Bound and Impatient – These Words Have Haunted Donna Belauche for the Last Three Days

Dawn at Last Written & Published by Lawrence Grodecki

Revised Edition (2019) This is a work of fiction. The incidents, characters, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any form of information storage and retrieval system − except in the case of brief quotations as part of critical articles or reviews − without the written permission of the publisher or author, except where permitted by law. Cover Design by Lawrence Grodecki

Lawrence Grodecki - Fine Art

ISBN: 978-0-9920296-1-6 ASIN: B00FI1S9Y0 For Sarah and Amy -

May you live as fearless as butterflies, if only from time to time. Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – The Ending Begins Chapter 2 – It’s Sunni . . . and They’re Both Wet Chapter 3 – Squishing a Grape Chapter 4 – A Shocking Surprise Chapter 5 – The Best Laid Plans Chapter 6 – Seeing Double . . . Again Chapter 7 – Tossing One’s Truffles Away Chapter 8 – The Secret Exchange Chapter 9 – Trying to Plan a Destiny Chapter 10 – It's a Date? Chapter 11 – Hot Topics on a Cool Night Out Chapter 12 – It’s Not the Tips Chapter 13 – Fully Applying the Principles

Continued on the next page . . . Table of Contents - Cont'd

Chapter 14 – The Gathering of a Monkey, a Toad, and a Chicken Chapter 15 – The Goddess Awakens? Chapter 16 – And So They Dance Chapter 17 – Pushing Buttons . . . and Talking it Over Chapter 18 – On to the Frying Pan Chapter 19 – A Late Lunch Of Cognac and Pastrami Chapter 20 – Look Out . . . Wet Flooring! Chapter 21 – 317 Browning Road . . . Revisited Chapter 22 – The Painting Chapter 23 – The Musketeers Get Defensive Chapter 24 – We Can Still Dance Chapter 25 – Sunni’s Happy Daze Chapter 26 – Getting the Giggles About the Author Chapter 1

The Ending Begins

Bound and impatient – these words have haunted Donna Belauche for the last three days. They have nothing to do with submission or domination, at least not in today's psycho-sexual context. She's too much of a loner to dwell on that, besides she left all that stuff behind. If anyone really knew her, that would marvel at her patience. Yet this phrase – this title of a painting – screams at her in a whisper, but in a language she doesn't understand. Perhaps it's all beyond words? Something's wrong. Change is required, but change what? The restless feeling is maddening, all because of a few words, like pins in a voodoo doll. She thought she buried that doll years ago, yet here it is again. Her only refuge is to think of something else. Thankfully, she has no more time to dwell on it. Donna must prepare for her next two-hour session – her time to escape – at least for awhile. Her next client is due in fifteen minutes. She quickly reviews her plans for the session. Thankfully, it will be a easy one – he's an easy client. He has been coming to her for almost three years now, so on average he is more than half done. All the same, she must soon let him go. That's an easy change, at least according to her plans. Ben Talbot, her two o’clock, is thankfully quite different than her other clients. He is much less predictable, which makes it easier in a way – less preparation required – and she does like to improvise. In a way it's like a steady stream of first dates. Her clients are always trying to impress her, knowing that she is completely unavailable under any circumstance. That outcome is guaranteed. They playfully torture themselves in a form of a self-inflicted angst. They fool themselves in the thought that one day they will have her in a different capacity than the one of therapist. She makes this impossible . . . but then there is Ben . . . he just might screw up everything. Her performance is not the same with him around. She never knows what he will say next, though in manner he is quite consistent. She likes that. He always shows up late for their sessions, and then there is his coffee . . . he likes that fresh and hot and strong, loads of cream, the real cream, and about two teaspoons of sugar. With that in mind, she scurries off to the kitchen to prepare a fresh pot of mud. That is actually his term, not hers, though she's sure he would actually drink real mud if it had enough cream and sugar. He is nothing special to look at, average at a glance, but after a short while, there is no doubt that he is a handsome man. She first thought he must be 5' 11". However, in one session his height came up in conversation, and he clarified the issue. He claimed that in fact he is 5' 10" and seven-eighths . . . and a bit. You would expect such a slender man to move quickly, but he doesn't. He's a walking oxymoron, like a lazy gazelle, or at least one in slow motion. His contradictions suit him well. He has that look of vulnerability, as soft as a baby's bottom. However, he seems strong in spirit – a soft invincibility. If he likes you, he will occasionally pass a smile your way. He has a knack with the timeless ones, the smiles that linger, becoming indelible memories. They come without warning, unintentionally, like a child. It is his trademark, one that Donna noticed by their third session. That's when she wrote in her journal, “genuinely kind and charming”, but next to that she added, “perhaps a little dangerous . . . be very careful.” Her two o’clock has a well established business as a house painter – a very successful one. He has one hired hand, he calls her his helper. He could hire more but intentionally stays with one. This keeps his affairs small, less complicated, and assures the finest quality in the city. Because of all of this, he is in the highest demand with the leading decorators of the region, especially the ones who specialize in renovations. They keep him fully booked for months in advance. Donna fondly remembers their first session, when he told her that he paints. Before he could say more, she then rambled on about her favourite abstract painters, then the impressionists, and then a little about Gustav Klimt. Finally she asked about his specialty, which medium did he prefer? She blushed in embarrassment when he replied, “Sometimes oil, but mostly latex!” Seeing her embarrassment, he explained that he paints houses, not pictures. That's when he first flashed one of those smiles, returning her reference to Klimt, “But I like The Kiss more than the rest.” Now, with one minute to go, she is ready. She can relax, assuming that he will be late as always, but then the doorbell rings. She gasps when she opens the door, smiling at such a comical figure – soaking wet – the water dripping from his long nylon jacket and his full head of hair . . . the epitome of a modern day Charlie Chaplin, just taller and with more meat on his bones, and no moustache or hat. Then his smile comes out. “Come in Ben,” she says graciously. “You’re soaking wet, what ever are you doing? . . . And where’s that old umbrella of yours?” “Hi. I gave it to someone who needed it more. Besides, I didn’t have time to shower this morning.” He backs out into the hall to remove his wet jacket and his shoes. “That’s okay, I’ll take that.” She gingerly places the wet coat on the rack, letting it drip over a re-positioned rubber mat. “Ah, nothing like a warm, soaking rain in the middle of June – gotta love it! You know, you're street is really kind of beautiful in this kind of rain – actually it's always beautiful – Donna, you're very lucky.” She just smiles, “You must be ready for some fresh coffee . . . why don’t you sit down and I’ll bring you some?” He nods, but before sitting, he asks her for something dry to sit on. She brings him a big plush towel, draping it on the burnt-orange loveseat. Ben sighs comfortably as he plunks himself down. He likes that she refuses to change anything in her office, not a single thing since their first meeting. The warm colors of this loveseat, and the matching one across the table, he feels at home here. Her place is on the opposite couch, and the only thing between them is a fine mahogany coffee table. The thick multi-colored area rug soothes his tired feet, something he always appreciates after spending so much time standing. He often compliments her on her tastes . . . the plants and pictures, even the lamps and the coasters. He is grateful that she doesn’t have a fireplace, as then this could easily pass for a suite. That kind of warmth might just be too tempting for him . . . he wonders how that might be . . . the two of them, by a fire. While he daydreams, Donna brings him his coffee and then takes her usual seat. She lets him enjoy his first sip and watches him gaze across the room, toward the window. In this dense rain you can barely see the row of two-storey houses across the street. It is now only a grey silhouette. “Now Ben, I don’t mean to be abrupt, but we have a lot to talk about today. You do remember that today we have our six-month review?” “Yeah, and how fast it’s been,” he grins as he pulls out a notepad from the inside of his rumpled sports coat. “I brought my notes!” She gently laughs, “I had no idea you kept notes. Would you like to start with that?” He teases her, “Are you sure you want that? You might find them less than kind when it comes to some of your skills.” She says nothing, though her curious expression invites him to continue, “Okay then, here goes . . . let me see now.” He tears out a sheet and reads it, “January 15th – the coffee is good, it is actually hot today – wish I’d brought some donuts.” He flips a couple of pages and tears out another sheet, “January 29th – the coffee is a little weaker today, still very good. She must have gone shopping recently, but it seems different today, and it wouldn't be like her to change the beans.” As he is about to tear out the third sheet, he looks at her and says, “The next one includes a comment on the cream . . . should I go on?” She smiles and says no. “Ben, you know you are very charming, we’ve talked about that before. My notes are more detailed, a journal, but there really is no need to bring them out today. You’re a very smart man. It’s been a long time now, since you first came to see me about your problem with intimacy . . . I should restate that shouldn't I? With you there was never a problem, just an unending curiosity to know more. I think we established that a long time ago . . . do you remember what I told you six months ago?” He finally becomes serious, “Actually not really. Not exactly. I think you were trying to tell me that pretty soon I'd be done. You said you wouldn’t be comfortable taking my money any more – something like that. It seems you didn’t think there was much at all that you could help me with. It's funny though, how fast those six months have gone, and still . . . here we are!” “Well I suppose that is one way of putting it,” she replies. “I told you that in my professional opinion, soon there would be no need for you to keep seeing me, that you have all the skills you need to establish an intimate relationship. We’ve been through all the issues of building trust in a relationship. You know the importance of two-way communication and you’re very good at that. In fact it seems the only thing that’s missing is the right person. As for your interest in those abstractions, that love-in-the-air, I simply have nothing to offer you, except perhaps a reading list.” With that he laughs heartily, “Boy, what a setup! If I knew that before then I may not have signed on. All these skills and no one to share it with. Somehow I reminded about that movie guy who said ‘my love life is great . . . now if I only had someone to share it with!’ or something like that. Maybe I should have just joined a book club instead?” She is only mildly amused, “There is no need for sarcasm. I told you from the beginning that I don't do soul mates . . . this isn’t a dating service. I know you’re fully aware of that, but it sounds like you're a little hurt or perhaps disappointed, so I’m not sure whether your humour is hiding something.” She leans forward, “If there is more, then you should tell me now.” Ben turns sullen, caught a little off-guard. It appears there are too many thoughts racing in his head. She wants him to open up to her – he only wants her, openly. For him, she is the only problem, at least in terms of intimacy. She has been for a long time now. He just can’t tell her that. She would be sure to dismiss him, politely, but all the same . . . dismissed. For all her expertise, it appears she can't see through his façade. He knows he's ready for a wonderful relationship . . . that's his dream, but only with her, at least in the long run. Donna doesn't know that he long ago gave up that kind of search, the search for a significant other. That too is because of her. For a long time now, dating feels more like completing one of her exercises – something to ensure his return every two weeks. He will keep coming back as long as she will allow it. Privately, he sometimes questions this strange dependence on her, his willingness to let her control him this way. Ben often suspects that she plays him, but she's a professional, so he must be misreading her signals. He's convinced that she is not that good at acting, not nearly as good as him, so the mutual attraction has to be genuine. What concerns him more is “How many other men feel the same about her?” . . . certainly all of her clients must face this same dilemma . . . Donna Belauche, “the goddess on a pedestal”. Could she possibly be content with just a simple house painter? The two of them have been through a few related discussions, just not in the context of “Ben and Donna”. Those talks, or debates, touched on the issue of separating one’s inner self from one’s occupation. They always seemed to end in a stalemate, with neither able to reach a satisfactory conclusion. She agrees that it really shouldn’t matter, at least on some idyllic plane. Yet it does seem to matter, in the harshness of the real world. It’s not only the money aspect that grabs his curiosity. There’s the issue of the job specifics, and then there is the problem when one has no job. So how does love differ for a prison guard compared to a mailman, or to an artist, or to a slave? For Ben, this is all very confusing . . . what he wants most is to make it all simpler . . . the living and the loving. It seems Donna is of no help in the matter. “Ben? Are you alright? I can see you’re deep in thought. Why don’t we pause for a minute and let's freshen up our coffee?” He nods his approval. As she glides away, he tries very hard to only glance at her, trying not to stare in awe, but it is of no use. Once again his mind is swirling because of her curves, together and separately . . . so visually intoxicating . . . every slight movement full of hypnotic poetry. Her face is one for the ages, occasionally glowing, and her hazel eyes have a deep- set life of their own . . . haunting at times. Mostly though, there is something she hides that draws him in. It's as if her entire past is stored in those stunning cheekbones, and it just spreads from there. He knows that she's fully aware of her physical charms. He doubts that she realizes the lure of the tragedies . . . her secrets. She hides them well, except for the occasional sadness. As she returns with the fresh coffee, he blurts, “It really is quite odd, isn't it? I mean the whole notion of your kind of therapy . . . for a single man . . . I'd always thought of it as something couples do. I mean, don't singles need more of a sex therapist than this kind of counselling?” “Ben, I'm a little shocked by that statement – maybe you do need more time than I thought – that's a really loaded statement, and I'm not judging you by saying that – care to explain it more?” “I'm sorry. I don't think that came out quite right. I know these skills you teach are important, but it does seem to make more sense for couples than for single people . . . it must be much easier with couples?” “Yes and no . . . it really depends on the individuals and the couple. As usual though, you really like to delve into my practice, my other clients, and I'm sure you know by now what an awkward position you put me in. Now tell me more . . . I'm really curious about your comment on sex therapy . . . is that what you think you really need?” Ben laughs, “Don’t we all?” “There you are, funny and charming as always. By we, do you mean all people, or all men, or just men similar to yourself . . . what do you mean by 'we' Ben . . . or do you mean just you? And when you say ‘sex therapy’, are you referring more to the sex or the therapy?” “Geez Donna, it was just a joke! I suppose you can call it a 'guy thing' kind of comment. You see, after all this time, I still have my faults . . . I don't think I'll ever get past that.” “Ben, you are far from a sexist pig, so don't be so hard on yourself. Would it be fair to say that no matter what, you still associate true intimacy with sexuality?” “I hadn't really thought of it that way. Perhaps – I don't know – I've never had a strictly sexual relationship . . . have you? . . . I'm sorry, there I go again. I shouldn't have asked that . . . but as you can tell, I guess I do wonder about you, in many ways . . . just being honest.” Donna is becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation's direction. Her plan to begin their ending has gone down the drain, rushed away as fast as the water outside gushing into the gutter. To make things worse, she inadvertently glimpsed between his legs and noticed a bulge. It didn't bother her, as she's sure he didn't catch her. Oddly, she found it amusing. Smiling, she secretly teases him, “You know Ben, I've never heard you talk like this before . . . is everything okay? You seem a little worked up. Is there something you want to ask me, but perhaps don't know how?” “I’m sorry . . . I’m fine. You’re right, I seem to be losing myself in another one of those dreams – I’m sure glad you don’t do dream analysis – and thanks for asking.” She glances a second time, but this time he catches her. Embarrassed, he says, “I'm sorry Donna, I think it’s time we came to terms about something . . . I don’t think I should come here anymore. Something's not right here . . . I should just say goodbye.” They sit in silence. She's embarrassed too, and didn’t see this coming. She scolds herself for being so unprofessional. Yes, she wants to dismiss him, but not quite like this, not so abruptly. Her admiration for him is one reason she wants to do this with care – he seems all out of sorts today – and now so does she, even more than before he arrived. She thinks of never seeing him again, and instantly feels a lump in her throat, as if someone has suddenly died. However, she does a fine job of keeping this unexpected reaction hidden from him. “Well that’s quite the statement, and so out of the blue! You know I’ve had this happen before, clients wanting to wrap things up quickly. That's often because of some kind of self-revelation, but in your case I don’t see it quite that way . . . I think we need to take a little more time, perhaps a couple of more sessions? It would be wrong of me to try to persuade you to keep coming against your will, especially since there's not much I can help you with, including your most recent train of thought. That’s what I wanted to share with you today, our winding things down. I'd really like us to agree on two more sessions. I can't give you any professional reason for my suggestion . . . it's just my woman's intuition . . . I'd feel awful to see you just leave in this condition. Having said that, I won't be charging you anything as we go forward, okay?” He blurts out, “That's okay Donna, I have no problem paying you for your time . . . I just wish that . . . oh, never mind.” “It's okay Ben, relax, that’s quite alright. You’re always full of these little surprises, though today's surprise seems a little bigger. So what do you say, can we call it a day? I think we're both a little tired now. Look, why don’t you come back next week and we can talk, and relax. It’s not supposed to be so cut and dry you know . . . that will give you some time to gather your thoughts. Like I said, I definitely won’t be charging you any more, and not for today either.” “Thank you Donna. That’s very kind of you, and since it seems to mean so much to you, I’ll gladly take you up on that offer. I’ve often wondered how this would end . . . me just walking out the door today, well that’s just not how I pictured it. Somehow that wouldn’t seem right either.” “Exactly!” is all she can say, surprised by the intensity of her sense of relief. Ben rises from his chair, “I should go now . . . I’ve got a lot to think about.” As he heads to the coat rack he adds, “I don’t tell you everything, ya know. Some things I just need to figure out for myself.” “Of course,” she replies as she goes to help him with his coat. Making her clients comfortable is always something she enjoys. Today she has also enjoyed creating Ben's little discomfort, as if it just made her day in some playful way. Some of her feminist friends would be quite upset in knowing of this doting behaviour – the way she pampers her male clients – but they really have no idea how careful she is, even with the smallest of details. She hands Ben his jacket but she doesn't help him put it on. This is something she has always been firm about. It is part of her “no touching” rule, not even with a handshake in session number one. Her clients quickly understand the wisdom of it, implicitly so. In a way this makes her skills all the more charming . . . doting without touching. She watches him shiver as he puts it on, a chilly reaction to the still-damp jacket. She makes one more inadvertent glance, making sure he doesn't notice . . . she's thankful to see that the dampness has put him in a more relaxed state. Then she asks, “Now tell me again about this umbrella of yours?” “Oh it was nothing. There was a man on the street. He didn’t look like he had anywhere to go . . . he was huddled under a canvas sign in front of the bake shop, a couple of blocks from here . . . I think I told you how I usually stop there to wolf down a quick donut . . . seems like I’m always running late. So I was rushing into the shop and I saw him there, outside, and I just stopped. I handed over my umbrella, slipped him twenty bucks, and then skipped the donut and came here. I made a bee-line to get here – still got soaked – but at least I was early for a change!” He's telling her this while bending down to tie his shoelaces. He's still struggling with a knot by the time he's finished his little story. That's when Donna stroked the back of his head, gently, and not once, but twice. Then Ben calmly stood up and nodded a warm goodbye. He leaves her with one of his trademark smiles, only this one is warmer, especially around the cheeks. As soon as Ben leaves she closes the door. She scolds herself, wondering what he must thinking now, about how she impulsively violated her “no touching” rule. Ben treads lightly down the stairs, fully awakened by her tender touch of affection, though he quickly chalks it up to just impulse. Still, in the joy of the moment he has only one thought, “Now this calls for a donut!” As soon as he leaves she wants to slap her hand for its violation – not once but twice – one each for both violations. Her self-disdain has little to do with breaking the rule . . . much more to do with her momentary loss of control . . . that subconscious desire to touch him . . . and whatever for? She clears off the table, washes the coffee mugs and spoons, even the rubber mat under the rack, but the therapist gets no relief from this unsettled feeling . . . and why him? He's really not her type! It's been fifteen minutes since he left, and in her frustration she convinces herself there is really only one short-term solution, “Yes, this calls for a donut – or perhaps two?” The thought of the second makes her smile inside, as she puts on her trench coat and marches out the door. When she gets outside she realizes that she left her umbrella upstairs. She turns to go up and fetch it, but perhaps it is this rain that pulls her back. It is steady and persistent, raw yet kind. As she reaches into her purse for her keys, she just says to her herself, “Nah – screw it!” and with that Donna Belauche just walks away and agrees with Ben . . . the rain is warm, and right now so am I. Chapter 2

