amelia's strengths: Matsumoto Asters, Monte Cassino Asters, Pink
Alstroemeria, Pittosporum, Statice. Her acceptance of the small
translation job for the florist would be, if not lucrative, at least
informative. Some of the more common floral names stirred memories of
her wedding flowers—and her bouquet, white peonies, lightly
scented, subtle, classic, so simple and yet, she thought, so
reflective of her personality. She sighed remembering the long months
of planning, the search for the dress, the location, the invitations,
the food, the cake. The cake! She didn't want to remember the cake.
It had looked wonderful, but the knife found nothing but recalcitrant
fondant; the cameras had captured the happy moment, but not the sound
of the knife ringing off the icing as she and Duncan held the knife,
smiling, trying to find a method of slicing through what Amelia
thought must have been a window display model it being so hard. They
had laughed, in the moment, the one fault in an otherwise perfect day.
It had been Mélisande who
caught the bouquet, standing, resolutely and somewhat solemnly, at
the back of the group of multi-coloured dressed young woman, a
bouquet in themselves, playfully avid for the prize. Was it chance
that she had tossed it so high and far, or did she somehow understand
the psychology of the participants and had unconsciously directed the
bouquet in the almost slow motion arc high in the airy hall, landing,
yes, landing upon the outstretched arms of Mélisande's placid
incertitude? Everyone had cheered around her and had given her hugs
of encouragement much to her embarrassment.
A nervous shiver of
responsibility came over Amelia as she recalled the evening when
Mélisande and Pavor had met. It was ten years ago. She had invited
Mélisande, newly single after a long relationship with a baroque
violinist, to join her and Duncan at an author event, a book talk and
signing. Pavor, a lawyer who had yet to find himself as an
established author, had also been in attendance, and Amelia recalled
her presentiment of possibilities when she had watched them, the
petite dark-haired librarian and the tall, fair-haired lawyer, as
they had joined the queue together to have their books signed, and
had begun a conversation in the languid atmosphere so common to slow
moving lines.
Amelia wondered when Mélisande's fiancé would actually don his tux and slip the ring. The last she had heard was that Pavor was in Europe researching his next novel. She must have
Mélisande over for dinner. She would see. She would see.
She heard the light tapping
of Hugh's nails on the wood floor, and then she heard the front door
opening and Duncan wrestling with a bag of some kind.
Duncan climbed the stairs and came down the hallway
whistling four notes. He paused, looking at her from the dining room
door and said, “I'm quoting Elgar, from his. .”
“Yes Cecil, the Enigma
Variations,” she said before they gently laughed and Hugh
looked on expectantly.
“Spaghetti squash from the
market,” Duncan said, holding the pale yellow oblong winter squash
up as if he were a shot putter. “A little string theory for dinner
I thought.” He walked over and kissed the top of Amelia's soft
brown hair, her scent fragrant with well-being. “I picked up a nice
bottle of red wine too.”
“Ah, lovely,” she said,
“you read my mind.” She followed Duncan and Hugh into the kitchen
and helped him with the few groceries.
“How did the florist go
this morning?” Duncan asked as he unscrewed the cap of the
Shiraz-Malbec and retrieved two glasses.
“Good, good. The owner was
very nice. It won't pay much but it will help.” They clinked
glasses and said cheers and then sat down at the kitchen table. “So
how was your day?”
After telling her about his
morning delivery to Chinatown, and his brief visit at Yves's record
shop, they sipped wine quietly as Duncan wondered whether to bring up
Yves's idea of regrouping The Splices to make extra money.
“How is his
business doing?” she asked.
Duncan dropped his arm down
to pick Hugh up and put him on one of the chairs to be closer to
them. “I'm not sure. His overhead must be a hurdle.” Duncan bent
down and gave Hugh a kiss on his head. “Yves actually joked about
regrouping The Splices, try to make some smooth money or something.”
Amelia reached out and
caressed Duncan's shoulder. “Is that . . .” she paused, searching
for a word that would not upset Duncan knowing that his deceased
brother had been the lead singer, “Is that feasible? I mean, you
haven't played together for quite a long time.”