It’s Sunni . . . and They’re Both Wet

By the time he reaches the bakery, Ben will be soaking wet again. Three long blocks away, about a ten minute walk, he takes his time, enjoying the privacy of the street on this drenching Friday afternoon. The second shop he passes is a small convenience store. He thinks of popping in and buying a cheap umbrella, but then tells himself no, somehow that would nullify the gesture, the one of giving his grandfather’s umbrella to that elderly homeless man. He wonders whether the gesture really matters – the whole situation really bothers him, more often these days. Is there really any hope? It just doesn’t seem right. These acts of kindness seem about as futile as running in the rain when there is so far to go. With that thought he does a little running, to the end of the block and across the street to the next one, before slowing down again. Thankfully the rain and the running ease his mind, at least for now. He stops to look into the window of a real estate office, mostly because of a large poster in the storefront. It shows a beautiful pool-side image of what appears to be a small castle near an ocean, palm trees and all. Would he ever have something like that? No, that’s not for him, and yet it looks so inviting. It looks more like a travel ad than one for real estate, the main difference being the absence of ample flesh and smiling servers. When he reaches the next corner he crosses the street on a red light – there is no traffic. He forgets to check over his shoulder, so he didn’t see the grey Lexus zooming around the corner. The driver and the car splash him from behind with a three-foot wave. He hears the impatient honk just after absorbing the wave. Annoyed more at the driver than the water, he flips a finger to the now distant Lexus, thinking, “So many jerks in Jerkville, too many to count these days.” Getting a little more wet is nothing. It’s the principle of the thing, the chronic rudeness that feels like an epidemic these days, and he’s so sick of it. Sometimes he just wants to scream at nothing in particular, and often he does just that. You would never know that just a few minutes ago he felt happier than a kid trapped alone in a candy store. Now he’s brooding, and there’s still one more long block to the bakery at the end of the street. As he walks along he plans the evening ahead and the weekend in general, but can’t get past the idea of that hot shower the moment he gets home. His house is only half an hour away by walking, perhaps longer in this rain, depending on how it goes. He’s too wet to sit down and relax in the bakery, so it will be a stand-up routine, one more small coffee, or a medium today, and a chocolate glazed croissant, but not two. By 3:30 he should be soaking in that inviting hot shower, followed by a shave and a solid nap for at least an hour. Friday evenings are quiet now. He’s not a kid anymore, and actually never cared much for clubbing and such . . . he cherishes this quiet time, especially after being on his feet all week. Feeling a little tired now, 4:00 can’t come soon enough, and he laughs to himself, at his own little pun, thinking how draining a little rain can be! Here it is, Helen’s Heavenly Bakery, open from 7:00 in the morning until 6:00 in the evening. He still hasn’t met Helen, but sometimes asks about her. Once he even shared a laugh on the issue with Sunni, his favourite server. He asked her if there was any truth to the rumour that in fact, Helen is “just a tart”. The question came out of the blue the first time they met, and she became an instant friend by replying, “She butternut be – and one way or another, I know she has no jam.” The big wooden door feels heavier today, in all this rain. It feels lighter once open, now, with her smiling face greeting him, and she exclaims, “Hello Ben. Holy smokes, look at you!” “Well hello Sunaria. Yes, I know . . . it’s the hair, right? . . . Like my new style?” She groans, “Oh my, Benjamin, so formal today! Well I hear the wet look is coming back.” “Today it looks like Noah’s the one bringing it in,” he retorts. “It seems it’s all washed up – maybe time for the rinse cycle?” He looks around and the place is empty except for Sunni and himself, “Wow, just you and me and the usual yummy buns. I think you should close early and we should grab a bite.” “If only I could,” she moans. “But don’t you have a girlfriend? Won’t she be jealous?” “Oh, why would you say that? All I said is we should grab a bite, and besides she doesn’t like biting!” Sunni blushes slightly, yet she still taunts him, “But maybe I do.” She has Ben’s zooming now, caught by surprise and lost for words. The thrill of the moment gets the best of him, “Well if you like the biting, then how about you be Spiderwoman and then . . . and I’ll be . . . what? Who should I be?” Now she leans over, puts one elbow on the counter and her chin on her palm, “How about you just be yourself . . . I’m off at six you know. I’d love to spend the evening with you – and I know you don’t have no girlfriend. Besides, look at you!” She laughs. “And I’m bored out of my mind these days – the thought of another night hanging out online is so not exciting.” “So young and so bored . . . and you’d rather spend a mindless night with me instead? I’m flattered.” He gives her one of those little-boy smiles. Sunni says, “Sounds wonderful. Where should we meet then? Do you like Chinese?” Ben replies, “I love Chinese. I never order it when I’m alone because it’s too much food, and I’m not crazy about the leftovers. What do you say about a quiet night at my place, we can order in, have some wine, and then perhaps a little chess?” Sunni frowns, “Yuck, I don’t like chess – now that’s boring! I’m sure we can figure something else out . . . the rest sounds nice though.” Ben laughs, “Whew, that’s a relief. Actually I haven’t played chess in years. It’s too sexist when you think about it, and so rigid! I mean the queen just sits there, surrounded by all these dudes, and when she gets the chance to go out, she can do whatever the hell she wants, and it seems she can’t wait to get away from the king. Isn’t it odd how he never gets to meet the only other female on the board? . . . And the king’s a pretty useless guy – one move here, another there. And that queen, as soon as she’s free to roam, she’s gone . . . and all those men! . . . And the king’s still one move here, one move there. That’s all he does!” She’s laughing now, as Ben does his best Martin Lawrence imitation of the shuffle, the one where he shows how older people dance, slowly in one spot. Then he goes on, “The knights are half-square and the bishops are straight, extremely narrow-minded, one- track minds, and with only one angle . . . and the pawns, well who gives a shit about them? . . . You would think those old royals would have a little more imagination . . . I’m a firm believer that it was always a rigged game, for the chronically unimaginative!” Still laughing, she says, “And what’s a queen without a crew? And you’d think somewhere there would be some kids – no wonder it’s so boring!” Changing the subject, she asks, “Now how do I get to your place? You know I don’t have a car.” Then she teases him, “Can your driver pick me up at six?” Before he can answer, she adds, “I live almost an hour from here, just moved there a while ago. It’s a little cheaper now, and thank God I have a roommate . . . do you mind if I just come right to your place from here?” He looks down at his soaking carcass, and just grins, “As you can see I am an unarmed man – no car! It’s something I’ve been trying out for quite awhile now. Otherwise I would just pick you up. Do you mind taking a sort-of cab over?” Ben sees that she is puzzled, so he explains, “I have a friend with a small taxi business, kind of, not licensed though – part of an underground economy. This friend of mine got me into it, and it’s working out really well, so in a way I am sending you my driver, one of them. I’ll call and make the arrangements, okay?” Before she can answer, he adds, “It’s actually better for the environment when you think about it. Actually it’s turning out to be much cheaper than driving, but it’s a little awkward for moments like this. And it’s very safe, kind of like a private club.” She’s smiling at the offer, but looks down over the counter, still puzzled at his soaking stature, “Sure . . . so why are you walking then, in this horrible weather? You’ll catch pneumonia like that.” He answers, “It wasn’t raining so hard when I left. I like walking in the rain, but mostly the warm rain, and today’s rain is really nice and warm. It only feels cold when I come inside. Anyway, I had an umbrella, but I gave it away just before I got to my meeting, actually just outside the door here a couple of hours ago, to an elderly man who seemed to need a break.” “Aww, that’s so thoughtful, a random act of kindness. You should feel good about that! And you went to a meeting all soaked? Must have been a pretty informal one!” He turns sullen. He really doesn’t like making a big deal out of these small acts and he wishes he hadn’t told her about it, but he had no choice. It seems so many people, especially younger people, put so much emphasis on these little things. It breaks his heart to break their heart when he tells them that perhaps it might not mean too much. Nowadays he has stopped saying what he thinks in that regard. Ben figures there must be something deep in the human psyche, a need to find a reason to hang on to these small acts of kindness, like there is hope in the little things. Though he’s very unsure, he wants to hope as much as anyone else . . . somehow the little things must matter, though it seems best not to discuss the issue. “Yes, well this meeting wasn’t so much a meeting as a cup of coffee – very informal – so it was okay.” As he tells her this he feels a tinge of guilt, partly because of this evening’s hint of excitement. The real guilt comes from the notion that he is possibly violating his certain destiny with Donna . . . or is it almost certain? Once again, the guilt takes a backseat to ‘in the meantime’. “You should get going before you really do get sick,” she scolds in her best motherly voice. “Do you want anything for the road? The usual?” “Sure, medium coffee this time, and you’re right about moving along.” As she prepares his coffee just right and wraps his chocolate-glazed croissant, Ben takes notice of the roundness of her buns, the exotic arch of her back . . . he savours the thought of the exquisite joy of a little puddle of red wine, floating in the erotic smallness of her back . . . later that evening. Instinctively Sunni can feel his stare. She turns and looks at him with her warm, mischievous eyes, “They should call these ‘gazed’ buns – don’t you think?” Knowing he’s been caught, Ben sheepishly nods and begins to head out, but quickly turns back, realizing that he forgot to pay. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s on the house. By the way, I have no idea where you live.” “Thanks Sunni. That's okay, just mention my name and the driver will know where to go. It’s not far from here, just off of Shellbrook Avenue and 17th Street – no worries.” He heads out the door, thinking about the night ahead as he continues the walk home . . . the plans for the evening are almost the same – get home, shower and shave, have a nap, and order some Chinese, instead of a small pizza. It will be much more delicious now though, as he cherishes the thoughts of the evening ahead with Sunni . . . yummy Sunni? Yes, the evening’s plan is more or less the same, but thankfully he knows the outcome will be totally different. As soon as Ben leaves, Sunaria pulls out an old book, something that reminds her of her sociology studies, Irving Wallace’s The Chapman Report. It concerns her favourite topic, human relationships, and of course it concerns sex. Her degree in sociology isn’t paying off career-wise, but it has increased her thirst for understanding. Just as she finishes the last page of chapter 7, in comes another customer. She hears the door open so she places the book under the counter. Sunni puts on her friendly smile to greet the lady who is now approaching the counter. Surprisingly, this lady is almost as drenched as Ben. At least she’s wearing a long and proper raincoat, but her hair is a mess, a gorgeous mess though, with honey blond streaks mixed with darker ones, and this dripping face with no makeup, not rugged nor soft, just stunning is all, stunning to man and woman alike. Donna Belauche has yet to notice the server. Instead, Ms. Belauche focuses on the menu board, but only briefly as she drifts over to examine the treats displayed under the glass, to the right of the counter. There’s six kinds of donuts, the same in muffins and bagels, but what grabs her attention is the lone remaining chocolate-glazed croissant. She hears Sunaria’s soft but firm voice call out, “Anything I can help you with?” Ms. Belauche walks over to the counter, now facing Sunaria, noticing her persona for the first time. ‘Wow’ is all she can think. That, and to be so young again. She must have been in her early twenties, but Donna can’t remember looking so fresh at that age. So child-like, playful, innocent, though Donna senses more . . . this adorable young lady might be a bit of the she-wolf in a lamb’s skin . . . but oh what a skin! Whether she’s a wolf or a lamb or a bit of both, there is no doubt that for many a man or woman, this server is most definitely a feast, and not just one for the eyes. “I’ll have that last croissant please, and a small cup of coffee with a little milk, no sugar.” While Sunni goes about her duties, once more Donna is taken by her radiating natural beauty, the brownness of her skin, wondering about her ethnicity, perhaps Brazilian? But there is no accent, so it seems not Spanish. Donna tans well for someone half Swedish, but she’s always been a little envious of those with a naturally darker skin tone. Ms. Belauche knows that under this lamb-wolf's camouflage – her uniform – are two very delicious and firm breasts. She just knows the nipples of the same must love to be sucked, and probably much more. Being very particular in her tastes, it is not often that she is struck this way. Almost lusting, grateful and uncomfortable at the same time, she looks away to avoid being caught in her visual feasting. It is time to be polite, conservative, at least for now. As the server pulls up the tray and hands it to this customer, there is a small thump, caused by Sunni accidentally knocking her book to the floor. Donna takes the tray, then the server picks up the book, apparently trying to hide it from her customer. “What are you reading?” Donna asks, as she glances over the counter. “It’s a novel about couples and relationships in the 1960’s, mostly about women. But it’s also about scientists trying to measure everything, trying put numbers to feelings . . . even to sex! That’s pretty funny when you think about it . . . don’t you think?” she says with a thoughtful grin. Donna is taken aback by the server’s articulation. This is no ordinary donut clerk, but then she recognizes her prejudice and replies, “What’s wrong with the science?” “What’s right about it? – Just think about it. – I mean, I can say ‘I love you this much.’ . . . look.” Sunni stretches her arms out as far as they can go. “So is that a 7 or a 10? Do you know some people make careers out of studying whether a scale of 1 to 7 is better than a scale of 1 to 10? And then more people try to word the questions just right, and still others try to define what ‘this’ even means . . . in scientific terms!” Once again Sunni stretches out her arms, and Donna feels the urge to reach out and give her a hug, thinking, ‘Oh honey, just let me show you what this means!’ Donna says, “You know, you are so right. I hadn’t quite thought of it that way before. How did you get so smart?” “Don’t you mean why am I selling donuts? . . . I have a degree in sociology but couldn’t find a job in my field, at least not yet, not one that really interests me. In the meantime though, I like to read – a lot – and then there’s blogging, which seems to help.” “Help with what?” “Just trying to figure it all out – figure any of it out – but without too many ‘figures’ though!” “Do you always talk in exclamations?” Surprised by the question, Sunaria says, “Nooo!!” Both laugh heartily. Donna reassures her server that it is a very endearing trait. She tells her that she had a similar career problem, after getting her first degree in psychology, but eventually things worked out, more or less, and now she practices clinical psychology. However, she wasn’t prepared for the next question from her server. “What did you do your graduate thesis on?” “Oh . . . well, it was quite a different topic, to say the least . . . I’m not sure it’s something you’d really be interested in,” Donna says evasively. “Oh, that’s okay if you don’t want to say. I probably wouldn’t understand anyway – right?” Seeing that she has offended this bright young lady, Donna immediately replies, “No, it’s not like that at all. Most people find the whole subject, well, kind of vulgar. They don’t like to talk about the disturbing social questions that it raises, more questions than answers.” She asks if she should go on, and with Sunaria’s consent she continues, “The first title of my thesis was called: Upscale Escort Services - Sex For Money or Addiction to Drama? . . . I know, it sounds so cold and clinical and you’re probably wondering why I would do such a study – it didn’t go very well – on the one hand there was plenty of personal interest on the part of my advisor, and the others . . . but they struggled with the methodology, the ability to be objective on such a topic . . . for that matter, so did I.” “Wow, now that’s a topic! I haven’t the foggiest idea what it’s about. I’ve read a bit about sex addiction but addiction seems like an inappropriate word in that context, all very strange. I’d say addicted to drama feels like something pretty common all over the place, but again there’s that term ’addiction’. I suppose in terms of psychological dependence it makes sense, and I know how powerful that can be . . . so what happened?” Before Donna can answer, Sunni adds, “And you must have had the same problems that I have . . . with the measurements?” “Oh, ‘what happened’, now that’s a very long story.” Donna leans over the counter now to get a closer look at this person’s name tag. “It’s Sunaria. My name’s Sunaria.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you Sunaria. My name is Donna – Donna Belauche.” She extends her arm and shakes Sunaria’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” There is an unexpected pleasure in the touching – she tries her best to hide her arousal, sensing that Sunni is doing the same. “I’ll have to make a point of coming here more often. You’re a very smart lady. Do you mind if I check out your blog sometime, Sunaria?” Obviously pleased, she replies with yet another warm smile, “Not at all. I’m flattered. I’ll write it down for you. By the way, my friends call me Sunni . . . you can call me Sunni.” She writes down her blog name on a napkin and Donna tucks it in her purse. “Well I should be on my way now. It’s very nice to meet you – Sunni – and I hope you have a wonderful weekend – have anything special planned?” Sunni thinks of Ben and how much she’s looking forward to the evening ahead. It is the only plan she has for this dreary weekend, if you can call it a plan. “I’ll just be hanging out with a friend tonight. He’s pretty cool. I have a hunch he’s the kind of guy you’d like. He’s really smart and funny and kind.” That strange emotion returns to Donna, again without warning, and she remembers what brought her to this bakery in the first place, this man Benjamin Talbot. With no thought of Ben, Donna exclaims, “Well Sunaria, Sunni, enjoy your evening . . . and I hope you’re night is one for the dreams!” She smiles a goodbye, turns and exits gracefully, thankful that the rain has slowed to a drizzle, at least for now. As the evening begins, the sun peeks through an opening in the clouds, and Donna stops briefly, smiling upward to greet it. Sunaria does a little more reading. She serves a few more customers, complete strangers, but this doesn’t stop her from playfully scolding them for spoiling their suppers. At 5:30 she tucks the book into her purse and begins her cleanup duties. At 5:57 she loads up a bag with a few donuts, a couple of bagels, a hot coffee to go and a can of orange juice. She drops in couple of dollars worth of change from her tip jar. At 5:59 she opens the door, and like clockwork and elderly man appears, sticks out his hand, and she passes him the bag . . . they exchange kind smiles. At 6:00 the door is shut and locked, and with Ben on her mind, she totally missed the fact that her daily friend is sporting a new umbrella . . . and an old one at that. Chapter 3

Squishing a Grape

The hot shower soothes his body while Ben dreams of the night ahead – two fantasies already – and neither includes the use of any form of latex, although one involves a little chocolate. It’s while shaving that he thinks mostly of the chocolate. In his mind, he desperately scans the kitchen cupboards, frustrated though, as he is sure there is none to be found. Just two days ago he melted the last of them and poured the sauce onto a bowl of ice cream, and he clearly remembers throwing out the empty bag. So it is on to one more fantasy before she arrives, which by his estimate is about 45 minutes away. There is no time for a nap now. When he got home he opted for tidying up over laying down. He did a little dusting and some smudge removal, mostly the odd smear of peanut butter on the remote and a few other places. He wiped a few crumbs of toast still sprinkled on the coffee table. This table is more manly than Donna’s, or perhaps “functional” is the correct term to use these days. It is a sturdy table, no coasters required, and portable without lifting because of its wheels hidden under the base. That lower shelf is cluttered with color charts for house paint, hard copies of interesting internet tidbits, a few fliers from shows not attended, and some handwritten notes on various little thought- projects, ones like, “Is the sky really all water?” Other than that, the carpet is clean enough, but he gives it a quick vacuum anyway, including the large old chesterfield, softened by the weights of time and by some scattered cushions, the size of large pillows. All that is left is to put a few books away, and as always this takes more time than all the other chores combined. You can tell a great deal about a man by the selection of his books, the ones that are read and not just collected, the ones that colour a person’s thoughts, perhaps with more questions than answers. Those with no books still have their questions, though perhaps not as many, nor as intriguing or varied. Ben’s books are quite visible, much more than his thoughts, and both are rather all over the place . . . it's the books that rest in the less obscure storage device. There must be a hundred or so, he doesn’t keep track. Paperbacks are mixed with hard covers, pocketbooks next to large art books, including one on Leonardo and another on Salvador Dali, which is right next to a thin how-to book on house painting and another on furniture refinishing. Mark Twain titles can be found on three different shelves, McLuhan sits next to Dickens. While he inspects the disorder, he is pleased with the overall arrangement. One of these days he will build a bigger bookcase for the other thirty-some boxes of books stored away in the basement. Right now though, he is most pleased to discover a forgotten gem, one that might be the source of a little adventure for the night ahead, Little Birds, Anais Nin’s little book of erotic short stories. He especially likes one called, “The Model”. It is ten after six and everything is clean and tidy. As he finishes shaving, the towel drops to the floor while he looks for a fresh outfit. Socks are easy to pick out, so is the sweatshirt – he always keeps Friday nights casual, so why not? He used to wear his finest jeans for lady company, but now it’s just as often sweat pants. Nothing shabby though – these are flattering ones. They get the same reaction as his blue jeans – like a certain smile – and the comment, “nice pants.” After all these years, he’s finally come to translate that into, “really nice buns!” All this body language, a topic of which he never tires. Hoping Sunni arrives soon, he checks the details of the dinner-for-two specials on the take-out menu from Choy’s. He’s hungry and it takes a good 30 minutes to get delivery. After reading the menu the third time, he hears a familiar double honk, and he knows it is her. He peeks through the window to catch a glimpse of Sunni rushing from the car to the veranda. It’s raining again. He greets her on the veranda and brushes the water from her dripping shoulders. “Now who’s going to catch a cold?” he says in a fatherly way. She just smiles, warmly but with a little droop, because she is tired and now cold and wet. His home is on the first floor of a large old Victorian house, one that he bought (mortgaged) five years ago. He lives on the first floor and rents out the second and third. As she enters he takes her jacket and asks, “Would you like to have a nice hot bath? You look so cold, and you’re shivering. I have some dry clothes . . . it’ll be fine.” Sunni’s eyes have a look of relief. She feels safe with this man, felt that since the day they met, on her first day at the bakery, so she has no hesitation. She was secretly hoping for the offer anyway, though she thought perhaps a shower, but a bath is even better, and she says, “I’d love that. I’m sorry, but it’s gotten pretty cool out and your friend had the air conditioning on and I got the chills.” She’s talking to him from behind though, as he’s already on his way to the bathroom, and she follows. She stands in the entrance of the bathroom, looking around while he runs the bath, loaded with bubbles. Sunni’s in awe at what he’s done, knowing that these houses aren’t built this way, “Did you do this? I know one time you mentioned doing renovations, but I had no idea! This is amazing!” “I’m glad you like it. Yeah, it was quite the project. I couldn’t have done it without a lot of help from a few friends. Do you like the tub?” “I’m in heaven,” she says, with eyes wide open. “It’s huge, it looks like one of those big old tubs, but you’ve made it even bigger . . . is this really copper? . . . and that looks like a hot tub seat in there, and look at that, a back cushion . . . looks like you’ve thought of everything! And you have jets?” “Everything but the kitchen sink . . . I left that in the other room. And yes I have jets – my cape’s at the cleaners, so I need the jets to fly!” he says with a grin. “Ha-ha. Now how about giving a girl some privacy?” “Humph . . . girl? And here I wanted to treat you like a lady. Perhaps I should find you some toys to play with?” “Funny! Nah . . . me and my bubbles will do just fine.” Ben tells her to wait a minute as he leaves the room, returning with a plush terry cloth housecoat too small to be one of his own, and an equally plush towel that would comfort her from head to toe, “Here you go. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved – mind if I order for the both of us while you’re in the tub?” “That would be wonderful, I’m starved too.” “Can I bring you a glass of wine? I hope you like red?” “That’s all I drink when it comes to wine. Sure, thank you.” He leaves the room, shuts the door and quickly returns with her wine. He knocks, she tells him to come in, and to his pleasant surprise her toes are gently wiggling at one end while her breasts are gently bobbing under the bubbles at the other end – now he wishes he had run out of bath bubbles instead of those chocolate chips. “You look like you’ve never seen toes in a tub before?” she teases, as Ben hands her the glass of wine. She looks up to him with a deep and yet playful gaze, “You can just put that right there, thank you.” With her big dark eyes she points to a safe place on the ledge. “Will that be all m’lady? I should like to retire soon.” Giggling for a second, she stops and takes on a scolding tone, “You may retire when I say, and certainly no sooner. Now off you go and please let me know when dinner is served. And where are all my clothes? All I see is an old housecoat, certainly not appropriate for a formal dinner with a lady.” “Would the lady prefer the old but clean and comfortable, and twice-shrunk sweatpants – the grey ones – or the equally old and shrunken blue boxer shorts - both have strings for proper formal adjustments. Of course I’m certain the custom-shrunk undershirt, sleeveless as it is, will be delightful for the formalities.” Now Sunni lets out a hearty laugh, replying, “Ha! The pants will do just fine. I’m assuming everything will be properly laid on the bed then? You needn’t worry about the footwear though. As you can see, these toes are pretty hot, wouldn’t you say?” “The hottest toes in all of the land, without a doubt m’lady.” “Then off with you now. My bubbles are fading and you are not worthy of more than the sight of toes – the rest is too hot for such as you.” “Very well m’lady.” Ben politely bows and backs out of the room in a dignified manner, though he almost trips on the bath mat in the process. He shuts the door upon exiting, beaming as he heads to the kitchen to arrange the settings in the living room. Dinner is to be served on the fully functional coffee table, hopefully fitting for his honoured guest, the Lady Sunaria. Remembering his orders, he strides to the bedroom and digs up those old sweats, they're actually brand new ones. He never wore them after they accidentally shrunk, mixed in with a load of towels about a year ago. Now very glad he has saved them, he lays these pants on the bed. He pulls out the brightest fresh undershirt he can find, and pictures her bosom adding that wordless dimension to such a limp piece of cloth. While the mind wanders the bell rings, and he lets the delivery boy in, pays him and tips generously, and proceeds to the kitchen. On the way he stops by the bathroom and performs one more duty, “Dinner is ready for m’lady.” From inside he hears what sounds like a hurried exit from the bath, the kind that speaks of hunger, and the lady replies, “I’m coming out now. I’ll be there in a minute.” Ben sets the table. Still in its containers, the food remains hot. He sits down and pours two glasses of wine, and his hand shakes slightly as he looks up to see her towering over him, this luscious angel, so fresh and looking so incredibly delicious. “You’re shaking Ben,” she says softly. “Here, let me help you with that.” She gently guides his hand to fill the glass almost to the brim. Tilting her head back, she takes an ample gulp and swallows. Then she leans over, her bosom only inches from his face, kisses him on the forehead and whispers, “Cheers.” So far nothing is going according to plan for poor Ben. Once again he is lost for words and knows it, and only watches her in admiration as she sways her body onto the couch, sitting wherever she pleases, which in this case is as close to her plate as possible. “Ladies first” he tells her and passes her the fried rice, followed by the sweet and sour ribs, and then the other entrees. They fill their respective plates in silence. No words are spoken until after a bite or two of this and that. Ben is sitting in a large sofa chair, angled to the couch, a safe distance given his current condition. She takes notice of just how comfortable he looks, so at home, such a cozy place, and it makes her feel warm and safe. “Thank you Ben. This is awesome. Your home is amazing. And let me guess, you redid that chair yourself?” Proudly he replies, “Yes . . . actually it was once my grandfather’s favourite. We almost lost it when they moved to a retirement home. No one else wanted it, and I just couldn’t let it go out to charity with the other stuff.” Sunni stops herself from criticizing, thinking that perhaps someone else might appreciate it too, someone more in need. She’s glad she didn’t say it, as Ben apologizes for his selfish act. He tells her that a few months later he donated a different chair to that same charity. It was just as big, and he explains how he didn’t have room for two anyway. Uncomfortable with the discussion he asks her about her new home. “Oh, it’s nothing like this. It’s newer so it doesn’t have the same character. You know, it’s basically a box, one of about forty in the building. But it’s nice and we’re trying to make it homey. It takes time I suppose. It’s my second apartment with my roommate. We’ve been rooming together a couple of years now – before that I lived alone. It sure takes awhile to get a place to feel like home though. Strange huh?” “Not at all. Yeah, it takes time. Will your roommate be worried about you? Do you watch out for each other?” “Oh, I called her and told her not to worry. We went to college together. Yeah, we’ve got each other’s backs, pretty much best friends. She’s nice. I’m lucky . . . I’m sure you’d really like her . . . everybody does.” “It sounds like you’re both lucky, but I’d say luck has nothing to do with it.” The dinner moves along just like that. It’s a wonderful meal for each of them, and an evening so much nicer than either had planned or imagined, and for awhile, in this place, the world seems so very right to each of them, and together. The conversation flows without effort. Ben loves to hear her voice as much as her stories. There’s the frustration of all the hard work in college with a degree that leaves her feeling lost, and with no interest in pursuing more academics. She did laugh at herself when she exclaimed that ‘she should have taken up hairdressing’ though she was only half-kidding, explaining how a few of her friends seemed so happy in doing just that, without the burden of debt, and so many unanswered questions. Her happiest stories are those of her “Little Sister”, a six year old daughter of a single mother who seemed to have it all together until the second one came along, which was a few months before the father died in a car accident. She loves being a Big Sister and it shows. And Sunni loves to hear Ben talk of his painting, though it took some prodding to get him to talk about it. She thinks of him as such a dreamer, as he tells her about how and why he likes to work alone. “Just myself and my music,” is how he puts it. The intriguing part is how he describes the stories he writes in his mind while he paints, like his hands are doing one thing but his mind is on two or more others. She gets a little warm inside when he explains how the spreading of latex enamel is very much like caressing smooth skin, especially where two walls meet, two creases, and in the grooves of the corners. She knows he’s playing with her, as he explains how a proper soaking of the wall's skin needs firm motions, as well as wide up-and-down ones. Sometimes this requires different brushes, a variety of strokes . . . touch-ups are better with the light and delicate dabbing of a softer brush, and a twirling of the tip where three joints meet. When it’s over the effect is divine. On that last sentence she almost chokes on her wine, then while taking two quick gulps she thinks, ‘does he know what he’s doing to me? I sure hope not – well . . . hmmm.’ By now she’s down to the bottom of her glass. Ben sees this, grabs the bottle and notices that it too is empty, “Should I open another bottle?” Thankfully for her, Sunni’s gulps have been infrequent, with only sipping in between. Ben must have drank about two-thirds of the bottle himself, so she’s surprised it’s already empty. She’s thinking, checking herself for ‘wooziness’, feeling so relaxed but not wanting to put herself to sleep through the wine. “Or would you prefer some coffee?” Ben asks. “No, that’s okay. I’d love some more wine but I don’t want to wind up passing out on you. Besides, the way you’re talking I may wake up with paint all over me!” “You should be so lucky!” he laughs. “And even luckier that I’m all out of chocolate.” He’s too caught up in the laughing to notice that Sunni is now totally swimming in her own saucy thoughts. Ben gets up, takes the empty bottle and some of the dishes to the kitchen. Sunni gets up and helps him. He puts the few leftovers in the fridge, noticing the door to the adjacent pantry and laundry room is open. “Sunni, I totally forgot, I should put your clothes in the dryer. Do you want them washed first?” “That’s so sweet Ben,” and then she blurts, “How the hell is it that you’re still single - I don’t get it,” and without thinking she adds, “How old are you?” “I hope that’s a rhetorical question – come on, it’s Friday night, time to relax!” he replies, obviously flustered by the topic. “Oh, by the way, I’m thirty-one.” Sunni giggles, “Hmmm, I’m guessing it’s probably because you spend all your time hiding here – or walking in the rain! And no, that’s ok, just drying would be great. I’ll go get them . . . mind if I put them in myself?” She doesn’t wait for his reply and Sunni laughs when she hears Ben calling from behind, “Ha, you’re worried I’ll see your panties, even though I’ve already seen your bubbles!” When she returns she has her clothes wrapped in her arms, tighter than a Heisman fullback clutching a football. As she’s passing by him, she sees Ben in a semi-coiled position and Sunni springs away as he makes a tackling gesture, but playfully misses. By the time she’s done putting her clothes in the dryer, Ben’s already back in the living room with a fresh bottle of wine, two clean glasses, and bits of cheese and some grapes on a small platter. She enters the living room, “More food? I’m still full from supper,” but adds, “Well not totally full.” By now her back is completely toward him and she is examining the book case. “My, my, such eclectic tastes – now I know why you’re still single – how could anyone keep with you?” “But I’m just a painter,” he proclaims. She moves from the books to his collection of movies and music, and then she spots something kind of tucked in among a small collection of vinyl records. It appears to be a set of large sheets of paper, with the edges barely sticking out past the records. Without thinking to ask, she goes to pull them out. “Please don’t do that Sunni!” he calls out in a surprisingly alarmed tone. She pulls her hand away, “Sorry.” He apologizes for startling her, “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I should have put those somewhere else. That’s private. I don’t show them to anyone. I hope you understand.” “No problem. Let me guess, more plans for another dream home?” “Actually no. I take art lessons sometimes – they’re sketches. I forgot I left them out there. Can we change the subject?” Suddenly she feels a little distant from him. She doesn’t like secrets but then she reminds herself that she has a journal, so she understands, which helps her relax again. She looks at the music and asks him about his favourites. “Oh, it’s all over the place really. I like so much of it, but I don’t know much about classical music, and I only like a little of country . . . and what is Norah Jones anyway? I guess I like R&B and pop and jazz most of all. What about you?” he says, now more relaxed as well. “Well that narrows it down – not! I’m pretty much the same, though I never could get into heavy metal, or rap for that matter. Would you like to put something on?” “Here I was hoping you might want me to take something off! . . . Oh boy. Decisions, decisions,” and they share a laugh at both sources of his frustration. Ben asks, “Do you mind if I just kind of put something random on? I kind of put stuff in collections, pick one and just see what comes out. How about some R&B?” “Perfect,” she says, sitting down on the couch once more, but now a little left of center. With a two-hour selection of R&B now playing softly in the background, Ben goes to sit down in his chair, but after a whispered invitation he takes a position on the couch. She looks at him, and he at her, and with no warning she’s laughing again, “You’re sooo uncomfortable Ben. Here, why don’t we try this? Get up for a sec, okay?” Puzzled, and a little embarrassed, he stands up. Sunni gets up too. She changes her position at the end of the couch, propping her head and back up against the arm rest, and her legs now fully stretched and folded. Instinctively, Ben takes up the same position at the other end of the couch, gently lifting her legs and resting them on top of his own. Then he takes the afghan blanket from the top of the chesterfield and drapes it across both sets of legs. Their conversation continues, moving from one topic to another: favourite movies, first girlfriends and boyfriends, a few family stories, all light and loose and all around just nice. Tired of reaching over for the cheese, he pulls one of the corners of the table tight to the couch. Sunni does the same at her end. He picks up the last piece of cheese and motions to toss it in her direction, first taking one practice shot, then another until she finally tilts her head a bit and opens her mouth in a ready position. Now that she’s ready, he arches his arm further back, for the real thing, and gives her open mouth his best shot. She moves her head a bit to where she’s sure his trajectory will be, but there is no flying cheese. He just laughs, putting the last piece in his mouth. Slightly annoyed at the teasing, she pouts, not because of wanting the cheese as much as wanting him to remain the thoughtful gentleman. Just as she bows her head to pout, he reaches out his arm and presents a closed fist in front of her face. He opens his fist, with his palm now facing her – with two pieces of cheese in it – she hears him go ‘ta da!’” She just smiles at this charmer-turned-trickster. Sunni then grabs the two pieces of cheese with her right hand, and in one motion she pops one piece in her mouth and flings the other at him, laughing at his startled reaction, nailing him just below his left eye. In his best macho voice he assures her that it doesn’t hurt at all. At the same time he startles her in return, under the blanket, where he gently pinches her right calf. At that she lets out an “Ohhh!” followed by a whisper, “Next time pinch a little harder!” They laugh and talk a little more. Soon it is well past 10:00 and they’re starting to feel a little tired, each on their last glass of wine. In a quiet moment he pulls the blanket off of one of her feet. Then he takes his forefinger and thumb and dabbles it in his wine. He rubs the inside of her big toe with his forefinger, and along the bottom of it with his thumb. Playfully, he very gently circles the toes as she remains silent. He goes to reach for the one remaining grape on the plate, but with one leg Sunni blocks his arm. Then she stretches out her other leg with the dexterity of a gymnast, extending it right over to the platter, and with the toes he has being playing with, she grabs the one remaining grape. She sweeps the leg back to its previous position, now with the grape near his mouth. Ben leans over and gently circles the grape with his tongue, tickling the inside of her toes in the process. He pulls the grape into his mouth and laps her foot ends, nibbling on them, eventually wrapping his lips fully around her big toe, sucking on it until she gently moans. At the same time Sunni senses Ben’s arousal with her other foot . . . under the blanket she caresses his erection, first gently, then more firmly until he moans as well. He leans in toward her now, brushes her forehead and then her hair. He kisses her gently on the lips. She opens her mouth slightly and licks across his bottom lip. They kiss full on the mouth and to her delightful surprise they share this last grape. They float to the bedroom. Standing by the bed, they embrace, with her arms around his shoulders, while he caresses her sides and wraps his arm tightly around her, and they kiss some more. In a few minutes he breaks their embrace and pulls back the covers on the bed. He watches as she comfortably glides onto the sheet. Fully relaxed, she stretches out, her lower body now under the covers. Ben rests beside her. He holds himself up with one arm straight, and its hand close to her head. With his free hand he caresses her face, her cheeks and eyelids and so on, all very softly. Soon he lies down beside her and then slides lower, with one hand under the covers. He rests his head on the palm of the other hand, low enough so that his eyes are level with the tip of her right breast. He slides the lower hand between her legs, feathering the inside of each leg in a slow up-and-down motion. She spreads her legs when he touches her mound, now moist and receptive. Playfully, he explores her mound, and her pleasure intensifies to his various touches. Soon her hips and pelvis move in rhythm to his fingers, and when she releases in her own sweet joy, he once more kisses her passionately on the mouth. He sits up to watch her body transform into a state of tranquility, adoring the warm glow of her face and the beauty of her eyes, now shut. After a soft and lingering kiss on the cheek he pulls the blankets over her, whispers goodnight, and proceeds to his own restful sleep on the couch. Chapter 4

A Shocking Surprise

Friday’s downpours turned into a steady Saturday morning rain, which turned into the afternoon’s sporadic showers. By evening the last of the clouds waved goodbye to Victoria. The sun hung around, and the grass shone among the flowers, which were glorious in this light, in the truest sense of nature’s art. It’s the warmth of this sun, its light and all the magic it brings, that drew her out of the cave she calls home. It was a two hour walk, a photographer’s dream, but for her it was simply a feast for the eyes, and some exercise. When she got home she lit a few candles, put on some music and soaked in the tub for awhile. With the soreness removed from her legs and back, she felt completely relaxed and went to bed. She read for awhile until she fell asleep – Donna’s Saturday night ended this way. She’s up early this morning, the cheerful rays of sun send their greeting, streaking through the window’s drapery. Sunday is her favourite day. Her only regular Sunday activity is the visit to the market, in the morning when everything is fresh. The smell of the smoked salmon lingers near that of fresh breads, and the bread is only a few feet away from the chocolatier. Yes, it is her favourite time of the week. The outdoor shops are canopied for most kinds of weather. She likes these the most, drifting slowly from one offering to the other, indulging in all the sights and the smells. However, she only buys the healthiest weekly portions of this and that. She considers a little chocolate to be a healthy enough choice, though she buys just a little of that. Like most activities, Donna enjoys doing this by herself. The one exception is the regular get-together, some call it brunch, a meeting with her few lady friends. Her dearest is Melanie, who will graciously pick up her at the scheduled time this morning, as she always does for Sunday shopping. Melanie sees nothing unusual about Donna’s need to shop alone, and she does the same, though lately not for the same need of solitude. Her shopping tastes are different too, except the chocolate of course, her fifth basic food group. Her tastes in health food lean towards tenderloin beef, but also include healthy portions of lasagne, a variety of sausages and cheeses and all the stuff for making crepes and pancakes. Her favourite pancakes are made with potato and garlic, but only with the finest of maple sugar, but the truth is any maple sugar will do in a pinch. The same for butter, but she really prefers the homemade butter that she found near the checkout of that specialty cheese shop, the one where she gets a discount for proudly being a preferred customer. When the shopping is done, typically about two hours after it starts, they always meet at the same one of four entrances, close to their usual parking section. Donna likes to peek into her friend’s groceries, shaking her head and laughing at what she calls ‘Mellie’s Deli’. That’s usually when Mel does her pin-up pose, a healthy 165 pounds of womanhood, moulded onto the luscious hourglass of her five-foot-six frame. Her wild and curly and thick locks hang just over her shoulders – her free spirit tries to remain at the age of sixteen, defying this body of a woman of forty, and for this she makes no apologies. On this particular Sunday Melanie is running a little late. Donna waits patiently on the sidewalk. She sees her friend rounding the corner, hears the tires screech a little, and laughs as Melanie comes to an abrupt halt right beside her. Donna opens the door to the minivan, tosses her shopping bags in the back seat and scolds her dear friend, “Boy, for someone who’s slow today, you’re sure in a hurry!” Before Donna can get her seatbelt fastened, Melanie zips away, laughing, and catching a glimpse of Donna’s head snapping back a little. “Aren’t you the smarty pants this morning! You know I wouldn’t have rushed if you had a cell phone – still don’t know why you don’t get one of those damn things.” “One of those damn things? That pretty much sums it up doesn’t it? You know how I feel about them, and you know I really don’t need one, so why bother? Besides, even if I had one, would you have gotten here any quicker? No, right? So there you go – if I had a cell phone I’d probably still be waiting, right?” “Humph. You bugger! You should’ve been a lawyer! How come you’re always so damn right? Must be that diet of rabbit food you like so much – look at you, you’ve got legs like Bugs Bunny!” Donna just laughs, “You can slow down now. What’s the rush? Ohhh, I know! You’re worried you’ll miss Karl the sausage guy. What’s his name?” Melanie laughs even louder now, “You mean Kokolski? Hah, last week I told him to stuff it and then he just asked me, ‘when and where and how much do you want?’ . . . Poor bugger must be 67 years old and I’ll bet he beats that salami of his three times a day, five on Sundays!” “Ohhh, that’s just gross. You know, I’m sure he’s just got a thing for you. All the men do, and you just love to tease them. It’s almost painful to watch. They don’t have a chance!” “Donnya-lasagna, you keep talking like that and I’m gonna give Karl Kokolski your number the next time he asks for mine!” “And you still wonder why I don’t have a cell phone?” Donna laughs again, partly at this new nickname. Mel’s one of those rare people that keeps coming up with new names on the fly, but only for her dearest friends, the ones who make her laugh so much. Donna has no real idea how important this weekly event is to Melanie. For Mel it has been almost the only thing she really looks forward to, and for many months now. The banter goes back and forth. You can say a lot when there’s lots to say in a fifteen minute drive. Eventually Melanie tells her the reason why she’s late, another argument with her husband, Sam. She laments about how it seems they can’t agree on anything these days, how it’s always tense, how she worries that it will all fall apart, and worries more how she’s losing sight of what ‘it’ is anymore. Her playful tone has disappeared, and for once she appears ten years older rather than ten years younger. She looks like she wants to cry, though she doesn’t. “You must deal with nutcases like me all the time. I’m sure this is the last thing you want to hear on a Sunday – crap like mine.” Donna consoles her, “My dear, you know if I could give you any professional help, then I would. What can I say?” Her heart is melting for her friend and she wants to tell her how much she actually envies Mel’s problems. She wants to tell her how pretentious everything in her professional life really is, and that at least her problems with Sam are very real. After a few moments of silence Mel asks, “So tell me again why you can’t recommend anyone for me to talk to . . . another shrink?” For Donna this is one of those dreaded questions, mostly because once again she has to lie to a friend, “First of all I’m not a shrink. Secondly, it’s because I’m so specialized. I don’t even know any other counsellors in Victoria, and I’m sure I told you – I’m very independent – and I can’t stand all those professional associations, they’re so stuffy and pretentious.” “Okay, I guess I’ll just keep watching Dr. Phil then.” she says, but only half-joking, and Donna gets a real sense her desperation. “I tell you what, let me make a few calls, do a little checking, and I’ll try and find a good fit for you. But you have to promise me one thing though – ” “What’s that?” “You have to promise not to mention my name, or anything about me, to anyone. I don’t want the attention, and I certainly don’t want any referrals coming back my way. I’ve got my hands full as it is.” “Hands full?”, Mel says, grinning again as she glances at the somewhat small and delicate hands of her friend. “With hands like those it’s me who should be doing the referring – sure you don’t want to meet Karl?” “You bugger – not! Besides, I’ve got a thing for the guy over in the Global Village shop.” “Liar!” They both chuckle and by now Melanie is pulling in to the parking lot, which is almost full already, and no wonder after three days of steady rain. People will be in a hurry to get in and out on such a glorious June day. This won’t affect Donna and Mel’s schedule; it’s always busy here on a Sunday, rain or shine. As they enter they go their separate ways, first confirming their meeting time for 11:30. Just as Melanie is about to leave, Donna once again surprises herself by showing a little affection. She pats Melanie on the shoulder, gives her a peck on the cheek and simply tells her, “It’ll be okay. Now go and have some fun.” Mel smiles and waltzes away. Her hips have this kind of hypnotic sway to them and Donna giggles at their sight. Her poor dear friend has no idea how seductive this walk is, which only makes it all the more alluring. She knows Karl Kokolski must appreciate that; she’s not sure Mel’s husband Sam even notices anymore. As always, Melanie begins with her window shopping and meandering, a full 90 minutes of it, followed by a quick 30-minute grocery tour. These days the grocery part is basically a routine more than an adventure. She likes the uniqueness of the bazaar, or at least the attempt of it. Local and regional crafts people are everywhere, especially now, at the start of the peak tourist season. Small artisan-run co-ops occupy about half of the shops. Most of the other half are franchise operations, but at least their offerings are more exotic, different than those of the stores in the mega-malls. And then there are all the service businesses: hair salons, acupuncture and massage, all kinds of ethnic restaurants, even a tattoo parlour, and then there is her favourite, the specialty music shop, “Here, The Music”. It’s more than a place to buy musical instruments of all sorts classical. It’s also more than a place to buy sheet music, exhaustive in it’s availability. It’s even more than a registry for antique instruments, or a place to sign up for lessons of the French Horn. It’s also a place where every Sunday for thirty minutes of every hour, a local musician, or a small group, performs in a tiny sitting area within the shop, with room for twenty or so patrons. The charge is voluntary and all proceeds go to the musicians, and the ones that really don’t need the money leave theirs for the ones that really do. She knew of this kind of sharing through her acquaintance with one such musician, Joe Sinclair, who only recently came into some unexpected financial success with an online music video that became an instant hit. She met this young man totally by accident about three months ago, literally bumping into him as she came out of the grocery store. She was in a hurry to meet up with Donna that day. Though it was her fault, he thought differently, apologized and offered to repay her in some way for the mess he had caused. His kindness caught her by surprise, or perhaps it was his gentle nature, which seemed odd when she finally looked up at him and saw the face of a proud, defiant Sioux warrior. She would have no part of any kind gesture, but still, after helping her getting her bags repacked, he offered to play for her someday. He handed her a card and told her that he plays at this shop almost every Sunday morning. This is how she learned of the music shop. When he told her that he plays the violin, Joe’s eyes shone brightly, and he just grinned at her surprised reaction. Perhaps it was all of this, and maybe his passion as well, that lured her every week to seek him out and hear him play, and then to visit for awhile. Other than that, shopping was just groceries. Walking down the aisle, a poster on a community billboard catches her attention. It’s a beautiful picture of horses, part of an advertisement for some sort of jumping competition. It reminds her of Joe’s explanation, his reaction to her curiosity, and what he had told her over that first cup of coffee, “I can see you’re surprised - an Indian violinist? I was surprised too – never thought of it until I learned something special about violins.” Without giving her a chance to ask, he continued, “It’s all about the horses for me, and for my people. They’re our friends, not our possessions. This has always been our way. We don’t own them any more than we own the wind. So it’s the bow – do you know the string of the bow is actually the hair of the horse? This fascinated me, and soon I fell in love with the wind of the horse . . . but through the violin . . . the music.” He then looked her in the eyes, and seeing her warmth, he knew she understood. With a lightning grin he concluded, “It’s all horseplay!” and together they laughed for awhile. Now only about twenty feet away from the music shop, she can hear someone warming up, a familiar and friendly sound. At the same time, in an entirely different area, about 80 shops away, Donna also hears a familiar sound. It’s not really a friendly one though. It’s a voice, one she hasn’t heard in years, one she hoped she’d never hear again. No, it can’t be, but there it was again, “Dawn? Dawn dear, is that you?” She pretends not to hear it, refusing to acknowledge this voice, calling her from behind. Her body stiffens and she picks up her pace, but only a little, though it is of no use. She is startled by a firm and abrupt tap on the back of her shoulder, and she has no choice but to turn and confront the source of it. Instantly she recognizes it. “Yes Ted, it’s me . . . what the hell are you doing here?” There he stands, this man of sixty or so, handsome with his silver hair, impeccably groomed in a GQ-for-geriatrics kind of way. Despite his aging, he has lost little of his physical appeal; a long time ago she once found him not only attractive but also most charming. His smile remains intact despite her coldness, as if her response doesn’t matter. He continues to look her over, maintaining this sleazy smile that reeks of the abuse of power and money. He tries to flatter her, “Look at you! Every bit the elegant lady. How long has it been, 10 years now? And what are you doing in Victoria? I mean, this is no place for – well, you know what I mean!” “No Ted, I don’t know . . . I really don’t.” “Why so cold? We used to be so close. Have you forgotten how much I helped you over the years? . . . I was really hurt you know. Montreal just wasn’t the same after you left – just out of the blue, no goodbyes, nothing. You know, some thought maybe you had died. I didn’t think so though. I guessed you just wanted a clean break . . . but Victoria?” “That’s right Ted, Victoria. You make it sound like I owe you something. I don’t, and you damn well know it.” She pauses, fighting the urge to kick him where it really hurts. “Now why don’t you just fuck right off and let’s leave it at that.” Still smiling, the only thing that changes in his expression is his eyes, which have gone from cold to calculating. He pauses, studies her face for a moment and then motions his gaze up and down her body, examining her as he would a prize filly before a big race. She wants to slap him, and she would except for causing a scene. Fighting her anxiety, her mind is in a frenzy, trying to figure out how to get out of this ugly situation. In an effort to buy some time she asks him, “What do you want Ted?” The question takes his attention off of her body and towards her eyes, and she returns his look with a piercing one of her own. She is silent. Continuing with the same slick voice he proclaims, “I don’t want anything from you. I’m just in this dreary fucking place on business – can’t wait to head home tonight. I just came here to pick up a souvenir for the wife, you know how it is.” He pauses, then expands his grin to its maximum vulgarity and adds, “Speaking of fucking, what are you doing this afternoon?” Donna saw it coming. It was just a matter of time before the question would come up. This man that she loathes even has the nerve to nudge up to her, as if they are lovers, now standing close enough for her to feel his breath. Wearing a long and stylish trench coat, one of those camel ones, and open, he draws ever closer, with his crotch approaching her body. She pulls away, takes a quick scan of the pedestrian traffic, and notices an inconspicuous service door not far away. To Ted’s pleasant surprise, Donna suddenly grins warmly, with her eyes now peering down at his semi-erect state. He takes notice of her more relaxed posture. She softens her tone, almost whispering, “You never change do you? Fuck it, why not, huh? . . . Boy, you sure do know me. Let’s go over there right now and we can talk about it.” She gives him a little wink, then motions with her eyes over to the service door, leading him down a narrow hallway. She turns to look at him, then her eyes go downward, giving a nod of approval to his now fully-erect member. She can hear his heavy breathing as she proceeds out the service door, only to discover that there is another door about eight feet away and “perfect” is her only thought. “This will do just fine,” she tells him. “So you remember the good times do you? You think you still have what it takes?” “Of course I do,” he tells her confidently, reaching out to touch her. “No, no, no – did you forget?” she says in a naughty-school-girl kind of way. She takes his hands and places them behind his back, in a handcuffed position, but without the cuffs. She gently pushes him against the wall and whispers for him to close his eyes. He closes them, and with the swiftness of a hawk, in one gliding motion, she reaches into her purse, pulls something out, and positions it properly in her hand. She presses a little button and shoves the instrument into Ted’s crotch, just under his erection. He gasps, and before he can scream, with her free arm and hand she muffles the sound of his shock. The electrical device in her lower hand has him on his knees now, though he doesn’t have a prayer. It’s a custom-made little taser of sorts, something she hoped she would never have to use. And now that she has, and as she watches Ted crumple to the ground, her only thought is “c'est la vie.” Then she moves swiftly out the second door, which exits the marketplace. She takes a quick look around. There’s no one walking in the vicinity, a few cars pass by as they head to the nearby parking lot. That’s where she heads, to the parking lot, where she gets her bearings and makes her way around the entire complex, until she finally spots the area where Melanie parked the minivan. Donna only thinks of Ted’s current condition for a second. She hopes the friend that made this for her was correct. He told her that the shock wouldn’t kill anyone. She might have given the matter a little more time, but frankly she was past the point of caring one way or another. She actually laughed at one point, remembering how her engineer-friend also told her that the device might leave a discolouring, like a bruise. The thought of Ted taking that shocking gift “home to the wife” brings her some much needed comic relief. Now approaching the van, she looks at her watch and sees there is still another half hour before Melanie will be done. Relieved for the time, she slowly regains her composure. While her nerves are shot, it is those memories of her past with Ted, and with others like him, that upset her the most. She knows she is still no saint, never will be, but the kind of bullshit with Ted and the others is long past done, never to be repeated . . . she’d rather die instead, or kill if need be. Pacing for a few minutes, then leaning on the van for awhile, she hears the sound of seagulls and she looks up to watch them. They look so wise. How is it that they take care of one another so nicely? And with that she drifts into a daydream of Ben. Time flew quickly in this dream, and it only ended by the sound of that voice, the friendly but annoyed voice of Melanie, “Where were you? I was waiting for you but I finally gave up! I thought I’d load up these groceries and go back looking for you – what happened?” As she gets closer to her dear friend, Mel’s voice turns to one of concern, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” “Oh Melanie I’m sorry. Here, let me help you with those.” Donna dodges the question, at least for now, and they load up the van together. Melanie asks, “Where’s your rabbit food? Where’s your bags? You’re not going anorexic on me are you?” Donna fakes a little smile, “No. Can you believe it? I left my cards at home – duh! I’ve never done that before. Damn, I must have left my bags in the ladies room.” That part was true. “You know Donna, sometimes I think you’ve been this wounded puppy your whole life. Imagine that, a wounded puppy with Bugs Bunny legs. Now let me see your ears!” They laugh and Mel adds, “Well now we’re going to be late for brunch. The girls won’t mind though. I think they’re used it! We can go back and I’ll help you and you can pay me later, okay? I’ll call Janet now.” “No Mel, please don’t. I’m not really in the mood right now. And you’re right, I’m really not feeling that well. Maybe I caught something walking in the rain the other day . . . I just want to go home, okay?” Melanie knows something else is wrong. She has no idea what it is, but knows enough to leave it alone. “Okay, but it won’t be the same without you – it never is, you know. I really don’t know what we’d do without you.” With those kind words Donna just wants to cry, but holds back the emotions. She says nothing and walks around to the other side of the van and gets in, relieved to be going home. They drive away. It’s mostly a quiet ride. Donna stares into space and returns to her dream of Ben. Meanwhile, Melanie reflects on another wonderful time spent with Joe. It helps that some of their favourite music is playing, a selection of Norah Jones songs, and they both smile softly at the melancholy lyrics: Yesterday I saw the sun was shining and the leaves were falling down softly. My cold, cold hands needed a warm, warm touch, and I was thinking about you, thinking about you . . . . Chapter 5

The Best Laid Plans

Donna Belauche’s plans for Sunday evening remain intact. Normally she looks forward to this particular activity, but not tonight. Now it is merely a necessary business chore. Her encounter with Ted is still fresh in her mind and she can’t shake off it’s impact. If “bound and impatient” was some kind of wake-up call then Ted’s call of “Dawn” feels like a bucket of ice water dumped on her − while she was sleeping. The chore is quite simple. It involves some monitoring of her online business, which is a big part of her early retirement plan. The site has been active since last fall and the business grows steadily, though the partners are in agreement that they must be careful . . . not get too greedy. Neither of them knows the “ins and outs” nearly as well as she does. The web site has the potential to get her out of her current therapy practise. It was a little over a year ago that she realized just how much this counselling practice depends on her charm, and sadly she knows it depends upon her looks as well. These days when she catches a glimpse of some baseball or hockey on television, her heart goes out to the older athletes as they wind down their careers − the aging warriors. She sees her own career in the same way, and so “What’s next?” is the big question. The answer came shortly after, sometime last July, partly through some brainstorming on her part, partly through a reflection of her past, and partly by one of those “ah ha” moments that grab you in the most exciting and unexpected way. She has always had a head for business. Not so much on the numbers side of it, as that is too easy, especially with her proficiency in mathematics. It’s the strategic planning process that fascinates her the most, though it didn’t many years ago, when it was first explained to her. Now it’s all so simple, at least the basics of it.