Duncan sighed. “Hmm, I
guess The Splices are lost in the musical wilderness. We were really just a glorified cover band. But it's
possible to find our old palm tree out there, give it some water,
prune the . . branches, and well, give it a try." He looked at Hugh and said, “That's right
Hugh, you've never seen me on stage. You lucky dog.” Duncan took
Amelia's hand and kissed her soft skin. “Yves actually thought of
updating the group, getting a . . new singer and calling ourselves
Celsius. Running hot and cold he said. He even put a double CD
of a modern successful band in the bag that he gave me with a few older
classical albums to look over. A little surprise to kindle the flame
as it were.”
“Celsius? Well, it
does have similar letters.”
“To . . .?”
“To your old music band name," she said, looking over Duncan's shoulder as if she were reading letters on the wall. "Splices and Celsius have very similar letters, except for u of course.”
Duncan tried to visualize
the words and nodded, still somewhat vague, his wife's intelligence
being so much sharper than his, he generally agreed with her quickly.
“Yes, except for u. Interesting. I wonder if Yves was rearranging letters
and came up with that name?”
Amelia petted Hugh and
lifted her eyebrows and nodded. “Oh, I received an email from
Jacqueline. If you remember I had invited her for a possible meal at
the end of the week or this weekend, but she and Didier will be busy
with relatives. But,” she said, looking down into Hugh's eyes, “I
was just thinking of Mélisande, and thought of inviting her
over for dinner.”
“Great. She may have
something to tell us about the Latin text too.” Duncan got up and
went over to the counter to prepare the squash. "Is she still engaged to the writer?"
Amelia followed him over and
took out the cutting board and dishes. “As far as I know." She began to peel a few cloves of garlic. "If you prefer, I could meet her for coffee, reacquaint myself with the lay of the land. Oh, did Noel show up this
afternoon?”
"Oh yeah, he browsed for
awhile. I left him alone while I handled an order for nautical rope,
a phone request from a fellow who's refurbishing a thirty footer.
That will be a nice sale, oh, sorry, unintended pun. Anyway, when I came back I made
some tea and we had a chat.”
“Did he find something to
buy?”
“Yes, three older volumes
for . . . about $125. I threw in two paperbacks, a Richler and a
MacLennan.” Duncan scooped out the seeds of one half of the squash
placing them on a paper towel. “We had a good chat.” Duncan
related the ghost story that Noel told him about the nun and the maze
and how she strangely haunts an old pub near Oxford.
“How did you get talking
about ghosts?”
“Well, I was telling him
the story about . . .” Duncan hesitated, but the door was already
open and he couldn't see how to open another. “I had told him the
story of MacLennan and the needle, and he wondered if the scream was
due to having seen a ghost.”
“Oh dear, well, as long as
you don't tell the story tomorrow at The Ritz to Noel's daughter.”
“Don't worry my dear, I
will not bring it up again.” He stood by as Amelia prepared the
sauce, sipping his wine. “We were like two old crusty sailors,
smoking our pipes near a warm stove, telling stories.” Duncan
paused, and then said, “Since we were talking about ghosts, I actually told him about my Mother and the
funeral home.”
Amelia turned around, mouth open in astonishment, feeling
that her solidarity of affection had been breached with this
revelation to an outsider, a relative stranger. Duncan, sensing that
she was hurt, hugged her and held her close whispering his apologies
for revealing such a personal story, one that she felt was too
intimate for sharing outside of immediate family and close friends.
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't
tell you what to do. They're your stories,” she said, understanding Duncan's tendency towards substitute Father figures.
“I know, but you're right,
you're right,” Duncan said. “I'm either quiet as a mouse or I'm running off at the mouth like the march hare or the mad hatter. My moods often dictating—literally.”
She held him tightly and
they swayed as the garlic began to sizzle, and
Hugh, looking on, waited to be included in this show of affection,
waited to be hugged and kissed and whispered to, and waited, yes,
for his dinner too.
© ralph patrick mackay
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