* * *

She learned about strategic planning at the age of 23, during her first year of graduate school. Her boyfriend at the time studied business, while she studied psychology. Even with both being so busy in their separate lives, they tried their best for a full-blown romance. They would spend a few nights a week together, then some weekend time that always included a nice dinner out, though nothing fancy. Inevitably these dinners led to school talk, and one night they found themselves talking about some history, people like Napoleon and Hitler. She was talking about these people in terms of psychology. Bill, her boyfriend, perked right up on the subject. He had just finished the most amazing lecture that he’d ever attended, and the lecture addressed these historical figures from a different perspective. It had to do with the Art of War. So many of these men of history applied the teachings of the book in terms of strategy development. It wasn’t the individuals that intrigued him – it was this strategic planning process. He said he could show her everything about strategic planning on one sheet of paper. This sheet would illustrate everything anyone would ever need to know about the subject. She remembers the conversation very well, pretty much word-for-word, as it continues to be a big part of her life. She told him, “Why should I care about that shit? You know I have no interest in big business. You know more than anything I want to run my own show, but not for business purposes - yuck!” Bill smiles, knowing she will be surprised. “But that’s just it Dawn, it’s the same thing for mom and pop stores as it is for multinationals. No matter what, sooner or later you need to do a little planning . . . You can’t just live moment to moment. So you have to plan, that’s what’s so brilliant about this − it’s so simple. Here, let me show you. It’ll only take a minute and then we’ll leave it alone, okay?” “Okay,” she said in a skeptic tone, as she folds her arms. Bill takes one of the paper placemats and starts writing on it. In the top center he writes the word ‘environment’, at the bottom center he writes ‘objectives’. Then at the middle of the far left side he jots down ‘resources’ and on the far right side ‘constraints’. He quickly circles each of these words, and draws a line from each circle toward the blank middle of the page. There, in the blank middle, in big letters, he just writes ‘plan’. “And there you have it!” he says as he takes a deep breath. She smirks at his schoolboy excitement, obviously not understanding the significance of his teachings. He grins at her and continues, “It’s like this okay. Here you have your environment – that’s the culture you live in, the climate, naturally and otherwise. Here you have a set of resources at your disposal. That can be physical stuff as well as knowledge, contacts and so on. Over here you have a set of constraints, such as a shortage of materials, people, time, even nature and climate. And down here you have your objectives . . . are you with me so far?” “Yes sir − but I have to pee now, so are we almost done?” “You bugger,” he laughs, even though she can see that he is really quite annoyed. “You always have to pee when I’m on a roll!” “It’s one of my resources,” she says as a joke. “Ha-ha. Yeah, you’re catching on pretty quickly. Okay, so the essence of strategic planning comes down to one sentence, “Given this environment, with this set of resources and these constraints, how do I achieve my objectives?” “That’s it?” she says. “That’s it, It’s that simple. The rest are just details . . . pretty amazing, eh?” “Okay, yeah, right − but I really do have to pee!” Oddly, Bill becomes more perturbed, for some reason rather impatient. His tone is not so pleasant as he says, “Hmmm. You know, I think that’s more of a tactic than a resource.” She smiles at him as she gets up and walks away, “I’ll be right back.” Then as she’s about to head to the ladies’ room, she adds jokingly, “When I get back you can tell me about your secret strategic plan to marry me.” When she returns Bill isn't smiling – he still seems annoyed. He politely stands up and helps her with her seating. She too becomes annoyed, sensing that one of his tantrums is about to start. He’s quiet now. The dinner continues in silence for awhile. Then she says, “You know I was just kidding about the marriage stuff, don’t you?” He replies, “Yeah, I know. It’s too early for that right? You keep telling me you’re not sure that will ever happen. Still, you know I could easily spend the rest of my life with you − and in a few months I’ll be working.” “Bill, we’ve been through this before. Yes, I told you I’m not sure about any of that stuff. You’re a wonderful man, but − ” Before she could continue he interrupts, “Yeah I know − ‘but’. You know, I’ve just realized something tonight. – You really don’t take me seriously at all, never have. This is all just amusement for you . . . that’s okay. It’s been a lot of fun . . . I don’t have a strategic plan to marry you, but I do have dreams, and you’re in them . . . all of them . . . But am I in yours?” There is only silence. She’s caught off guard by the question. She goes to say something but then, in shame, she just bows her head and says nothing. “Wow,” he says. “I didn’t see that coming. Silly me, what a stupid question.” Then he pauses and asks her in a hurt but cool voice, “Should I see you home?” She looks at him, pained by the tears he seems to be holding back, “No, that’s all right . . . it’s better this way. Someday I hope you’ll understand.” He leans over and kisses her on the forehead. After this last kiss he says, “I sure hope not – goodbye Dawn.” He walks away. She says nothing. She hunches over the table, feeling lost, playing with a stir stick, wondering what just happened. Saddened by this sudden loss, she's just as stunned when she realizes that she just not that heartbroken. She asks herself, “What’s wrong with me? If he’s not right for me, then can anyone be right?” Ninety-nine out of one hundred women only dream of having this kind of all-Canadian guy for a husband, but she’s not one of them. She’s the one in a hundred that doesn’t want him, and this always seems to be the way with her. She tries to convince herself that she just wants more, but no, that’s not it, so what is it that she wants? That question draws a disturbing blank for an answer. Soon she gets up to leave. Just as she turns to walk away, she pauses, seeing that he left his sheet of paper behind, and she gently folds it and puts it in her purse. Eventually that placemat becomes almost a “guide to meditation” for her, an important part of her future, at least in her attempts to plan it. But for tonight it is her last memento of Bill and her time with him. It was also the last time she had a date for Valentine’s Day. It was also the first and last time she would have received a proposal of marriage − she had no idea how quickly this plan can, and did, fall apart. After that night nothing is the same for her. Bill was right. She never did see him in her future, nor does she see anyone there. She immersed herself in her studies, and thankfully it was almost all class instruction. There was lots of reading and memorization, much different than thesis work, less thinking required. She was supposed to be learning to think for herself, instead she became consumed with thinking about herself. One night, about a week after her last night with Bill, she read the sheet he left her. She almost threw it out but intuitively she kept it, sensing that somehow this process of his might actually be important someday. After all, she knew that she was already very unsure of her current chosen path. She tried to think of alternative paths, but they seemed to be very vague and solitary ones. She spent so much time alone then, shutting out the world, and as such, the information on that sheet of paper became to a certain extent, her solitary friend. She wanted to get to know her new friend better − much better. Dawn started with this term, objectives. “All so simple,” he said, but she quickly learned that it's not so easy to nail them down, her objectives. Then there are her resources; these were easier to identify. There’s her impeccable outward beauty. There’s her ability to read people. For her that's as easy as reading the Archie comics. Perhaps this ease has something to do with her enviable beauty – the related experience of thwarting off so many men, the boys, and some women as well – all this thwarting began at a very young age. In addition, there is her intelligence, overall she is in the top five percent. Her financial support was adequate since the passing of her parents, a year after high school graduation. She had a loving aunt to guide her and manage those finances for a few more years, until she’s done her schooling. For Dawn, the oddest discovery was that her constraints were pretty much the same as her resources. It wasn’t that her appearance was a constraint per se – the issue was about how people didn't take her seriously. Also, so many people around her wanted something from her, some obsessively, always wanting her near. Eventually these people would finally realize that their fantasies would not be fulfilled through her. Even then it seemed that they still clung to some glimmer of hope – did what they could to control her – somehow thinking ‘just maybe’. She recognized this pattern by the age of 14, like an unspoken and invisible game. Over time she learned the power of control in this game, while others tried desperately to take it away from her. She really didn’t like all these power struggles. She always just wanted to live. Through all of this game-playing something got lost. She knew this, but couldn’t understand the “how or why” of it, or how to end it. She only knew she must be on constant guard, and in this process she becomes less and less trusting of those around her. At the age of 23, her financial comfort was constraining in that she could coast for years, and simply play the unavoidable game. She had no urgency in any aspect of her life, nor any real passion. By choosing one of a dozen safe careers, ones that pay decently, she will be just fine . . . comfortable. Her only risk was choosing a path entirely of her own design. If she had any passion at all, it was to do something new, exciting, different – in a way then, her comfort became a constraint. Soon it would be a distant one, neither a constraint nor a resource. Comfort simply became a stranger, as if she needed it that way, at least for awhile. It’s her intelligence that stood above all else in terms of resources. It was more than intelligence though, it was her inane ability to think things through with impeccable logic, even when emotions got in the way. After a little research she also discovered something invaluable − strategic success often comes by turning constraints into resources, like turning something negative into something positive. This will serve her well, she thought, except that soon she discovered this little oddity. She came to know how subjective it all is – how what one considers to be positive, another sees the same as being negative. So she asked herself, “Is that’s why it’s all so much a game?” Her best conclusive answer was “Perhaps!” Feeling no further ahead, her new friend did help her in learning how to manage people for her own purposes – it all became almost intuitive – without the interference of emotion. She failed to see this disappearance of emotion as “something lost”. Within a month of Bill’s exit from her life, she had made all kinds of notes, and soon realized that her major obstacle is defining those objectives. In the process she learned about the need to be flexible with them − the objectives − the importance of having a willingness to change them as other factors change. It’s an ongoing process, but she wonders, “Is this right? Is this the way to plan one’s life?” The questions went unanswered then, some thirteen years ago, as they do today. However, it is a crisis situation now, and as usual, when it comes to a crisis, there is no time for a philosophical debate.

* * *

Today – her leisurely Sunday – and after that incident with Ted, she once again finds herself in “What’s next?” mode. She once more thinks of that sheet Bill gave her, one that she long ago committed to memory. However, she still finds it useful to map it out on paper. The first note she makes is about Ted, noting him under ‘constraints’ and then again up at the top of the page, under ‘environment’. Her immediate thought is that she needs to leave Victoria, because of the incident with Ted, but upon further review she’s pretty sure that man is no longer a problem. He’s gone home now. There is no ambiguity in the message she left him with, and he’s not very likely to share the story of their “rendezvous” with the boys. But then she remembers how twisted he is, twisted enough to turn the story completely around. He could easily concoct an entirely different account of their encounter, something to brag about over drinks with the boys, so there is still a risk. Then there is the question of whether she wants to stay here in any event. She quickly decides to wind down her counselling business by the end of the summer, at the very latest. For awhile now, she has been thinking of doing that, but over the next few years, as the web business grows. Can she really do it in a few months? The question and the analysis has nothing to with her clients. Her practise pays all her monthly bills, affords all the creature comforts she wants, and still there’s more than a little left over for savings. Her inheritance paid for her education as well as the much of house she owns, the one in which her practise is located. Her office is on the second floor, (Unit B), she resides on the third floor, (Unit C), and the ground floor is leased out to a small floral business. Everything is very tidy financially. The lease revenue from the floral business covers the taxes and house maintenance. Ben doesn’t know it, but he’s getting the cheapest rate for her services. She only has seven other clients, spread over a two-week cycle, and they each bring in $400 a session. Ben's rate is half of that. For her modest lifestyle she does very well on this light workload. However, giving it all up will leave a big gap, financially speaking. That is where the web business came in, as an opportunity to completely erase the need for her practise. She owns 50% of it in a partnership, and her two partners split the other 50%. She really doesn’t have the option of just selling her portion to them; partnerships are seldom that simple. The whole operation intimately relies on her skills – her ‘resources’ – they all know that. The other two partners have no idea of her desire to end it all in a few years, let alone now in a few months. They won’t be pleased, and right now she has no plans of telling them anything about her objectives. The site grew quickly from an income generator of $1,000 in the first month to $5,000 for the sixth month. The past three months averaged at $20,000 a month. Donna and her two partners have agreed on not letting it go past $50,000 a month. Based on that peak level, Donna crunched some numbers and set her goal at $1,000,000 in income received, after taxes. As she’s able to save all her proceeds, this is her early retirement plan − an excellent cash cow if there ever was one. That’s about four years away though, which until today was okay with her, sort of, but not entirely . . . there’s still this “bound and impatient” of it all, and again she’s not sure why, or what that means. Now four years sounds like a very long time, but so does the end of summer. All of a sudden she just wants to run away from everything. Not including her partners, she only has three or four close friends, ones like Melanie. Making new ones has always come easily, friends from which she can safely hide much of her past life. “But she will really miss them.” she tells herself. However, in her past moves, that has only been a short-term feeling. She’s not so sure of that this time – she feels a tinge of remorse as she removes ‘friends’ from her worksheet altogether. She fully realizes that by doing so she is deciding to once again go it alone. Suddenly Donna feels tired, very sleepy. Her real contribution to the web business has only a little to do with managing the technology and plenty to do with her ‘people skills’, some of which are very specialized. The most special ones include little-known techniques in the erotic arts, something she learned in her previous life, acquired through extended visits to various hot spots around the globe. This is all related to the web site, and though there is nothing pornographic about any of it, there is still the ethics of it all. Donna has thought it through a number of times–the right and wrong of it – and she knows there is no textbook to settle the matter. One of her partners assures her that everything is legal, though he really doesn’t know the full intimate details of the site – she has managed to keep part of that a secret. It's that hidden part that bothers her, but all-in-all no one gets hurt, so it must be okay. Initially, all the revenue came through paid memberships, though it’s far from an openly public kind of membership. Even the term “membership” is somewhat nebulous in this context. Their set-up reminds Donna of a site she saw about ten years ago, when the internet was still relatively small. A man who lived in rural Ontario had mounted a web camera near his home. He used this to present a 24/7 live recording of the sights and sounds of a creek running through some of his property . . . all very tranquil. Apparently he had about 10,000 people paying him $10 per month to subscribe to this web experience. Donna’s site is similar, but not continuous, and it involves indoor settings and people. There is the tranquility, but there are also crescendos, like a unique variation of Bolero. It does involve intense sensuality – all so elegant in its own way – and in that regard she takes the utmost pride. In a way it is a culmination – something inspired by a few books – then there is her training and so many experiences – all of it acquired over a very unique, and tumultuous, five-year period of her adult life. Her version of Bolero is as distinctive as her overall experience, a tribute of sorts. However, while she is sure no one is being hurt, she knows some of those involved would be very upset if they knew everything about the project. Those most directly involved enjoy what is undoubtedly a life-changing experience, more effective than years of therapy, though this treatment would certainly be completely rejected by every reputable professional association. The bigger problem is in fact this element of elegance, the ease of the performance . . . almost serene, despite the intense passion that accompanies all of it. She knows she will never be so fortunate again, to be part of anything like this in any other future venture – life just doesn’t work that way – she is certain of that. Whenever it ends, in one way or another, she will dearly miss it all . . . such is life. It’s now almost midnight. The chore is done. As tomorrow is Monday, a day with only one late afternoon appointment, she can sleep in. This means she can stay up a little longer tonight, even though she is very tired from all this home work and the stress of the afternoon. Donna consoles herself in having made good planning progress. She is genuinely confident that she will think of something to free herself of what has now become a hideaway, a cave in the negative sense of the word. This morning, while driving to the market with Melanie, it was really feeling like home. That feeling took many years to attain, and until today it was feeling as good as it could, under the circumstances. In a conscience effort to relax now, she finds herself thinking of Ben and how they will have a nice goodbye session or two. The thoughts, the twinges of emotion that disturbed her a few days ago, have disappeared in her new resilience. One more time she brings to her own light the truth that men like him want nothing to do with women like her, not with her kind of past – she really wants to avoid another relationship where she has to hide so much. More than anything, she is so very weary of all the acting. She tried to convince herself that Ben might be the one person who could accept her hidden truth, not be overly affected by her past, but there is more to it than that. It’s not simply a matter of judging; there’s the adjusting of it all. She’s seen it before, how one person’s perception of another changes, when they learn of her kind of truth. Then both change in how they interact with each other, and everything in the relationship changes, and it’s never for the better. For once she thinks perhaps there is such a thing as Karma, or something very close to it − a continuous blending, a churning of time and truth. Donna’s thoughts of Ben are not helping her relax; she had hoped they might. Instead they make her even more restless, and he was just supposed to be a toy of sorts! She tosses and turns, so tired, yet unable to sleep. In such a state a cup of hot chocolate often helps, plus a little time spent on catching up on some of her favourite blogs. While the milk is warming up, she melts some chocolate chips and marshmallows, and somewhere in the process she knocks a book off the corner of the kitchen table. The little thump reminds her of her new friend, Sunni, and for the first time in hours a faint smile emerges on her face. The smile lingers when she soon reads Sunaria’s stories, posted on her blog, Let the Sunni Side In. Sunni’s writing is as funny, sharp, and surprising as her real-life persona. The heartfelt stories, her insights and perspectives on all kinds of issues are incredibly refreshing. A couple of posts really hit home, and for the first time in years Donna discovers that tears can still come out of her eyes. At first there is a little trickle, and then a genuine sobbing. This helps her to feel better, to feel alive, and now she is ready for a deep sleep. As the one last tear drop slides down to the pillow, Donna smiles at its flow, at its path, and she begins a most welcome . . . deep . . . sleep. Chapter 6

Seeing Double . . . Again

Ben always looks forward to the events of 317 Browning Road, and for whatever reason, the Sunday ones seem the most enjoyable. He never knows when he will get the call for one of these events, though it usually comes two or three days in advance. It’s a privilege to be part of it all. This time the call came on shorter notice, early Saturday morning around nine, while he and Sunni shared a pancake breakfast. He liked serving her for a change. He tried to tease her about her coffee, how she slurps it when it’s really hot. She smiled but Sunni was not as playful as the night before. She apologized for her sullen mood. She never mentioned whether it was the wine, the discomfort of waking up in a lover’s bed, or perhaps the confusion about whether they are lovers yet, or ever will be. As they eat, Ben ponders over these possibilities. By the time the phone rang, he thought perhaps it might be all of the above. He left the kitchen when he got the call. It now seemed second nature to him, this keeping of the secret of 317 Browning Road. He has earned a trust and the last thing he wanted was to lose his ‘privilege’. It feels like a club, but there are no cards though, or secret handshakes, or another like that. The phone call is brief. He knows the routine – a simple confirmation of the time of the next semi-private engagement – and a reminder to bring his most current works in progress. Sunni’s annoyance at the call catches him by surprise. She could tell it was a private one. She knows he doesn’t have a girlfriend, yet by his obvious discomfort with her presence, she is sure that he has something to hide. Before he hangs up the phone, Sunni has collected her dry clothes and left for the bedroom to get changed. Ben finishes the call as he’s walking down the hall, and by time he reaches the bedroom Sunni’s already dressed in her work clothes, doing up the last few buttons on her blouse. “Let me do those for you,” he says in a tender voice. “Thanks,” she replies softly. “That’s okay. I’ve got it. I’ve got to go now.” She looks out the window. Without a word to her, Ben dials the phone and makes arrangements for a driver. “A driver will be here in about ten minutes – what’s wrong Sunni? You’ve seemed kind of distant all morning . . . did I do something wrong?” “No Ben . . . nothing at all, it’s just me. I had a wonderful time last night and you’re such a charming host . . . a real friend?” He looks at her, surprised by the question, “A friend . . . for sure . . . was there ever any doubt of that?” Now he thinks that maybe she wanted more of him last night. “I’m glad you slept on the couch. I think that was the right thing to do.” She pauses there, and for the first time this morning, her face lights up with a genuine smile. “By the way, so was the way you tucked me in last night.” Relieved at both the smile and the sentiment, Ben says warmly, “C’mon. He’ll be here soon and I want you to take some of those leftovers.” He makes sure she checks for all her things, packs up the leftover sweet & sour ribs. He helps her with her coat, and gently brushes her long soft hair, helping it hang back over her collar. Then he opens the door and guides her outside, where they wait on the veranda for the driver. She meant to take the ribs, but left the bag on the counter, on top of his business card. “Ben, there’s something I think I should tell you, but I just don’t how to say it.” As she pauses, gathering her thoughts, she is saved by the sound of the double honk of Ben’s driver. “Never mind, it’s no big deal.” She reaches up and gives him a warm kiss on the cheek. She scoots off the veranda and sprints through the light rain, waving after she settles in the back seat. Ben waves back, wishing the kiss had somehow lingered longer, now knowing there is definitely something more on her mind . . . the kiss, or perhaps the shortness of it, reminds him of her foot rubbing between his legs, as that too didn’t seem to last as long as he had hoped. Now he wonders if she’s not that impressed in that department – but of course what can she say, or he for that matter. Hopefully he is mistaken – maybe she just isn’t ready. Rather than dwell on the matter, as soon as he gets back inside he thumbs through the sketches tucked between the record albums, pulling out the most recent ones. These ones go with the watercolour that is only a couple of hours away from completion. Smiling now, he takes his works into the pantry, moves some storage boxes, pulls back a full length curtain and enters a somewhat private room. It was once a storage room but he converted into a small sunroom that doubles as his painting studio. He gets all his materials ready for the day’s project, then returns to the kitchen and makes a fresh pot of coffee. He goes to the living room and puts on a random selection of music. Years ago, he wired his music system to pipe into the sunroom – his whimsical, musical, artistical oasis. As always, his estimate of “a few hours to completion” turns out to be many more. Around 11:30 on Saturday night the work is complete; he could do no more because he should do no more. He only stopped once, around 7:00 pm. and only for about 45 minutes, for a bite to eat and a short walk in the warmth of the evening sun. This room is where he finds peace – kind of like his regular painting job but better – with more thinking required, yet at the same time there is a need for “less thinking”. Now that he’s finished, he congratulates himself. He knows that tomorrow evening there will be a full approval at 317 Browning Road, and its owner, a Mr. Charles Lartimer, will once more be impressed. The next day goes by swiftly, for a do-nothing Sunday. It's after 7:00 in the evening now, and in a few minutes he will be picked up as usual. As he waits, basking in the evening sun, Ben reflects on what Mr. Lartimer asked him awhile ago now. It concerned religion, and it seemed to come up because they often get together on Sundays. When asked about his religious views, Ben made no bones about his distaste for it all, though he made it very clear that will never be an atheist. He told Mr. Lartimer that religion depresses him, so he looks for something more positive . . . he tries desperately to find a little humour in it all. He takes refuge in voting with the majority, proclaiming that he sides with the other nine million species on the planet, the ones that seem to get along just fine without religion . . . the other ones selected by nature. Ben told Charles how he views nature as a continuous and fluid process – the truest art – with all kinds of aspects of love and other mystery, and he continually searches for more. Why, or more of what, he does not know. His involvement in art, in the process and not the product, is how he attempts to escape from the grotesque, the ugly and insane side of human history – so much of it having nothing to do with Love. That absence of love is by far what disturbs him the most. He concluded his sermon to Charles by remarking that this truth he holds as self- evident: in all the teachings of religion, when it comes to love, the teachings seem to come up as far less than sufficient . . . yet they say God is Love . . . and his problems are not with God. Mr. Lartimer seemed to be sympathetic to Ben's concerns, or perhaps it was just the art? Undoubtedly, their shared passion for painting offers an escape from such serious concerns, though it is seldom an easy one. At its best, engaging in the process provides a wonderful retreat, one where Ben can lose himself for several hours at a time. It always works out that way, during the art that happens at 317 Browning Road. He can’t wait to escape now – there is sure to be plenty of very fine art done there tonight – and definitely no religion. The driver is on time, as always, so they will arrive on schedule at 7:45 this evening. Ben approaches the rear door of the car, just as it pulls up to the curb. As he gets in, he's surprised to see a female driver. Somehow she seems familiar but it is hard to see from the back, partly because she has her hair done up, hidden under a driver’s hat. She also wears dark glasses. The clothes she’s wearing are like a chauffeur’s costume, though he’s sure that she is definitely not a chauffeur. She pulls away gracefully, glances in the rear-view mirror and smiles, noticing Ben’s puzzled look – he is thinking now, thinking – Then she says, “You don’t remember me do you?” “No,” he says. “But somehow you seem familiar.” “You will,” she says calmly. The driver turns up the volume on some classical music, perhaps with the intent to pacify his awkwardness, and his curiosity. At the same time she seems to want to prolong her mystery, though for her there is no choice in the matter – those are the rules – maintain anonymity. Tonight though, she's in the mood for a little bending . . . for her it’s all just fun. The silence remains for the duration of the fifteen minute drive. Neither minds the lack of conversation, especially since the drive is along one of the most scenic routes in the city, along the coast on one side, and with magnificent and varied trees, gardens, and distant mansions and large houses on the other. One turn to the left, then down a hundred meters or so, one more turn to the left, and there it is, the home of Mr. Charles Lartimer. No larger than the other homes in the area, it’s massive Tudor architecture blends right in – the large willow trees, growing in front of the arched driveway, make it impossible to see any parked cars from the street. This privacy is enhanced by the gradual incline and the distance from the street. Apparently this is important to the host, because while it is his home, it is also a place where clandestine art transactions take place, though not very often. Officially it is not a gallery, as such kinds of commercial activity are strictly forbidden in this prestigious neighbourhood. They both get out of the car. Ben heads toward the front door, sees that it is half open, and standing there is Charles Lartimer, waiting to greet him. The driver has disappeared, so Ben assumes she must have gone to the garage – she couldn’t have slipped around the distant corner of the house that quickly. “Good to see you, Benny my boy!” Charles says boisterously. “What a glorious evening it is,” he proclaims, looking up to toward the sun, with his arms spread out. “It certainly is – and good to see you too, sir.” Ben says with a smile. Charles puts one arm around his shoulder and guides him into the house, “When are you ever going to start calling me Chad instead of sir?” Ben laughs, “Probably about the same time you start calling me ‘Sir’ instead of Benny!” “Well there you have it, Sirrr,” and with that Charles gives Ben a faint bow as they enter the house, now standing just inside the main entrance. Ben follows the usual protocol, following Charles right to the main studio, a large and almost square room with 12 foot high walls, perhaps even higher. The room’s area is large enough to accommodate a small stage of sorts. To get to the studio they had to pass through an equally large dining room – a rectangular one – then past a hallway with a set of stairs leading up to a lounge area and a few of the bedrooms. Ben had never been up to that part of the house. He speculates that there must be all kinds of art somewhere up there, the likes of which he has never seen, and he assumes he never would. As usual, the coffee, juice, fruit and snacks are in position. And then there are the flowers – always the same three types – a violet tulip, an apricot tulip, and one Rembrandt tulip. They continue talking while Ben carries his materials to his work area, arranging everything for his part in the evening ahead. Meanwhile, it is Charles who carries the conversation. “Ben, I’ll bet you don’t even remember, do you?” “Remember what?” “I knew it! Today – it’s your big day, your one-year anniversary, right to the day. That’s why I made some special arrangements for tonight. Oops, damn, for an old guy full of secrets, I’m not very good at hiding surprises!” He grunts, then fondly adds, “Do remember the time when we first met, how we met . . . that wasn’t so pleasant was it?” Ben looks at him and grins, “No, it sure wasn’t – you were such a pompous ass!” “Of course I was, still am, it’s the role I was born to play.” “Ha – there you go again. With all this money, all this stuff you have, you could do anything in the world you wanted, including changing those roles.” “Now don’t you go getting all serious on me, not tonight. Besides, we’ve been through all that before and I think we agree, it just doesn’t make much sense.” He pauses, becoming almost whimsical. “Except the art – it’s all in the art, isn’t it Benny Boy?” Charles is saying this while opening Ben’s portfolio case, once more catching his breath in silent amazement at yet another of his student’s creations. Always nervous in this kind of silence, Ben chips in, “You’ve taught me well Sir – I mean Chad.” Touched, Charles replies, “Oh my boy I’ve taught you nothing . . . I’m no fool . . . I had the tremendous privilege of going to one of the finest art schools in the world and I loved it, just loved it – wouldn’t change a moment of it. But I couldn’t do it. I just didn’t have it. I’ve known that along, but I figured I could teach, and then maybe – ” He stops, looking for the right words, “And then you came along, and I can see that with all I’ve learned, and how I feel about it all . . . well, you’ve just gone ahead and made that all your own, just like that . . . and then some.” He points to Ben’s latest watercolour. “Ben, you’re a flower . . . I just gave you a little water . . . and that’s all there is to it.” Ben had never heard him speak this way before, and the sincerity of his flattery touches him. Charles leaves the room, as he always does shortly before the new art begins. As he continues to set up, Ben thinks back to how they first met.

* * *

They met by coincidence at a downtown art show, and things had gotten off to a bad start. It was the opening night for a new gallery, and the event was designed to showcase the best of the emerging local talent. Charles seemed to own his own space, wherever he stood. He was standing above the crowd, looking at a seascape, a watercolour by the island’s current hottest talent in the medium. The picture had the image of an almost naked mother holding the hand of her fully-clothed toddler, and with the other hand she is tossing away her sun hat. Ben noticed this man’s admiration of the picture, and his curiosity. He found the man’s interest in the work to be more interesting than the actual painting. Ben had already seen this painting, but he just didn’t get it. Impulsively, and out of frustration, he interrupted Mr. Lartimer’s concentration by exclaiming, “I can do better than that!” Charles looked at him, sizing him up from head to toe, and just sighed and ignored him, thinking, “Oh brother, another fucking amateur art hero – arrogant little punk.” Ben could pretty much read the man's mind. Insulted by being shunned this way, he took a closer look at Charles. He saw a tall man, all dressed up in what must be a very expensive suit, like a Swiss banker, obviously well educated or else one hell of an actor, and all he could think was, “Aw shit, another snotty art collector, probably a British aristocrat – they’re all so full of crap.” Ben was carrying a small stack of paper in his hands. At that time he never bothered to carry a portfolio case for his sketches. He had just dropped in to the gallery after a walk in a nearby park, stopping here and there to sketch whatever catches his fancy. Now, in a bit of a cantankerous mood, he wants to irritate this old guy, at least a little, so from behind he taps Charles on the shoulder with his handful of drawings, “How long you gonna stand there? Think you’re gonna move soon – so an artist can have a closer look?” Stunned by the gesture and annoyed by the words, Charles flings his long right arm back, reflexively, catching Ben off guard. As Ben’s stumbles back, he bumps into a waitress who is carrying a tray that is loaded with glasses of red and white wine. The whole tray falls to the floor – splashed wine and broken glass is now all around them. The waitress looks like she’s about to cry, even though Ben is apologizing profusely, taking full responsibility. Charles has completely turned around by now, sees what has happened, but just stands there, not sure what to do, or perhaps not caring . . . so thought Ben. Impulsively Ben swoops the handkerchief out of the older man’s suit jacket and hands it to the waitress, who is now crying. She wipes her tears away and then blows her nose. At the same time it sounds like she’s trying to tell the two men that she’s going to get fired now, that she has already been warned about “one more accident”. Charles still appears lost for words, and action. In the meantime Ben is already kneeling on the floor, trying to scoop up as much glass as possible, using all but two of his sketches. The other two are soaking up some of the wine. Charles looks down at this desperate spectacle, looking at the heap of glass on the papers, and then his jaw drops when his eyes fixate on this incredible portrait of a child, the image he sees on the two papers, the child soaking up this wine – some white, mostly red. Ignoring both Ben and the waitress, he grabs the pair of sketches and does his best to salvage the pictures – now he sees that it’s an emergency. By this time the catering manager has arrived on the scene, as well as a burly gallery official. The catering manager is trying to quietly guide the waitress away, wanting to avoid any further disturbance of the event. With the two salvaged pictures in hand, Charles follows them. The gallery official is in the process of trying to throw Ben out of the gallery, not caring to hear any apology or account of what just happened. Ben didn’t mind being thrown out; there wasn’t that much to see. His only concern is for the waitress – he couldn’t care less about anything else right now. On his way out, he catches up to the caterer and the waitress. As Ben is passing them, he hears Charles tell the caterer, “If you fire this wonderful young lady, I’ll make sure you’re next gig will be smokies and sauerkraut out by the pier!” Pleasantly surprised, Ben turns his head, and with a smile and a nod he gives Charles Lartimer a kind of “thank you”. Then he continues his exiled way out the front door, shaking off the guard’s nudges. As he starts walking down the street he hears Charles Lartimer calling him from just outside the gallery, “Where the hell do you think you’re going? Come here you . . . we need to talk . . . besides, I’ve got two of your sketches here.” Ben just scoffs at him, “Those aren’t sketches – they’re just doodles!” After that they made their introductions and began talking. Since then they’ve become the best of friends in their own way. However, at times there is a distance, partly because of the huge differences in their upbringing and life experiences, and the rest because of something else, perhaps things kept secret. The only real secret that Ben has kept from Charles is the one about his ongoing therapy sessions with Donna Belauche. Coincidentally, it was by Donna’s suggestion that Ben visited this art exhibition in the first place. Over the first few months of his sessions, occasionally the subject of art came up in a discussion. Given her fondness for art, the subject became his favourite topic by far. He never showed her any of his work, but it was obvious to her that he had the passion for it. She suggested that he visit this new gallery, as a way for him to get a better frame of reference for his own creations. She knew nothing of his talent – she mostly wanted to put him in an environment to meet others, particularly women, who shared his passion. Even though Donna had much to do with the circumstances, Ben never thanked her for that suggestion, nor did he ever mention Charles to her. At Mr. Lartimer’s insistence, Ben soon became his student, giving him free private lessons at 317 Browning Road, about once a week. It was all very informal, and always just the two of them. They became friends, the mentor and the student, but right from the start Ben had to swear to keep the arrangement a secret . . . completely. The lessons progressed wonderfully and quickly, especially over the first three months. Then they began the project. That was a year ago today. That is when everything went to a much higher level. It was the day that Ben immersed his creativity in to what Charles proclaims to be “a whole new art form”. It began with the two of them reviewing and studying all kinds of art on the internet, mostly photography that had all kinds of Photoshop effects applied to it. Charles tried to explain his overall discomfort with these applications. He told Ben that he was really taken with much of it, that there is plenty of creativity in it all, and sometimes real passion . . . yet something seemed to be missing. One thing they agreed on was that after awhile the photographs start to look quite alike and a kind of inoculation effect takes place, the “wow factor” fades faster and finding a piece that really “grabs you” seemed harder and harder to find. One day Charles had this brilliant idea that he wanted to try, but he needed Ben’s talents to pursue it . . . the project. Tonight's art is part of that project, though for Ben it is more like a unique art event – each one is a very different experience – and yet, in a way, they all feel the same. It also meant a lot to Ben when from the first session Charles started giving him $250 in cash. This came at a very welcome time – back then Ben was seriously thinking of leaving Donna’s therapy sessions. This was simply because they were turning out to be more than he could afford, making them feel like a luxury more than a need. However, in terms of spending time with Ms. Belauche, it seemed he needed that about as much as he needed his art, so he continued, and scrimped where he could. The real bonus though, was this whole ‘driver’ business. Charles had it all figured out for Ben, how to save a ton of money by letting Ben’s helper have the work truck, and then the helper could pick Ben up for all his house painting activities. After that, for all his other activities, Ben had what amounted to free taxi service through what Charles only referred to as “a drivers’ club”. The cars were always nice, nothing ostentatious, and by Ben’s estimate, there must be about five of them in all. Charles once tried to explain something about some tax benefits. This was after Ben asked how it all worked. Ben didn’t really understand and Charles simply laughed and said, “Don’t worry . . . and please . . . don’t ask!” He always told Ben to just focus on the painting – Ben just seemed like a natural for this new art form. The studio was designed much like a television studio, with a small stage in front of a blank screen. That screen is used for background imagery that they find online, part of the photography selection process, though sometimes it included video instead of still images. Once a month or so, the two of them pick out a few main images from various web sites. They make their selections separately and then compare notes. From there Charles took care of all the technicalities, such as preparing the backgrounds of these pictures, and having them loaded into a projector, and so on. Apparently he has some remote assistance when the live event is taking place. Ben has a computer monitor beside his easel. This allows him to see this background imagery more clearly, as well as the foreground in a different way than with his naked eye. With the touch screen he can zoom in or out as he sees fit. On the stage, in the foreground, there is always a lady, a nude model, many different models but always only one per session, and each time she is partially masked with body paint or the odd accessory, and often both. Charles Lartimer took meticulous care of the model selection, based partly on the kind of pose required to suit the final image selection. They make sure that each image is very different from the others, solidifying the uniqueness of each event. Under Lartimer’s direction, the model must take on what is often a very unusual position. Though the model has seen a sketch of the selected photograph ahead of time, there is still a major need for direction, though never hands-on direction. Basically the role of the artist, Ben’s role, is to take the artificial imagery and make it appear more lifelike. It is far from a copycat process . . . Ben has the freedom to interpret it all in his own way, and any resemblance to the original photograph is negligible. He does not have the freedom to talk to the models or come anywhere near them. There is a line of tape about ten feet in front of the stage and he is not to cross that line under any circumstances. He can use the computer monitor for any required view that he can’t get from his ten-foot boundary. Charles was awestruck with the results of the first event, and each one since, and it all started one year ago tonight. While the resulting art is better from some sessions than others, overall they are both extremely pleased that together their new style steadily improves, often dramatically! Sometimes Ben wishes that he could speak to the models, and he often wonders why only Charles has this privilege. But Charles revels in this role of director. He embraced it as his part in Ben’s creations, so Ben doesn’t push the issue of “permission to speak freely”. The models seemed to vary in terms of their professional training, though it is hard to tell, given the arduous and physically impossible positions in some of the photography. So there is plenty of improvising, discussions between Charles and the models, and lots of coaching. There are few arguments and when there are any, they are short-lived and minor. Even though the models have very little input, Charles has a nice way of making it fun for them. Sometimes it appears the ladies create a disagreement just to get Charles riled up. Nonetheless and without exception, after two hours the models are always tired, but also smiling. Ben thinks this is because Mr. Lartimer has this way of making them feel very important – and they are – and he did. They are told how their contribution is an integral part of some very important art, and they loved Charles for that. Without their enthusiasm, Ben is certain his art could not be done. Charles agreed. When the two hours are over, Charles always takes one of the trolleys. It is the cart that has only one thing on it – the silver platter with the three tulips – and he rolls it out the side door. This is the same entrance from which the model enters the studio. The models always follow him. He told Ben that he pays them too, and gives them their $200 once they leave the studio. Charles always returns to the studio a few minutes later. Then he and Ben clean up the room a bit and Charles helps Ben pack up his things. Within twenty minutes Ben is on his way home. He never sees any of the ladies leave. Apparently Charles makes arrangements each time for the ladies to receive a nice massage when all is said and done. Part of the massage treatment involves removing the body paint first. This whole process takes about 45 minutes, and Ben is long gone by that time. After the 45-minute treatment they are taken home, but only after returning to the studio to perform a rather quaint custom. The studio is almost completely dark by the time the massage is done. However, there is a single spotlight on the stage, in the corner closest to the model’s entrance. It shines upon a small table. Before leaving, the model sets down one of the three tulips that was previously on the trolley. She puts it on a silver platter that sits on this little table, under the spotlight. Then she leaves for a final time and soon she is taken home. Ben has no idea about this quaint tulip custom, nor the full nature of the massage.

* * *

Everything is now ready to begin this one-year anniversary event, except they seem to be running a little later . . . it's all of 8:20 pm. when the door on the right opens, and tonight’s model makes her way to the stage. Ben is a little disappointed, thinking that perhaps there would have been cake or something before the event. The disappointment quickly fades when he recognizes a more pleasant surprise. As she ascends the stage she takes off her hat, the one she wore in the car, and her light brown mane flows down over her shoulders and now he remembers – this is the same young lady that helped him start this new art form exactly one year ago tonight. She is the project's first model, though Ben is very aware that he sees her completely different now . . . yet he also sees that she hasn’t changed a bit. Chapter 7

Tossing One’s Truffle’s Away

He should have called by now. In a way, she’s glad he hasn’t. Still, he should have called by now. It’s part of the game. She’s read about this countless times, seen it on television, and always she finds it amusing. This time it is different though. This is real. It’s not like Ben took her out on a date or anything. Yet in so many ways it was the nicest “first date” she’s ever experienced. Therefore he should have called by now, but he hasn’t, and now the question becomes, “Will he?” Sunni finds herself trapped in this mindset while thinking about five or six blogs that she has read this morning. The topic appears to be inevitable on any dating-related blog. The blogs are usually funny − today not so much, mostly because of this gnawing ambiguity. Has she been seduced, or was she seducing him, or both? Was he just toying with her, or her with him, or both? Maybe he does think of her more as a girl than as a woman? Or is he just being coy and playing it cool, like many of his kind often do − the kind called men! Her dad once told her that in his time, if a guy really liked a girl he called the next day and that was just how it worked. From there, relationships started and if they didn’t start then, with that next-day call, well, most likely never would. She smiles at the memory of her father’s simplicity, wondering why the textbooks never make anything seem that easy. Today, it seems, neither do the dating blogs of the world. So he didn’t call on Saturday . . . that’s okay. He’s probably read his own selection of blogs, reading advice similar to the advice that she found. She wonders whether he’s read any from the lady’s point of view. Today these viewpoints seem to lean towards a certain neediness – or weakness – on the part of the male. Today’s woman needs to be wary of the over-aggressive male, as well as the weak one. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. Too much affection and too soon, this is considered a weakness. It’s like a silly mating ritual – the aggressor needs to interpret the underlying weakness of the prey – the motives of both seem to be the most important part of the game. Who is the hunter and who is the hunted is often blurred – which one is the aggressor and which is the prey – or is everyone now just hunting? These games of the mating, her musings about dating, they continuously play in her head all morning. It started with a love song on the radio as soon as she woke up, some two hours ago. Now, well into the noon hour, it is time to switch gears, focus on something else, so she does the morning dishes while Andrea, her roommate, goes for a shower after her morning run. Maybe if she stops thinking about that damn phone, maybe then it will ring. On that thought, just as she’s rinsing the last of the cutlery, the phone rings. She thinks, “Well there you go! . . . Okay Ben, what’s the deal?” and then she finally answers the phone on the third ring. “Hello?” She says with anticipation. “Hello. I’d like to talk to Sunaria Ellice please.” She pauses, and before she can ask who’s calling, the man on the other end continues, “This is Barry Anderson calling from the accounting firm of Bentley, Schroeder and Dupont. I’m calling in regards to Helen’s Heavenly Bakery. Are you Sunaria Ellice?” “Yes I am. What’s up? Why are you calling me?” “I’m calling to inform you that the bakery is no longer open for business. There is no need for you to go to work tomorrow.” “Is this some kind of joke? Shouldn’t my boss be calling me?” “Technically Mr. Sanderson is no longer your boss, that’s why I’m calling. I’m sorry to have to give the news this way, but that’s just the way it is. There will be a package delivered tomorrow before noon. It includes a cheque for whatever is owing to you: you’re remaining pay, vacation pay and, well, and it appears that’s it.” “Thanks . . . thanks a bunch.” “I’m sorry. I’m just doing my job. If you any have other questions there’s a number in the package you can call. Other than that there’s nothing I can say except good luck to you.” “Thanks. Goodbye.” As she hangs up the phone, Andrea walks into the room and immediately sees her friend in a mild state of shock. “Uh oh, was that him on the phone? Boy, it looks like he really did a number on you . . . men, huh?” Normally Sunni would find something funny in Andrea’s response but not now, “No. It wasn’t him. I just got a call that the bakery’s been closed for good. Damn . . . I liked that place. I know it’s only three days a week but it’s such a nice place, at least it was . . . damn.” “Ahhh, I’m sorry Sunni.” Andrea moves beside her to wrap a consoling arm around her shoulder. “But you know maybe it’s for the best. I mean I’ve been trying to talk you in to coming back to Maison des Papillions for a long time now. You’ll never get ahead like this, not with those minimum wage jobs.” This isn’t exactly what Sunni wants to hear. She knows Andrea is right, she's been right about so many things all along. She’s one of the senior waitresses at Maison des Papillions, one of the most prestigious restaurants in the city, extremely expensive, but in Sunni’s view also extremely pretentious. Not Andrea though, as she’s just doing her job, and does it so very well, partly because she’s been doing it for a few years now and partly because she genuinely loves it. It seems it is kind of like a fairy tale for her, rubbing elbows with the richer people and the renown, and occasionally the somewhat famous. Andrea offers to make them some tea and Sunni nods in agreement. As she waits in the living room, she thinks of how lucky she is to have such a friend. Sunni reminisces about their college days together, not about how they met, more about the time when Andrea made her big decision.

* * *

It was half through their second year and Andrea was struggling. Working two nights a week at the steakhouse wasn’t getting in the way of her studies – time management wasn’t the issue. She studied harder than anyone Sunni knew, had great skills that way, very focused. Yet when it came time for exams and papers it was all B’s & C’s and Sunni just couldn’t figure that out. And what’s so wrong with a C average? Converting that to a grade point average didn’t make any more sense. She thought a lot about the whole marking system. After all, if only the top 10% get decent careers out of all this time, effort, and money, then isn’t it a bit of rip-off for the other 90%? It all seems a little misleading. Is everyone supposed to believe that their lives will be so much richer for their learning experience, regardless of how their careers turn out? That’s certainly not what the brochures talk about, certainly not what the TV ads are selling, and definitely not the way Hollywood portrays it, at least for the most part. Back then, her and Andrea began talking about their education investment in this context, starting about two weeks before the Christmas break, and then more intensely early in the new year. After those January exams, this time Andrea gets a C- average for the term. The two of them went for drinks one night and Andrea burst into tears. She’d had enough, she couldn’t take it anymore, feeling like such a failure and so stupid. Of course Sunaria knew this all to be false and consoled her the best she could. It seemed to help, as Andrea confessed how much she liked being a waitress, and how one particular customer at the steakhouse, a man named Pierre Allarde, had noticed her in the lounge. He complimented her on her friendly disposition, her jovial and tasteful way with the customers, and he approached her about coming to work for him at Maison des Papillions. He referred to it as ‘Papillion’, the more popular name among the upper class patrons, Victoria’s elite and the others . . . those with lucrative expense accounts. Pierre Allarde was at the steakhouse for some holiday function, and before he left he made Andrea promise to call him for an interview. This took some convincing, but he didn’t seem to mind. Andrea had about 3-5 job offers a week, three if she mostly wore slacks that week and five when she mostly wore skirts, so she’s learned to be cautious and at the same time diplomatic, and she often asked herself, ‘What recession?’ She still hadn’t called Mr. Allarde at the time she decided to leave her college ordeal behind. She waited for three days before calling him. The call, and then the interview, went extremely well. She thought of him as the kindest man she had ever met. She still does now, almost two and a half years later. He made her feel good about herself like a loving father does, but without the bias that goes with fatherhood, the ‘daddy’s little girl’ bias. One time Pierre even made reference to this, coming to the defence of the fathers, trying to convince Andrea that at least some times the daddy is right, whether he’s biased or not. Mr. Allarde didn’t tell her when to start, but rather asked her when she would be ready. He also asked what her parents thought of her college decision, which really surprised her. After all, at twenty-one she was hardly a child, and when she told this to Mr. Allarde she thought she said something wrong, as he laughed at first, and then apologized for laughing. He reassured her that ten years from now she will still be telling her parents the same thing, and again ten years after that. At this she laughed as well, and assured him that her parents fully understand, telling him that she already had the discussion. They had it over the last holiday break and they completely agreed with her, though they are also very worried. “You are lucky then,” is all he said. Andrea told him she would like to start as soon as possible and he told her to come to Papillon in two days, two hours before opening for some training, and this would go on for a week or so. She assumed she would start at minimum wage but he told her that the starting wage is $2 an hour more than that, and he handed her a brochure outlining the employee benefits: dental, vacation, and something called an accessory allowance. The biggest surprise of all was a monthly one-hour massage! It all seemed too good to be true, but there was one question burning in her mind, so she just blurted it out, “Why would anyone leave here? How did the opening come up so suddenly? And you must have a ton of girls waiting to get on here?” “Now that’s what I like about my girls, they’re all so inquisitive, so smart,” he tells her, then with a mischievous grin he adds, “But you’re not a girl now are you?” After a shared laugh he explains what mostly happens when the girls take flight, as he terms it. Often the waitresses work at Papillon for few years, meet someone and get married, or just run off with someone. For some reason they never stay around when that happens. After all, it is hard work. Sometimes, like in the present situation, they actually fall suddenly and madly in love, and sometimes, as in this case, it happens with a tourist. This is why he now has an opening. But he warns her that his restaurant is not a factory for fairy tales, that it does not always end happily, and not to get any ideas that way. He also reassures her that she will do just fine, and that she will learn more about this in her training, and as time goes on.

* * *

Sunaria can see how well her roommate is trained. She watches Andrea float across the room, carrying a tray loaded more with chocolate truffles than with tea and cups and saucers. “What took you so long? Did you scoot off to China to get that tea? This isn’t Papillon − here I expect to be served right away.” “Ha. You should be thankful I do anything for you, such a polissone!” “A what?” “Polissone. It means you’re such a little monkey.” “Thanks a lot – I suppose Pierre taught you that – you’re his favourite aren’t you?” “You think so? Actually I do think so, in a way, but then so do the other seven waitresses. He just makes us all feel that way. I still don’t know why you gave up so easily, and so quickly. I know you have this problem with all these rich people, but it’s not so bad you know − they’re not all barbarians.” Sunni becomes silent, pours herself some tea, and to Andrea she appears to have the weight of the world on her shoulders, so she feels bad for making the comment. Before she can apologize, Sunni calmly looks at Andrea, straight in the eyes, sits back with her cup in hand and says softly, “It’s not just the money you know. Yeah, in my four shifts at Papillon I got to see a lot. Everyone’s polite, and nice, and I get that . . . I understand. But I’ve had a taste of the other end, of the streets, and that changes you. I can’t help that, can’t forget it. But believe me, I try not to judge. It’s not always easy though.” “I know Sunaria. It’s okay. But you and I both know there’s not much any of us can do. And you know these rich people, they do so much for so many charities.” “I don’t want to get in to this Andrea, I really don’t. It’s not like I hate the place or the people or anything. I just don’t know. There’s just something wrong about it all, and I don’t even mean the restaurant, I mean the bigger picture.” “Maybe you should talk to Pierre again. He’s a very wise man, you know. Much smarter than those eggheads you admire so much.” “That’s not fair Andrea. Besides, you know that’s not how I see them now, those eggheads − they’re mostly just regular people. Outside of their classrooms they have their problems just like anyone else. They’re all just hangin’ on. You were right you know, a lot of it is a bit of a scam, but then there are plenty of people who deeply, dearly want to help, and they do work so hard and tirelessly and ask for so little in return.” She pauses to reflect on something, “I’m not sure most of the patrons of Papillion have much of a clue what really goes on out there, aside from TV and Hollywood − and those charity cheques just don’t seem to be making much of a dent. That bothers me . . . a lot.” “I know Sunni. You know sometimes I wish I had a heart as big as yours, but mostly I’m glad I don’t, especially when you have that brain to go with it.” There’s a warm pause now as Andrea refills her cup and adds, “You know some day I think people will be reading about you, because some day I think you’re going to write something really special. I know it won’t change the world the way you want to, but still, well . . . you’re already my hero. I just want you to know that.” Sunni feels a single tear fall down her cheek, and as hard as she tries, she just can’t pull it back inside her lower eyelid. She just can’t stay strong all the time. Andrea doesn’t know what to do, so she passes her a tissue and whispers “It’s okay.” “No it’s not − but that’s okay!” Together they laugh a tender laugh. There’s a silence as each is deep in thought, not speaking. Sunaria is looking out towards the window, admiring the sun shining through the glass. Andrea is mildly startled at what she sees, what she has seen before. She sees what appears to be the light of the sun admiring her dear friend Sunaria, like a timeless moment of love in the air. It happens with Sunaria now and then, and it only reminds Andrea of just how precious her friend truly is, and she dearly hopes this is one friendship that will never end. It’s Sunaria who speaks first, “I’ll talk to him. I’ll talk to Pierre . . . do you really think he’ll want to talk to me after I quit like that?” “Of course he will . . . I know he will . . . you really don’t know him very well do you? He really does care about us. I really don’t think he has much for family, certainly not around here, so he treats us very much like that. I know he treats me that way, and now that I think about it, he treats me better than most of my family.” “You make it sound like some sort of cult . . . I know it’s not though. Yeah, he’s been really nice but I guess I’m just not so trusting. I just figure he finds me attractive, like some kind of sex symbol . . . and don’t they all?” Andrea stands up, gives Sunni her best Marilyn Monroe imitation, one arm angled up, with its hand tousling her hair, while the other arm angles on her hip, and with legs slightly crossed, “Well now just look at me . . . shouldn’t they?” “You’re such a goof, Marilyn would be jealous! It’s crazy isn’t it? All this stuff about looks . . . don’t you think it’s kind of strange? I mean how everyone working there is so damn attractive?” “Yeah, I know, I suppose, but then there’s George behind the bar and Philippe in the kitchen.” “Ha, you know what I mean. Do you know what made me change my mind?” “You suddenly found a passion for $300 a night in tips?” “Ha-ha, nooo. It’s the writing . . . your confidence in me means a lot, you know. I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing, eventually. Even if I get to four shifts a week like you, I’ll still have lots of time to write.” “I hope so. But four shifts is a lot. It’s not even three years but I’m already beginning to notice it − it’s hard on this gorgeous body you know. You’ll see, you will need that physical break – and a mental one too.” “I know. I don’t know how you do it. And then on you’re time off you run off to the mountains! You make it look so easy, probably because there’s so little meat on those skinny bones of yours.” “I love the mountains! What . . . do you think I’m too skinny?” “Oh no, I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t think you’re ‘too’ anything . . . I like you just the way you are . . . I do worry though. I mean this is great, you and I in here together. But I know what’s going to happen. You’re going to meet your Prince Charming, whisk off to the Bahamas for a honeymoon, settle in Paris and that’ll be the end of it – it can happen that fast – you’ve already told me how that’s happened quite a few times since you started.” Andrea laughs, “Sunni you just worry too much! And I’m not sure whether I told you that in two of those cases ‘less is more’, if you know what I mean.” “Huh?” “Yeah, two of the princesses wound up with frogs. Angie was married for a year. She dropped in to see Pierre awhile ago and looked horrible – so sad. I only caught a glimpse of her, and Pierre was really upset for a few days, very edgy, hurt. He even told the maitre d’ not to ever let Angie’s husband, now an ex-husband, back in Papillon. Jerome (the maitre d’) said Pierre has never done that before. And then there’s Gloria. She married an oil man, actually he’s a farmer with a lot of oil on his land. From what I heard, anywhere he went turned out to be a place she didn’t want to be. I heard he really liked being out with the boys, hunting big game, big hockey fan, and liked taking care of a bunch of cattle, just like his daddy did. So she spent most of her time alone in a big empty country mansion of sorts. She really didn’t know what she was getting into − strange how that happens. So hopefully you can see I’m in no rush to rush into anything.” “I suppose. And I’m glad to hear you talk like that. Me neither . . . I’m surprised you haven’t asked more about my date the other night?” “I’ve barely seen you since you got home, and you didn’t tell! Besides, I noticed you hovering around that phone, so I was sure he hasn’t called yet. That’s a good sign.” “What do you mean?” “I mean you must have had a pretty good time if you’re wanting that call so much. It’s not like you to be so impulsive, and now compulsive. He must be quite the guy.” “Ha, fishing now are we? Okay, I’ll tell you a bit about him . . . but I have to pee first.” Andrea laughs at her friend’s pet peeve, “You’re such a charmer, you and your ‘I have to pee’. You know with anyone else it’d be gross, but you make it sound delightful. Some day you’ll be all the rage in the seniors’ home.” Sunni hears this teasing as she walks down the hall, “I hope not. And if I am, then I hope you’re there next to me . . . I’ll be watching you in there, making sure you tip properly!” Andrea smiles, takes the tea pot to the kitchen and prepares a fresh brew. She’s happier than she’s been in weeks, thinking how nice it will be to work with Sunni again, and it won’t just be nice for her. Sunni is one of those people that makes any place more cheerful. Pierre has a knack for hiring nice people, caring people, not necessarily saints, but simply wonderful people. Even cranky old head chef Philippe, a growling general in the kitchen, but also a man with the massive heart of a pussycat, even he’s a great person to be around. For Pierre, his master chef appears to be a thermostat of sorts. The way Philippe interacts with the serving staff seems to say a lot about this staff. The first time he met Sunaria, Pierre Allarde felt that she was more than just in a league of her own; it was more like she has an entire sport, all on her own. By his early reactions to Sunaria, Philippe confirmed this assessment. He normally feasts on new staff members for awhile, until he has these lambs tamed by his growling. With Sunaria though, he failed. As hard as he tried, he simply couldn’t growl at her; the most he could get out were some rather tame grunts. Then when Sunni left his kitchen, Philippe did his best to hide his smile under his huge moustache. Pierre found Philippe’s frustration most amusing, as did the other kitchen staff, which made it all the more amusing. Sunaria returns to the couch and enjoys melting yet another truffle in her mouth. It reminds her of the warmth of the day’s sun. In a minute Andrea brings in the fresh pot of tea. As she props herself in the armchair across from her roommate, Sunni tilts her arm back, holding a truffle in the hand of this tilted arm. Then she fakes a free throw of the chocolate towards her friend. “So you want to hear about Ben do you?” she laughs, faking a second throw. “I know he makes you laugh, that’s pretty obvious . . . you’ve mentioned him a few times, from the bakery, right? Isn’t he quite a bit older?” “Yeah, I suppose. Actually he’s already thirty-one, but that’s not exactly ancient . . . is it? Don’t answer that. Just as well I guess. But I did have a wonderful time. It’s funny how before the night began I really had no idea how it would turn out . . . I just knew he’d be a real gentleman, and he was.” She goes on to tell Andrea the highlights of the evening, leaving out the most intimate parts, well almost. Sunni tries to explain her mixed feelings about seeing more of him. She doesn’t want to pursue anything more than whatever kind of friendship they have now, and she really hopes he feels the same. That's her official story. However, Andrea senses a little confusion, ambivalence or perhaps both, and she offers her roommate a little advice. “Well whatever’s bothering you about this Ben guy, why don’t you just call him?” “You know, I thought of that and I would, but I don’t have his number.” “Um, Sunni . . . does he have yours?” There is a pause, and to the surprise of both, Sunni says, “You know what, damn − he doesn’t!” They both laugh hysterically, pop their heads back, and this time, without faking from either side, the truffles are tossed, and there is a point for each. Chapter 8

The Secret Exchange

Over the next few days everything is calm in sunny Victoria. The scattered clouds play with the wind and the light, and the seagulls go about their flights of fancy . . . and all seems peaceful for the likes of Ben and Donna. Mr. Lartimer enjoys tending to the perennials, even though they need none. He savours lunch and dinner on the patio at the back, on each of Monday and Tuesday. On both of these days, Andrea prepared for work in a hurry . . . these beautiful mornings wanted her to stay and run and walk with them, so twice she almost missed her ride to work at Maison des Papillons. On Monday, Sunni hung around home to receive her cheque. When she opened it and discovered how paltry it was, she felt so very grateful for Andrea’s kind offer to help. When Andrea got home Monday night, she woke Sunni from her napping on the couch, all excited to tell her that Pierre would be calling her the next day to arrange a meeting. His call came around 10:00 on Tuesday morning, an hour or so before the restaurant opens. He told her that he’s really glad she wants to come back but that he has some concerns. He wants to meet her, though he tells her he prefers to get together outside of the office, around 3:30 on Wednesday afternoon. Before he could suggest where, Sunni made a suggestion of her own, and gave him an address, the corner of Parkside and Evergreen. She confirmed an earlier meeting time, a 3:00 appointment for this Wednesday afternoon. He knew the area and asked nothing further, even though the location puzzled him . . . there are no coffee shops or decent restaurants in that immediate vicinity . . . but then again, he does like little surprises. Now standing on the corner of Parkside and Evergreen, Sunni waits for him. She’s ten minutes early. He shows up five minutes later. She watches him get out of his BMW half a block away. He checks for a parking meter but there is none, not in this neighbourhood. Pierre looks slightly uncomfortable here. He is not in the suburbs, nor is he in the commercial district. This is somewhere in between, where the less fortunate people live. There are a few stores around, a convenience store, a second hand shop and a small strip mall that appears to sell only discount items such as clothes and appliances, and one for electronics. All of the buildings are older, not in the finest upkeep, and the houses are smaller than what he’s used to, and the same goes for the many small three- storey apartment buildings. He looks toward the corner and sees Sunaria standing there, waving. Behind her is what appears to be the nicest part of the neighbourhood, the park behind her, which he can see includes a brand new water park for the little kids of the area, as well as for those who care for them. As he approaches her, the sounds of children laughing and playing is very refreshing. The sights and sounds cool him . . . kids everywhere, scampering among the various themed water sprinklers on this hot summer afternoon. She greets him with her charming smile and apologizes for the location, “Hello Mr. Allarde. Thanks for letting me pick the spot. I’m sure you’re wondering ‘why this place?’ . . . I didn’t have much choice. In an hour my little sister will be here – and promises are promises!” He returns the smile, “So that’s it! Ah yes, I understand, and please – call me Pierre.” “Okay, Pierre. Yeah, I promised her a long time ago that I’d bring her here on opening day − the new water park − like it? Her mom says she’s so excited that she barely slept last night. She’s bringing a friend too. Her friend’s mom is dropping them both off in about an hour.” They are now walking down a path, with Sunni talking some more about her little sister. She leads him to a quieter area where there are some comfortable picnic tables, surrounded on three sides by large maple trees. With the shade and the breeze it is the ideal outdoor comfort, and she can see that Pierre looks comfortable, even in his out-of- place business suit. “Would you like a drink? I have some iced tea or pop or juice, if you prefer.” She pulls a few cans from her backpack. “Thanks Sunni. That’s okay, I’m fine.” Her charm once again reminds him what he has come to love the most about his job, which is being around such wonderful young people. It has always been a privilege to personally select them, though he thinks of it more as discovering than selecting. He goes on, “I’m really glad you’re willing to give Papillon a second chance . . . you’re the first you know . . . I mean no one has ever quit on me like that, so soon and out of the blue. So needless to say, I’ve never given anyone a second chance like this before. I’ve had many ladies come back to me looking to get back on, after leaving for six months or a year or so. I’ve always told them “no”, and that’s after they’ve worked for me for years.” Then he pauses, “But I don’t turn them down to be mean or obstinate, and I make sure they understand that.” “I know. Andrea’s told me all about that. She really speaks so highly of you. If it wasn’t for that I don’t think I’d have thought about coming back, even though I could really use a break.” “You know I still don’t know exactly why you left. You really didn’t say much. All you did was leave a note. I was quite upset, not mad as much as perplexed. You seemed to be doing so well and I know that everyone liked having you around the place. Andrea even came to me and wanted to tell me something more, in your defence, but I’d have nothing of that. I don’t like communicating that way, not on something that’s important to me.” He pauses, then speaks with even more sincerity, “So I really want to know . . . what happened?” “Damn, I was worried you’d probably ask that question,” and then there is a silence as she looks away, and up to the few scattered clouds in the sky. Pierre says nothing, waiting patiently for her to say more. He looks at her fondly, with admiration and not with lust or any kind of staring. This is now second nature for him. For many years he has surrounded himself with more beauty than one man has a right to, perhaps, though for him it’s been about that inner beauty for a very long time now, so staring is never really staring anymore. He likes that she is genuinely pained by something, knowing now that her quick departure was far from a whim. He also likes her skill of knowing when to think before speaking. What he likes the most though, is that whatever the reason for her quitting, it’s very personal and now he’s sure that she made the right decision. Now he wants her back even more than before. “It’s okay Sunni. If you can’t tell me then perhaps we should leave that one for now.” She gently turns her gaze from the sky to his eyes and says, “I want to tell you, but it’s hard . . . Maybe I’ve got too much to say, I don’t know. It’s not just one thing but a few. None of it’s easy to talk about.” “Okay . . . can I tell you a story then? Would you like to hear how my restaurant came about − this fine dining experience?” he says in a way that is both lighthearted and self-deprecating. “I’d love to hear that!” she replies, with an open heart. “Okay. You know, I’m not a rich man, but neither am I poor. My parents were farmers in Quebec, only a few kilometres outside of Montreal, so they were not rich, but oh such a life they had. We grew vegetables. The farms there are small you know, not the like the massive wheat farms out here, in the west. We worked with our neighbours and took turns with different crops, though some came to eventually specialize. So some years we grew mostly carrots, some peas, and lots of onions. Other years it would be tomatoes and radishes and lettuce. But we were the lucky ones in one regard. You see, we had asparagus!” He pauses to look at her more closely and just as he expected she has this puzzled look. “You don’t know about asparagus?” “No, I don’t.” “Okay, well you see it’s very simple. Asparagus is one of only four perennial vegetables, so you don’t have to plant them every year, so there’s a lot less work to them and very good money in them too, at least compared to other crops. And do you know that roses love garlic?” Sunni laughs, “Now you’re just playing with me. You’re making all this up, aren’t you?” Pierre tosses his head as he laughs, reminded now of a doubting friend, but he turns more serious, “No, not at all. Actually there’s a book by that very name. There are other books such as Carrots Love Tomatoes, and they are all about companion planting. It’s all quite amazing, how certain plants help other plants, how they help each other. If you ever have the pleasure of seeing a garden that has flowers mixed in with vegetables, well it’s really quite different and very beautiful.” “So what does this have to do with your first class restaurant?” Once again he laughs, “Patience my dear. This is a story, not a take-out order! Okay, so my point is that we had what some would call a kind of idyllic life, and it was. After hundreds of years of the farm being passed from one generation to the next, there were no big costs. Again, not like here with so much expensive equipment, fertilizers, fuel, and the big mortgages − everything there was much simpler. But there wasn’t a ton of money left over for savings, nothing that could help the children start a business or open something like Papillion. After high school I had no interest in going to college, so I stayed on the farm. My brother was a pretty good hockey player, but not good enough for the NHL, so he played in the minors for many years, and he did okay. I became restless on the farm. Eventually it dawned on me how much I loved to cook, so together with my parents and brother, and largely with money he sent home from hockey earnings, they sent me to a French cooking school in Quebec City, and I was in heaven!” “Wow, what a wonderful story! So then he helped you set up this restaurant?” “No. He didn’t make that much money. However, one of my cousins did and he was a hockey player too, much better than my brother. He made it to the NHL and was really quite good, even there. Not an all-star but pretty close, so quite above average. One summer evening after too many cold beers we began talking about things, and he told me how much he loved it out here. He played for Vancouver for a few years and wound up buying a place on the island where he and his wife and the kids spent the summers. It was to be their home after he finished his hockey.” “He was used to eating in a lot of good restaurants and I guess he just really liked me, or perhaps though he liked my cooking more . . . it seems at the time, over twelve years ago now, there wasn’t any really good French restaurants around here, and well he just couldn’t have that . . . so here I am!” “Ohhh, so you really don’t own the restaurant then?” “Actually, I do now. It all worked out well, sort of, at least for me. Not so much for him.” “Why do you say that?” “Well, I was about half way done paying off his investment when he and his wife went through an unpleasant divorce. So it got pretty hairy for awhile, but I found a way to refinance. He needed the money. I needed to distance the business from their divorce. It all happened about two years after his playing days were over. That’s a big adjustment you know, for everybody.” He pauses there, and she responds, “I don’t think I want to know the details. I hate sad stories . . . there’s so many of them.” “I know. Me too, and I’ll spare you the details. The good news is that my brother met a wonderful lady in Kalamazoo. She fell in love with Quebec, even learned French, and they now have the farm. I was able to repay him long ago for all his help, and then even help their kids a bit too . . . so there’s your happy ending!” Sunni smiles a big smile, then asks with renewed curiosity, “So why are you telling me all this? I don’t see what it means to me . . . I mean about coming back to Papillon and all.” He just laughs, “Once again, patience, Sunaria. I’ve only just begun the story! . . . Should I go on?” “Silly me − I should have known − yes, please go on.” “What do you mean by that, ‘should have known?’” he asks with false disdain, “Do you mean you’ve heard the rumours about me being a big windbag?” Sunni blushes, “Well I heard that you can tell stories all night. They say it’s the French way, part of the charm.” “Oh, that’s what they say! Ha . . . you should be a diplomat! It’s true you know, about the French. I once played hockey with a guy who was pretty good, a defenseman. He wasn’t very tough though, but liked to drop his gloves all the same.” Pierre is really laughing now as he stands up and rolls up his jacket sleeves and puts up his dukes, dancing around like a hockey player ready to fight her. As he’s dancing he pretends to be angry, he talks very fast, in French, taunting her and cursing her, all in jest. He’s almost in tears by the time he’s done explaining how this team-mate would never exchange punches, how he’d just talk his way through a fight until the referees got tired of waiting. The worse thing that ever happened to ‘this fighter’ was perhaps a mutual headlock, at which Pierre concluded, “I don’t think the other guy was ever trying to hit him . . . he was really just trying to shut him up!” By now Sunni is laughing too, almost in tears. She regains her composure as he rolls down his sleeves and sits down again, now taking one of the cold cans, an iced tea. “You know Sunni, I must be getting old. Those good old days were sure something else. So many good times . . . Now, back to my story!” He pauses, saying to himself as much as to her, ‘now where were we’ and after a few seconds he begins again, “Ah yes − Papillon − butterflies. I love butterflies, don’t you?” “Oh yes, of course, who doesn’t?” “Yes, who doesn’t? Well sometimes I wonder about people that like to stick pins in them . . . I don’t understand that. Anyways, would you like to know how and why I came up with the name?” “Yes, but I think I already know – I’m sure I’ve heard it from Andrea. The story is that you were fascinated by their flight when you were growing up in Quebec.” “Well yes, but that is the short version. The longer one says so much more, but I’ve only told it to a handful of people, those I’ve known for a long time. This is because it’s very personal, so can you keep it to yourself?” “Keep a secret? I don’t know – I haven’t heard it yet!” Pierre is in one terrific mood now, laughing once again, “My dear, you are truly a butterfly yourself, with the honesty of a baby. Of course now I must tell you!” “Please do. And yes, I’ll keep it to myself.” she says, taking a quick glance at his watch. He checks the time, noticing that in less than half an hour they will have company. “Okay Sunni . . . the house of butterflies. It’s my home, you see. How can I tell you this? When I was a youngster I had my chores to do, and they varied depending on the time of year. This one summer day it was getting close to supper time and I had to prepare a bunch of vegetables for stew. I had to go to the kitchen sink to get some water and our kitchen window overlooked the yard between the house and the crops. There were little flower beds around the yard. While I was running the water I looked outside and there they were.” He pauses, and looks as if he’s lost in a dream, though she’s sure it’s a memory, and once again in her impatience she asks, “What did you see, papillons?” Her words breaks his trance, and he smiles as he looks at her and says, “Yes, that and more. My mother was out there on the right side of yard, tending to some flowers. She was bent over. She was wearing those favourite blue jean shorts of hers and a colourful blouse, an old one she wore mostly for chores. Then I saw my father on the left side, about fifty meters away. He was repairing some kind of tool or something. It was a hot day, so he paused to wipe off his sweat. As he stood up he looked at my mother. At that point she hadn’t noticed him looking. He started to walk quietly toward her, as if to sneak up on her. About half way there she must have heard him, or perhaps it was les papillons floating around her, five of them. I think it was five − they were hard to count. When my father noticed that my mother had spotted him sneaking up, he started walking a little faster. Then she stood right up and turned to face him, at the same time looking around the yard. She started walking away, slowly at first, not toward him, but toward the house, and smiling. He began to run a little and so did she, giggling now, and it was bit like a touch football game as she zigged and zagged a bit, and then my father slipped on the grass and fell down to the ground. I was startled. It really looked like he was hurt, but he it turned out he was faking an injury to get her to come and help him, and when she did, he pulled her down and they kissed, and for a long time. Then they got up and walked away, hand in hand, somewhere towards the side of the house, where there are lots of trees.” Then he pauses, and looks closer at Sunni. “And then these butterflies – when my mother was running they seemed to follow her – like they were playing their own game. They even seemed to follow them to the trees, until I lost sight of them as well. It was really something. In those moments it was all about love, don’t you think? Only playful love and affection. And it seems that’s all the butterflies know − and that’s what I try to do with my restaurant. It’s a safe place for people like you and Andrea and the other young ladies, at least I want it to be, and maybe sometimes love comes out of it, somehow. Is that so wrong?” Sunaria is speechless. She had never heard such a beautiful story, and now she sees him in a totally different way, and the restaurant as well. Still, she has some concerns. “That’s so incredibly beautiful Pierre. I had no idea. It’s like you’re trying to put some of that romantic charm into this stodgy Victorian setting. Is that what you’re doing?” He looks a little perturbed at her comment, “Yes and no . . . it goes well beyond romance. I just like people to be happy and I adore watching you ladies kind of blossom in my home. You see, you are my butterflies. You keep me young in a way, and you deserve the best, though I know ‘deserve’ is not the best choice of words.” “Now that’s what bothers me. Why? Why should we deserve anything special, because we’re all so ‘beautiful’? It’s kind of weird don’t you think? I mean they all look like models.” “Really? That bothers you so much? Well you’re very right. But is that so wrong? And then I can only hire eight or so to begin with. Let me tell you something. Each and every one of you is so much more than that, more than just a pretty face, yet each of you seems so confused by your outward charms. I know that, I see that all the time, and in my own way I try to help you get past that.” “What, by letting us be surrounded by a bunch of rich men? They’re far from saints you know. I doubt that many of them of anywhere close to the kind of man your dad was.” “Ahhh, you are right there. But things are never quite that simple − unfortunately. I know it’s getting on. Can I finish the story?” “You mean there’s more?” “My dear, I hope it never ends, but for now there is just a little more . . . should I go on?” “Okay.” “But I suppose you are right Sunaria. I guess you’ve got me there. I’ve always had a soft spot for attractive women but then it seems I’ve been around them my whole life. Is that my fault? And not all of my childhood friends had cover-girl looks, and I’ve had many female friends who were so easily adorable no matter how they looked. Some were jealous of ‘the models’ as you put it, but nothing like the kind of competition that seems to go on today, if you know what I mean . . . it’s really quite horrible to watch. But I also knew young ladies from rural Quebec, or knew of them, such beautiful ladies in every way. Many of them ran off to the city, to Montreal, in search of ‘fame and glory’ . . . and they change, or maybe they ‘become changed’. Do you know what I mean?” “Sure, yes. I mean I think so? You mean they all wanted to be models?” “Something like that. And they’re all so smart, maybe not book smart, but you can be very smart and still be sucked in by the glamour and the lure of false promises. It happens to the best of them. It happened − ” He pauses and once again seems lost in the past, but this time with a sad and tender look, and she knows instinctively that this man has lost someone dear under these very circumstances that he describes. She knows Pierre is not really talking about them, but more about one of them. “She must have been really special to you?” she says softly. He smiles a faint smile, “It shows that much? Yes, there was one, but that’s so long ago. It’s all for the best though. She deserved more . . . .” There is silence now. Sunni wants to say something but knows not what, so instead she asks, “So now you want to protect us while surrounding us by the same kind of scoundrels as Montreal?” “Well I can only do so much. You know before I opened this restaurant I worked at a few places like Papillon back east . . . fine dining places. I saw a lot of crap then, saw plenty of tears, so I don’t mind trying in my own little way to create something better. I mean what’s a man to do? I just do what I can, and I still love to cook . . . and you should see my garden!” She smiles, “I understand – what can one do? It’s not like you can control the people that come to Papillon.” “No, I can’t, not totally, but I do have my ways. And I talk to my ladies and keep my eyes open − I guess I’m more of a coach than a player.” Sunni pauses, thinking of how fondly Andrea always talks of him and his advice and she wants to give him a big hug, but instead she speaks, “Andrea adores you, you know. I mean she really trusts and respects you and now I can see why.” The missing smile returns to his face, but now he seems lost for words, though that original question comes to mind – he blurts, “So what did happen to you? At work I mean? What made you leave like that?” She takes a deep breath, “Okay, I’ll tell you, but now you must promise to keep it a secret.” “How can I? I haven’t heard it yet!” “Touché! Okay I’ll tell you. I was serving a fairly young couple, I’m guessing they were both in their early thirties. They were really friendly and there was just the two of them . . . and both really attractive. They were just in town visiting. Then she went to the ladies room, and she gave me this warm smile in passing . . . then he called me over and propositioned me.” She pauses. Pierre says, “That’s it?” “Well no, not totally. He told me he wanted me to entertain his wife for him and that he might join in, and then he wrote down a number, $500, on a piece of paper. When he was sure that I saw it, and that I understood, he slipped the paper into his jacket pocket. Just then his wife returned. She grinned at her husband, he winked at her, and they both gave me this seductive look . . . and I just blushed.” With that Pierre understood why she left so suddenly and he apologized as best he could. He wanted to say more, but then from behind he could hear the voice of a young child, “Auntie Sunni!” He now knew he would have to wait, just as Sunni knew that he wanted to help her more, that Pierre had something more to say. He quickly asks her to consider coming back to work, starting on the upcoming July long weekend, only a few days from now. “Sure. And thank you Pierre – you’re so kind. But there’s more. I have to tell you the rest. You see it wasn’t just the proposition that bothered me.” “I don’t understand.” “The reason I rushed out soon after they left is that while I said no to them, a part of me really wanted to say yes, and I don’t understand why! But it wasn’t the money though.” “Ohhh. Now I understand. It’s okay Sunni. It’ll be okay. You see? You are learning. It’s not easy though. Don’t beat yourself up over this, and please don’t judge Papillon because of this, okay? We’ll talk some more later.” She smiles, feeling completely relieved now. Just before the youngsters and the mother arrive he gives her a soft pat on the back, thanks her for the iced tea, and tells her to call him tomorrow to finalize her work details. As he walks away he can hear the little sister asking Sunni who that man was. He was already too far away to hear Sunni’s reply − she didn’t say anything right away. Instead, she was just watching the butterflies floating around her little sister and the little girl’s friend. Finally Sunaria tells the little girl, “That’s the butterfly man.” Chapter 9

Trying to Plan a Destiny

This week the sun has been kind to Ben, and he has been painting with renewed vigour all week. A house this size it’s usually a five-day project, but this week he figures to be almost done by noon today. Since it’s Thursday and he has an appointment with Donna in the afternoon, the final touch-ups on the house can wait until tomorrow morning. Then he will have the afternoon free, making the July long weekend a little longer. This new energy comes partly from the memory of Sunday night’s event, especially the surprise that befell him afterward, an experience well beyond even his most vivid imagination. Everything about 317 Browning Road makes more sense now. He now has even more respect and admiration for his mentor, Mr. Charles Lartimer. The effect of this anniversary surprise didn’t go unnoticed by Chika, his faithful and trusted helper. Despite her prying, he divulged nothing about that Sunday surprise − now he fully understands, even appreciates, the need for its secrecy. At 7:00 o’clock on this Thursday morning, Chika picked him up in his truck and they headed off to a donut shop for their customary 15 minute pick-me-up, and a brief discussion of the current work events. She’s not one to mince words. Always with her notebook handy, she does an amazing job of keeping him on track. Her concern isn’t this project but the next one and the one after that. She rifled off the material list that she will be picking up tomorrow. He didn’t pay much attention to her though, partly because it’s only a few hours from his date with Donna – he has taken the term “session” out of his Donna vocabulary. The other reason was that Chika knows the details of this next project better than he does, and she never gets it wrong. Now that the work details have been put to bed, for the fourth time this week the interrogation begins. “Boy, she really did a number on you. Here it is, Thursday, and you’ve still got your head in the clouds. What’d you say her name is?” “Nice try Chika − I didn’t.” He had told her a bit about his time with Sunaria, an effort to deflect any chance of sharing anything about Sunday night, or about his preoccupation with his “Donna plans”. This diversion seems to have worked well all week. Lately he’s just not comfortable talking with her about any personal matters, even though they are friends as much as employer and employee. However, she can be so aggressive at times. “You’re such a candy ass sometimes. C’mon Ben, be a man, spill the beans! You can tell me. I won’t hurt you.” “You sure picked your calling didn’t you?” he replies. “If you attacked your students this way you wouldn’t have any left! How are things going anyway? Don’t things slow down in the Tai-Kwan-Do business in the summer?” “Nice dodge Ben. You know I’m happy for you and . . . whatever her name is. She’s a young one, isn’t she? Actually summer will be busier than ever. We’ve got a summer school program going, co-ed as always, so it will be good. I’m going to be busy, busy, busy. I’m actually kinda relieved you’re taking some time off this summer. When’s the last time you took a holiday in the summer? Let me guess . . . high school?” “Actually more like junior high. Yeah, it’ll be nice. I told you that you can hang on to the truck then, didn’t I?” “Ha, I think I told you!” They share a laugh, gulp down the remaining coffee, and head back to the truck and off to work, only about ten minutes away. He looks at her with amazement, this determined warrior that he hired, part Japanese and part African American. She’s about three years older than him but could pass for five years younger, given her physique. It’s all muscle, sinewy and so strong, and with a height of five-foot-eight, she’s only a few inches shorter than he is, and there’s no doubt in either of their minds that she’s the stronger of two. She’s been with him for about as long as he’s been seeing Donna. This was the perfect job for her. Mornings only, something physical, and she likes lugging around ladders and paint and scaffolding from place to place. The paint scraping helps to keep her arms toned, and there’s lots of stretching too, which is good preparation for her afternoons. That time is spent on her real passion, teaching martial arts. She doesn’t see herself as a feminist but she does value her role in helping women protect themselves, and men too, which is why all of her classes are co-ed. And she only teaches the youngsters, up to the age of thirteen. As she explained it, around that age it just gets to be a little too much. Taekwondo still can’t compete with those hormones and the co-ed aspect starts to be a problem. She does have a working relationship with a few other schools that take on those who wish to continue, and so it all works well. Shining on her face, the sun captures the grandeur of all her strengths. The bronzing glow brings out her stunning features − the high cheek bones and full lips, so exotic but nothing compared to her almost-Siamese eyes. Combined with her jet black hair, set back in a pony tail today, and with her fierce demeanour, overall it’s the image of a lioness on a mission. “What are you lookin’ at? You want a piece of me now, big boy?” “Funny lady! You and I both know you’d chew me up in a minute! You know, I was just thinking about that story of yours, the one about your grandparents.” “You must have heard that a hundred times by now. What’s with you? You’ve really got the love bug, haven’t you? I hope you’re not on any high ladders this morning!” “No.” He laughs, then coaxes her again, “C’mon Chika!” “Okay, but this is the last time.” “Okay, I promise.” “Yeah, right. So where do you want me to start? The prison part?” “Yeah the prison part − the Japanese containment.” “That’s where she was alright. All of nineteen and as grandpa describes her, a pure lotus flower.” She always smiles her warmest when she tells that part. One time she even brought a picture to show him, a photo of her grandma at about the age of twenty-one, and Ben was amazed at the similarities to Chika. He could see this lotus flower’s beauty in Chika’s eyes and a bit in her cheek bones, and in her overall facial structure. “And how did your grandpa meet her?” “He was cleaning out the shit. He worked there every Friday. Sometime he did some work just outside a fence, along the service road that headed down a country road, and then joined up with the highway, a mile or so down from the internment camp – containment center, as you call it.” “And she used to look at him out the window?” “Yeah. She used to watch him every Friday. He’d stop and look at her. He said he wanted to smile but couldn’t − it just didn’t seem right. She said she felt the same. So they just looked at each other, her constantly watching him, and he glancing at her only once every few minutes for the hour or so that he was there.” “And how long did this go on?” “For about six months. He worked alone and there was never anyone else around. So one day he shows up, but not with the shit truck. He had this truck with a small flatbed for hauling logs, but with only half a load. He took one of the smaller logs and an axe and just battered and butchered that fence. She just watched him in awe, and instinctively moved back when he finally broke through and smashed that window, cleared away the glass, and motioned for her to come out, and to do it quickly.” “And the whole thing took like two minutes?” “Tops according to gramps. He had dumped half the logs on the road about 30 yards back so the road was blocked, and he dumped a big bucket of roofing nails underneath first. Apparently he had waited for a day that was snowing, pretty slushy. Just before they got to the highway he pulled over and they got out of the truck and ran to the highway, where a car was coming, in a hurry. The car stopped and his friend, the driver, opened the door and away they went, heading north to Canada. They got there a day or so later.” “And then they were married a month later?” “Three weeks and two days later, but it wasn’t any kind of church wedding though, not even a legal one, and she could barely speak a word of English. She only came over here from Japan about a year before that, to stay with some of her distant family. And of course he didn’t know any Japanese.” “They must have been something else. I never get tired of love stories like that.” By now they’re at the work site. Chika comes to an abrupt stop and scolds him again, “Now if I have to tell you that story one more time I’ll be putting you in containment! You know I don’t like that mushy stuff.” “Mushy stuff? The only thing mushy about that story is the shit!” he retorts, as he gets out of the truck and helps her unload today’s necessities. “I’ll show you shit, mister . . . now move back and let me do my job.” She grabs the cans from his hands and takes them to the folded tarps along the side of the house. Before she goes she reminds him that she will be picking him up at 12:30 today, instead of the usual time. She’s long ago given up on trying to figure out these appointments of his, one afternoon every two weeks or so. She can’t even remember the first lame explanation he gave her shortly after she started, though it really didn’t matter to her. She just thought of it as something wimpy that guys like him needed to do privately. She was quite proud in her powers of deduction though, as she was very sure that Ben’s occasional afternoons were spent on one of two things, either pottery or origami. And while she saw him as soft in one way, she also knew he had strengths she couldn’t define. There didn’t seem to be any special strength of character about him, more like a strength of spirit, a childlike naiveté that made people around him want to help him. She is no exception. But still, she thinks, he’s such a wimp! “See you later boss!” and with that she was on her way. “It was the picture, wasn’t it?” he yells back at her before she can get away. As she heads off, he sees her arm waving. She yells, “Yeah – now that’s the part you got right!” Ben waves back. He remembers how Chika told it, how her grandparents really couldn’t talk to each other much for the longest time. However, three weeks and two days after they were together, they were on a street in Vancouver and stopped to look into the window of an art gallery. There was a picture of an old and happy couple, a portrait. Chika’s grandfather pointed at the picture, then at Chika's grandmother, and then he pointed at himself, just standing there with his bright eyes smiling. She looked at him with a solemn look of joy, bowed her head and nodded, and when she raised her head, their eyes shone together with the same bright smile. According to Chika, from that time on they were married. Now that Chika is gone, and thankful for a little solitude, Ben’s mind switches to his plans for Donna, for their afternoon time together. He feels it is urgent to get her out with him, to get her out of that office of hers, get her somewhere else . . . basically he needs a change of environment, perhaps a rescue? He thinks of how she once preached about ‘living in the moment’ but in her wisdom she knows that as humans we just can’t sustain that for long. They discussed this quandary in great depth in one particular session. He recalls it dearly because that was the first time that he saw the hidden Donna Belauche. For once she wasn’t the counsellor, nor the goddess. Instead he caught a glimpse of the tender child within, her true self that seems so very deeply hidden, one that seldom comes out to play.

Ben drifts back to that time, but the daydream is disrupted by a word that pops into his head. It’s a very disturbing word, at least disturbing to him. It’s that word “connection”, a word he detests, one that diverts his attention to another day, the one after that cherished session with Donna.

* * *

On that day after, this term he detests came up in a discussion with Chika. They were talking about nothing in particular while she waited for him to finish painting a wall. She arrived early and he was running a little behind. She started talking about a friend of hers that had ‘hit it off’ so wonderfully with someone she had just met, describing how the two had this connection. Ben immediately stopped what he was doing, which was rolling mauve latex onto a layer of white primer on a living room wall. He walked towards a sprayer that was sitting in the corner, one that he used to stipple the ceiling. He explained to her that it’s like this, and then he took the nozzle of the sprayer and disconnected it from the hose. “You see?” he said, “It’s like that. It connects like that and it comes apart like this. Snap and unsnap, all very mechanical. Machines connect and disconnect.” He pauses, looks up and changes a frown to a smile, and finishes with, “On the other hand, life blends . . . ” Chika says nothing, mostly because she knows he’s not finished with whatever it is that he’s trying to say. Ben goes back to the wall, takes the roller and dips it in the tray of paint and begins rolling the paint onto an area adjacent to the one he just finished. He spreads the paint out, carefully overlapping the previous section before it dries. “Now you see this? You see how this paint goes on, how it blends? Do you see how the streaks disappear with careful rolling, how it doesn’t just happen, how you have to pay attention, guide it, almost how it seems to have a will of it’s own. When it’s finished it’s all there, together, not connecting, just blending. That’s much more natural somehow. Do you see that?” She listens, knowing this is not the time for one of her smart-ass comments, though she’s thinking, “Boy, now he’s on a roll!” and she watches him drift over to the big picture window. Now standing by the window, he’s angled so that he can face her, and with an easy turn of the head, he can also face the tree outside, whose leaves seem so close to the house. He looks at her, then looks outside, and then at the stream of light that dances on the floor, in the rhythm of the swaying branches. “Now look at that - isn’t that something? I mean it’s all blending. There’s the light, all the way from the sun, always just giving all this light. And look at that light dancing on the leaves, the wind playing with both the light and the leaves . . . all together. And the leaves soak up what they need, no more and no less, and we get to see some of it bounce off in the dance − the dancing − and here it is now playing in this room, and there it is, showing us the paint on the wall, drying it, preserving the blend. Do you see what I mean now? I wish I could explain it better − it’s just that for me all this blending is so much more precious than what others call connecting.” “Wow!” was all Chika could say. She walked up to him and for the first time ever she gave him a warm and caring hug, and then she gave him the nicest compliment, “I think my grandparents would have really loved to hear that.” As she said this, Ben thought he saw a tear coming out of one of those powerful eyes of hers. Feeling a little awkward and perhaps slightly embarrassed, he just said a simple thank you and apologized, “I’m sorry Chika. You know how I can be such a dork when I get on such a roll!” He grins, picks up the long-handled roller, and impulsively passes it over to Chika. Then, for the first time, she begins the experience of painting, at least in this context of blending. They share some laughter at her mistakes and at her playfulness, especially when she takes the five-foot handle and mimics the Samurai warrior wielding one of those long swords. In a playful way she is more like slashing the paint onto the wall, instead of rolling it, and the paint is dripping in multiple places over half of the unfinished wall. With each slash she hears Ben call out ‘ouch’ or ‘ugh’ and she just laughs and slashes some more! Ben tells her, “You’re hurting me!” and so he picks up another roller, attaches it to another long handle, and begins cleaning up the mess she’s making on the wall. Calmly he evens out the paint, smiling as he makes it all seamless. Chika stills wants to play a little though, and taunts him with her roller, as if to challenge him to a duel. He looks at her and laughs. He approaches her like a gentleman, with his ‘weapon’ in an upright position and at his side. Then he politely bows in front of her. Upon seeing this Chika bows in return. What she didn’t see was Ben wiping some wet paint off the wall with one of his index fingers. As Chika ascends from her bow, he takes that wet finger and dabs her nose with the wet paint and matter-of-factly proclaims, “When it comes to painting Chika, you know I’ll just kick your ass every time!” She just laughs and says, “You - Sun Wukong!” He looks at her with a stunned look. She laughs some more as she translates, “Monkey King!” and then together they finish painting this wall and then the one remaining bare wall. They’re mostly silent. When they are almost done, Ben tells her that trimming is a whole different form of blending. He asks if she want to learn more, but she politely declines, “Perhaps another day.” “Yeah, besides it is time to call it a day . . . It’s been a slice!” “Funny . . . thanks Ben. It’s been fun. You know, you’re a really good boss.” He just grins and looks at her, “You too!”

* * *

All this week, while painting the exterior of this small one-storey home, Ben has enjoyed many whimsical hours, drifting away in all kinds of these daydreams. This morning’s activity – the delicate trimming – is likely to be yet another replay of the memories of Sunday night’s art event at 317 Browning. There is this dilemma though. He needs to focus, to mentally prepare for today’s session with Donna – he needs to make a plan, one for their impending parting. He’s still clinging to his belief in their joint destiny, and yet he can’t seem to keep Sunday night out of his mind, not for very long. Would she approve of such a night . . . could she? Would she ever understand . . . could she? The memories are over now, and just in time, as he sees Chika coming down the street. He checks his watch and sees that it is 12:30 on the dot. She gets out of the truck to help tidy up, and in a few minutes everything is in order for the next day. Ben tells her that he will come back tomorrow and finish the job alone. They can pick up everything Tuesday morning, the customer doesn’t mind. She makes some adjustments to her little notebook and then they head home. Chika drives Ben to his house, but the drive is a quiet one. Ben is once again thinking about the remainder of the day. He checks his watch, seeing that over the next ninety minutes he must clean himself up, grab a quick bite, and make his way to her place, to Donna’s office. Now a little panic begins to set in. He’s telling himself that he’s not ready. There’s something wrong with his plan. It won’t work. And why can’t he just go with the moment? Why does he need a plan at all? If it is destiny as he believes it is, then surely it should start in the moment, and not in some plan. What has he been thinking? And what does ‘start’ mean anyway? If it is destiny awaiting then it started long ago, without either of them ever being aware of its beginning. So once again he dwells on the metaphysical, the issue of managing destiny, and back he goes for another ride on this pendulum . . . planning versus being. He looks at Chika and asks himself, “Why can’t he just take Donna for a walk, find the picture of their destiny, and fulfill their dreams, just like Chika’s grandparents? But then would that be fulfilling a dream or fulfilling a destiny? And is a dream as good as a plan? And if not, then why not?” He laughs inside at the mess he’s in. At the same time, Ben realizes that he’s really gotten nowhere on these matters, after more than two years of intimacy counselling. And then he almost laughs out loud when he realizes how good it would feel to talk to someone about all of this – how he could really use the help of a good counsellor – and how he wishes he knew one! By now Chika has stopped just in front of his house and they wish each other a great weekend. As he heads into the house, his inner-laughter evaporates. It dawns on him how ridiculous he’s been, how he really doesn’t know this Donna Belauche, except for a few really nice conversations. Then it hits home, how little she really knows about him . . . there’s his secrets, well perhaps only one big one. Eventually he will have to tell her all about everything − total honesty. This too must be destiny. Can he really tell her about the most intimate experience that he’s ever had? Would she understand, not just what he witnessed but also his involvement? Could she ever appreciate all the art that happens at 317 Browning Road? What will she think when she learns of how she inspired him in so many of those moments? How can he explain it when he doesn’t fully understand it himself? And yet he knows that what he saw that night, and what he did, has changed him forever. Has destiny thrown him a sinking slider? Sunday night taught him something precious, and yet here he is still wondering what it was, what did he really learn? As wonderful as it seemed, still is it even okay, or was it all just decadence? Yet such a sweet decadence, as fresh as the first drop of honey. Chapter 10

It's a Date?

The therapist known as Donna Belauche is much more of a poet than anyone knows, herself included. It’s all there in her journals. There’s not a ton of it, but there are many hidden gems of prose scattered throughout these journals. She keeps one for each of her clients, right from the very first one. These journals are her professional notes. About half of them would be grounds for her removal from every professional association to which she ever belonged. This bothered in the least as she belonged to the least, in other words she belonged to none at all. She never did. Nor did she ever complete her master’s program. She fooled the only family she had at the time, her aunt. She lied to her about her graduation, telling her that she had no desire to go to her convocation, so she told her aunt not to expect an invitation. Donna Belauche, or Dawn Belcourt back then, even went to the trouble of getting some false graduation pictures taken. Donna’s aunt asked to at least have a copy of the newspaper article that publishes the list of graduates. It was easy to alter a copy of this newspaper article. That was simply a matter of using an enlarged photocopy, changing some text, copying again, and then having it framed, nothing really that high tech. It looked very clean and would keep better than the newsprint. Her aunt was very pleased to receive it. This charade was never part of the original plan. After her Valentine’s disaster with Bill, she did manage to slug her way through the remainder of the term, completing that first year of her Master’s program, the required courses. She even completed a few thesis proposals before the summer break. Her advisor considered them carefully but seemed uncomfortable with the topic, even though she understood where Dawn was coming from, in terms of the underlying premises and hypotheses. Still, it seemed more like a study for a sociologist than a psychologist. Her advisor told Dawn to really think it through over the summer, and that she would need to convince her how her thesis had something relevant for the study of individual human behaviour. She also told her that one of the concerns is that the subject matter is so narrow, that even if she accepted it, Dawn’s career may be in jeopardy; certainly she would be forgoing any notion of counselling, and possibly even social psychology for that matter. She even went so far as to question Dawn’s motives, asking why she had such a fascination with such a topic. The best way Dawn could describe that interest was in business terms, perhaps even legal terms – the issue of negotiating in marriage arrangements, contracts, and with part of that concerning sex. She felt that the issue of sex for money – the world of upscale escorts – was a microcosm of the broader issue, the role of sex in many marriages. For her the difference was more of timing – a long term contract versus a short term one – and that the issues of ethics and morality were a bit of a farce in either event. She also thought part of this farce went beyond sex, that there was the surrounding issue of glamour, self-esteem, and so much role-playing in the whole process. And she made the claim that the escort industry simply collapsed all of this, in a way it highlights or intensifies the drama of it all. Dawn was so very sure of her premises, even to the point where she questioned the need for formal scientific research at all. This irritated her mentor, as did Dawn’s reference to Shakespeare’s famous soliloquy about “All the world’s a stage . . . ” After their last meeting, just before that summer break, her mentor finally asked the big question. She politely asked whether Dawn had any personal experience on the matter, beyond reading. Dawn replied with a curt “no” and then came the follow-up question. This had to do with whether Dawn knew anyone directly involved in the industry. Again the answer was “no” and Dawn could see the next question coming, which of course was, “Don’t you think that would be helpful?” That question was to have a big impact on her summer to follow, and all the others that followed that one, including the present. Things happen in one’s path in life, there are forks in the road, and that day her mentor stuck a big pitch fork in the path of the life of Dawn Belcourt. There is a separate set of journals of that fateful summer and the year that followed. That set is her most poetic writing, in terms of the journals, though none of it has been read for years. That decision was made shortly before she moved to Victoria. It was then that she safeguarded these notes in a shoe-box sized metal container, hiding her writing even from herself. All these personal insights, experiences described, and perhaps the final numbing of her child-spirit, remain dormant in this container. The decision to stuff it all in a box was made on a quiet weekend in Toronto, during one soul-searching retreat. Back then it was already five years since she dropped out of graduate school. Over that weekend and after rereading these journals, she had no doubt a big part of her had already died. From there she concluded that these writings should be cremated or burned. She was that sure the person that started those journals no longer exists. That made the name change much easier. Without knowing why, instead of burning them she put them in storage, using a place an old contact from Toronto had told her about. It was one of those secrets that just spilled out . . . too many scotches mixed with too much infatuation . . . over a long-legged goddess. She basically did as this old contact did with his secrets. It was pretty easy to find someone to take on the project. There weren’t too many craftsmen in Toronto that make customized grandfather clocks, especially ones that are half mahogany. On top of that, the designer included a false bottom, ideally suited for hiding documents by gluing them shut, fire protection and all. So there it is in her office, the home of her false practise, the truth of it all, her real past, her confession of sorts. It is the muting of the crying of a child, one tormented by the very civil horror of what she discovered about the world of high-end call girls. However, their stories are not all sad, some are funny and all so very real – not completely that horrible for the most part. The real horror had little to do with the women, and more to do with Dawn's changed perception, her view of the culture that surrounds these women, the world she once believed to be good. Over the period of writing these journals that goodness seemed to crumble, a little more with each passing week. And yet she just couldn’t throw it out, this history. She could no more change that part of her than she could turn back the time that chimed on the clock. For her the chiming no longer means anything at all, except perhaps for her current impatience and this feeling of being bound. These days she very seldom thinks of this box full of poetry. The memories alone are enough to cope with, and should she ever desire to reopen the case, it will be extremely difficult to get access to it. That will require essentially destroying this incredibly beautiful work of art and craft. One day she found herself chuckling at the whole issue. She mused about how nicely the clock goes with the coffee table, and the irony of the connection between her past practise (locked in the clock) and her current one . . . the open discussions that happen across this table. The table was made along with the clock, as a set. It was an incredibly pleasant surprise from the man who made the clock, and when she asked why he did it, he just shrugged his shoulders, claiming he had no idea why. He told her how he was so glad she likes it. When she pressed the ‘why’ issue further, he just said, “I like to see people smile.” That’s what she remembers most of this kind and gentle man. Now here she sits, in front of this wonderful gift of mahogany, and with the journal of Benjamin Talbot resting on top of it. She leaves it there while she goes to the kitchen to get a fresh cup of fresh coffee. While this man, Ben Talbot, causes her discomfort in ways she can’t explain, overall she enjoys reading about their time together. This one is by the far the most genuine of her client-journals. No doubt this is because he is by far her most genuine client. Even though she has no professional credentials, with Ben she does her utmost to help in her own dramatic way. So with two hours to go, she takes this journal review seriously and with an open heart, knowing that the next time she hears Mr. Talbot ring the doorbell, it may be the last. Technically he’s not a client, nor a friend or lover, and not really a player like all of her other clients. He’s simply a man who seems to sincerely believe in love, to want it, to embrace it, to know that ultimately it really is everything that matters. He wants to know this to be true more than to just believe it so. Yet he doesn’t seem to have a clue what to do about it, about not having someone to love as he wishes. To Donna he seems so innocent, so naive and such a dreamer. Ultimately because of all of this, he is definitely the last man in the world in which she can trust − that would just be too hard to do under all the circumstances. In fact, he is the most dangerous man she knows . . . basically she doesn’t trust love as he does. Donna knows that Ben isn’t always the dreamer. He has an extremely powerful gift of combining the imaginary with the pragmatic, fusing both in findings that are often jarring in their startling simplicity as well as their pragmatic plausibility. His visions of truth often strike her as being undeniable, and it is so much more than poetry. She muses, “Perhaps he touches truth?” She comes across a personal note, a recent one from only two weeks ago, not even close to anything professional. It has everything to do with how she sees this man – the dreamer part of him – and how it made her feel. It sounds very much like some of the writing she did so many years ago, the kind of writing one does in thinking about love. It seems the poet in her is not completely dead. While reading these notes, she begins to feel like she's getting a better handle on those haunting words . . . bound and impatient. Suddenly she feels overwhelmingly tired. Donna clears the journals off the loveseat, curls up and falls asleep. Around this time, half way across the city, Ben has had his shower, finished shaving, got dressed, and is now enjoying a cheese and lettuce sandwich and a big glass of milk. Then he grabbed a handful of coins for the bus, carefully checking for exact change. He doesn’t use his driving service for these occasions. He wants to maintain this one secret from Charles Lartimer. Lately he dreams of the day when he can introduce the two of them – perhaps once he and Donna have become more intimate friends – Charles is sure to be captivated by her. This is important to Ben – part of a deep desire to enrich his life overall – to have a closer circle of friendships, one with fewer secrets, such as those kept from Charles and Donna. He rushes out the door and that pays off, as now he can take a few minutes to simply absorb the warm sun and the light breeze. He sees the bus coming, now about half a block away. Oddly, he could swear that he caught a glimpse of one of the cars that Charles sends for him. When he gets off the bus there will still be a short walk, but there will be no soaking today, except for more drops of sunshine. He made a point of getting off the bus one stop past her office. If he had gotten off one stop earlier he would have been right across the street from Helen’s Heavenly Bakery − he has been trying not to think of Sunni over the past few days. Still, as the bus passed it, he couldn’t help but look towards the bakery. There he saw man in a business suit peering into the shop window, standing close to a really nice BMW. Ben felt his heart thump a little when he noticed a “Closed for Business” sign hanging in the window. He had thought of stopping in and saying hello to Sunni, and perhaps goodbye, but only after his date with Donna. Now he realizes he can’t do that. He doesn’t have her phone number, he doesn’t even know her last name. Instantly he deducts that this must be part of his fate, an event of destiny which means to keep his attention focused on someone closer to his own age. Then he realizes that he is in the middle . . . Donna must be about seven years older than him, while Sunni is about seven years younger. It strikes him how he likes Sunaria so very much, and for many of the same reasons that he adores Donna. Perhaps the difference is that he feels more needed by Donna, though the counsellor is sure to disagree about that. He stops by the floral shop, which has a nice display of tulips outside, and he wards off the impulse to buy some as a gift for Donna. He feels more relaxed than he has all week. His earlier anxiety has evaporated, mostly by not thinking about it all so negatively. Go with the flow, savour the moment, just be cool − and at the right time just tell her how he loves her. “Oops!” No, he can’t do that, but somehow he must let her know this without the words. A gesture will be much better. And he reassures himself, “Relax, there is no rush, as long as he leaves with ‘one more time’ then they will still have something of a future together.” He is actually fifteen minutes early, which is unavoidable give the bus schedule, and a first for him. It takes a third ring before she opens the door, looking surprised to see him. “Hi Donna. You look like you were expecting someone else!” he says, as he sees himself in. He notices a number of journals stacked on the coffee table. “Actually I did think it must be someone else − you’re never this early − are in a hurry? Do you have a date or something?” Ben pauses, then decides to go for it in that moment, “Actually Donna, for me this feels like a date now, more than an appointment . . . I mean the therapy’s over . . . right?” He sees that she is caught off-guard by the question. She looks at him for a puzzled second and then tells him to wait there, by the door, while she rushes about putting the journals away, taking them to the kitchen. She calls to him from there, telling him that he can sit down now, and she prepares a carafe of coffee, bringing it out on the usual tray with plenty of cream and sugar, as if this is just another session. There is silence, which makes Ben uncomfortable, but not her. “What’s ‘a date with me’ mean to you Ben?” Now the previous silence seems much more comfortable than the present one. Her question has his thoughts reeling, which really wasn’t her intent, or perhaps it was, but just a little? To relieve his obvious pain, she can only think of one thing to say. “Do you need to pee Ben?” she says jokingly. “No . . . besides, I usually just piss in my pants on a first date!” “How charming! Then you should have prayed for more of last week’s rain,” and upon reflection she adds, “Did you think you were on a date then?” With an unexpected surge of self-confidence he replies, “I think I’ve been dating you since you first tried to explain the importance of living in the present, and how difficult that is to do . . . and how it’s basically so hard to be human.” She looks at him warmly, “Well I never mentioned that last part. You remember that discussion do you? Why did that mean so much to you?” “Because it was the first time that I thought I saw you – you the human – not you the therapist. You seemed to let your guard down for awhile.” “You know, I don’t date any of my clients, not even the past ones. I have a reputation to uphold . . . I just don’t do that.” “And what about love . . . what then?” “Then?” “Please don’t tell me you have someone special in your life, someone to share your life with, someone you really care about. I know you don’t . . . I can tell.” “You can tell? Wow. You’ve been coming here for three years now and all this time you’ve been fooling me. All along it’s you who is the expert on love?” “Dammit Donna, stop it already!” he says out of frustration. “What ever do you mean?” “You know damn well what I’m mean. You know damn well I’m crazy about you and have been for a long time. And you know that’s not about this persona you put out . . . this acting. And it’s not just because you’re gorgeous − you’re more than that. You’re really beautiful, but you do your damnedest to hide so much of it, so much of you!” Donna feels herself coming unglued, even more when he adds, “Who or what hurt you so much? What happened to you?” Now on the defensive, she opens her mouth to say something, something impulsive, but manages to stop herself, though not for long. “Fuck you Benjamin Talbot – you have no right– fuck you all to hell.” “No right? No right to what, to ask questions? Yeah, fuck me all right − you’ve been fucking me all along, haven’t you? Hell, I’m really beginning to wonder who you really are. It hit me the other day, actually this morning. I realized that this whole thing has been a charade, how I haven’t really learned a damn thing. You’ve known all along how I’ve felt about you − you’re a woman, a very smart one − and it was also just a fucking game for you – do you do this with all your clients?” He’s pacing as he’s talking now, and she stands up to face him. She calmly pulls off her suit jacket, exposing her bare arms and her bosom, enticing Ben as she approaches him. “You think you love me do you? I’ll bet you’d love to grab these and then whisper something sweet in my ear. You don’t know shit about love. You’re just a damn dreamer . . . all fucking talk.” “Yeah, $10,000 and it’s all talk . . . I’ve been fucked all right.” Before he can move a muscle she slaps him. She slapped him hard, a loud slap that hurt them both, but not physically, only in the heart. In this case two hearts. Neither of them flinch. Ben walks calmly to the door. He turns to get one more glimpse of her, now about twelve feet away. She is not crying but obviously wants to . . . he regrets his next words at the same time they leap out of his mouth, “Some fucking dream – fuck it– good luck Donna.” He wants to undo these words, so as he exits her stage he adds, “You know I didn’t mean it that way − you knew − there was no need to slap me. Whatever happened to you, it’s not my fault.” As he slowly heads down the stairs he hears her regretful and apologetic voice. She calls out from above, “I’m sorry – please wait – how about dinner tomorrow? My treat!” Chapter 11

Hot Topics on a Cool Night Out

After leaving Donna’s place, Ben goes straight home and immediately calls Chika. He tells her that he’s had a change of heart and has decided to go down the coast a bit, to his favourite overnight camping hideaway, but just for the night. He asks if she minds him using the truck but just until about noon on Saturday. She can tell by his tone that he needs to get away and she kind of knows why, based on past descriptions of such trips. This time it’s different though − he sounds more upset than the other times. Friday morning comes and goes, and the painting job is done just in time, right around noon. They agree to pack up now, instead of coming back here on Tuesday. After everything is loaded up, Chika takes Ben with her and he helps her do a few errands for next week’s job. They don’t say much as they gobble down a few sandwiches in the truck, between stops. By 1:30 he drops her off at her martial arts school and she’s wishes him a nice evening, reassuring him once again not to worry, that her friend will pick her up later. She really won’t need the truck until late tomorrow afternoon. She says goodbye with a warm “See you tomorrow.” After that, Ben swings by the supermarket to pick up a few basics for dinner tonight, as well a some powdered cream for the campfire coffee, a couple of bottles of Chardonnay, some eggs and cheese and a few vegetables for a morning omelette and not much else. From there he heads to his favourite used book store and within half an hour he has found something interesting. With no purpose at all, except to take his mind off of Donna, he makes his selection. It’s the title that catches his attention. The Dancing Goddess is the main title, and with a quick flip of a few pages he snaps it up, as there are plenty of references to art. When he gets home it takes awhile to unload the truck and make all the trip preparations, but then he is taking his time. After that he enjoys a refreshing shower, followed by an hour long nap. Yesterday he thought about leaving earlier to beat the long weekend traffic. However, it seems like these days about a third of the cottagers take Friday afternoons off, so beating that kind of traffic means leaving early Friday morning. He figures if he leaves by 5:00 he’ll have his tent set up by 7:00 and there will be plenty of sunshine left for what appears to be a beautiful evening ahead. He looks forward to another spectacular sunset along the beach and the ocean, and to the row of trees in the horizon, and even the rocks at the far end, where the beach curves around and uses the rocks to point out to sea. The drive takes a little over an hour in normal traffic. Ben is now about half way to his destination and it is a little past six o’clock, so it will be close to a two-hour drive today, as expected. In traffic like this it’s easy to relax when one is not in a hurry. Ben enjoys doing some traffic math whenever he finds himself in this situation. He chuckles at those in such a hurry. Pretty much everyone along this route is headed to the same destination, more or less. The traffic is continuous, so he figures there really is no such thing as ‘being in front’. By the time you’re in front, it probably means you’ve parked – that you’ve arrived at your destination. If that’s the case then what’s the big deal about getting to the front? By the time you get there, you’re probably not going anywhere! What really amuses him is the aspect of time. People needlessly stressing themselves to move up a few links in the chain, sometimes taking big risks with oncoming traffic. By his best estimate, they will arrive at their destination about 5-10 minutes earlier, and that is by taking all those stressful risks. Why not just stay in the queue? That’s not the funny part though. What he finds most amusing is the importance of getting there five or ten minutes early . . . why not just head home five or ten minutes later? The trip goes fast with thoughts like these . . . other oddities about human behaviour. By 6:40 he has turned off the highway and is about half way down a stretch of country road. The road twists and turns among the trees and bush for about five miles, until it comes to its end. It’s not an end though, it’s more like a beginning, with not a person in sight, only the beach and all its surrounding glory. And now that his truck is parked at the beginning, the only human sounds are his own. The sounds he prefers are all the others, including the breeze, which is among his favourites, but in sight as well as sound. He leaves everything in the truck as is, including some wood for the fire, which is covered by a tarp “just in case”. In this part of the world, weather stations don’t bother to mention the frequent isolated showers that dampen nothing much that matters, except for the dry wood and a friendly fire. There’s nothing to do that can’t wait in terms of setting up camp. Upon arriving here, his favourite activity is walking along the beach . . . looking for some special driftwood. He likes to walk to the far end first, to where the rocks are the highest, at the end of a small cove. As he’s walking he thinks of how much he must thank Charles Lartimer for this privilege. This is his land, and there is absolutely no development on it except this road. He told Ben about it and gave him permission, and directions, shortly after they first met. That was when Ben told him how much he liked to grab his tent and just get out of Victoria, even for a night or so. He fell in love with the place the first time he saw it. The serenity reminds him of the simple truth that no one ever really owns any of this glory. On the other hand, he very much appreciates the privacy. He fully understands the reality of how this kind of solitude is becoming more and more of a luxury, one acquired through the privilege of “private ownership”. It is for this reason that he avoids discussions with Charles on this issue of ownership. After all, it is not Mr. Lartimer’s fault that he inherited so much. And Ben knows all too well that even if Charles gives all of this up, that only means that someone else will acquire it; entitlement only changes hands, and that’s just the way it is, another oddity of human behaviour. Standing at the far end, about two hundred meters from his camping spot, he keeps his sights fixed exclusively on the next few meters in front of him. His concentration is greater now than when he was driving. This is mainly because he is bending over as he walks, looking for the smallest of pieces of wood. The bigger pieces will come later. Each little piece gets picked up for inspection. If a little piece doesn't grab his attention in about three seconds, then that piece goes in a bag for kindling. The ones that really grab him go in another bag, for some future art project, the likes of which are completely unplanned at this time. He will add these to about 100 other pieces he has stored at home. This is a slow process and Ben takes great pride in his speed, priding himself at being slower than the snail, and wondering whether any of the snails appreciate his effort to make them look like jackrabbits by comparison. By 7:30 Ben has completed about 50 meters of this 200 meter journey of discovery. His kindling bag is about half full, while the other bag has perhaps a dozen pieces in it. He stops to take a break, stretches a bit, then sits on a large log and pulls out a can of Pepsi from the almost-empty bag, as well as a chunk of cheddar cheese wrapped in some reused cellophane. He looks back to the fifty meters that he’s just covered, looking back to admire the sun, still fairly high in the sky. He wishes he could walk toward the sun on this walk, but for discovering these tiny pieces of wood, it is much better this way. Ten minutes later he begins again and by the time he’s half way done the journey, the bag of kindling is full. He hit a lucky streak with the other bag as now it contains maybe thirty pieces. By now it’s a little after 8:00 and the evening is starting to cool. He’s done well and decides to head back to the truck, now walking much faster than the snail, though still pretty slow. He picks up a few larger pieces of driftwood along the way – interesting from a creative aspect. As soon as he’s back to the truck he drops the larger pieces on the ground, and then plunks the two bags next to them. He reaches inside the truck for his duffle bag, slides it over to the driver’s seat, and pulls out a hoodie, putting it over his t-shirt. Then he pulls out a pair of sweatpants. He steps back from the truck slightly and takes off his sandals and hiking shorts. Before putting on his sweats he searches the duffle bag for some socks, but to no avail. He is sure that he packed them, but from where the truck is parked and with less sunlight now, it’s getting harder to see. In the shuffling he finally notices a clump of cloth on the floor of the truck, on the passenger’s side. He bends over and reaches out, trying to grab this clump of socks. By now his buttocks are fully facing what remains of the sunlight, and just then he hears some faint footsteps from behind. Before he can turnaround or put on his pants, he hears a voice coming from the same direction. “Hello there. Is this how you usually dress for dinner?” He knows the voice . . . it is Donna’s. It is not her just her presence that startles him, but the genuine kindness in her voice, a tone that he has not heard before. He turns and sees her walking towards him, stopping about ten feet away. For once she looks a little unsure of herself, yet still very comfortable, certainly more so than he, at the moment. “I wasn’t expecting company,” is all he can say, as he nonchalantly pulls his sweat pants over his briefs. “And here I was sure you were a boxer man − shows you what I know!” He replies, “Ben Talbot, man of mystery,” and he stops at that while he puts on his socks and running shoes. He glances up to see his company is dressed about the same, though she looks remarkably more charming in her outfit than he does in his. Before he can make a comment on how they make a perfect couple, Donna starts in. “By the way, thank you for the invitation. You know, I didn’t see it 'til this morning. Yesterday I left the office right after you. When did you leave it?” “Yesterday, maybe ten minutes after I left. I was on my way home, then I put my hands in my pockets and I felt my little notepad in one of my pockets. Then it hit me how stupid we were being, so I wrote up that note and went back and slid it under your door.” “That was such a nice surprise. And you’re map and directions are excellent. I hope I’m not too late for dinner?” As she says that she slides a backpack off her shoulders. “Why didn’t you call? I’m sure I left my number on that note. By noon I’d given up. I really thought, hoped, you’d call to confirm your reservation!” “I did call. I called you this morning, around ten, but you just hung up! Here, I’ve got the number right here.” She hands his note back to him. He laughs, “Oh boy, I must have been some worked up. That’s not my number – that’s Chika’s, my helper. It’s almost the same as mine − I gave you hers instead of mine!” Donna laughs too. “Maybe that explains the hang-up then. I said ‘I’d love to have dinner with you tonight’ and then ‘click’ − boy! I guess I must have been worked up too. You would think I’d recognize your number by now.” “That’s my Chika! Yeah, she can be pretty rude at times, but she’s really very nice once you get to know her.” “Well I think this ‘destiny’ you always talk about has you running in a kind of steeplechase − and there’s logs flying all over the place.” Ben smiles warmly, “Not here though. Everything’s as it should be . . . just look around, and look at those logs, and they’re not flying . . . Are you any good at starting fires?” “Much better than I am at putting them out!” On that note, together they gather up plenty of wood and prepare for what is sure to be a wonderful fire inside the stone pit, something that Ben had built on his first visit to this endearing place. As he adds some kindling, Donna excuses herself, telling him that she needs to go bring her vehicle closer. He asks where it is and she tells him she parked about 50 yards back because she wanted to surprise him. He offers to go with her but she assures him she’ll be fine. He starts the fire. As he watches it come to life, he looks around and starts rearranging the furniture, meaning that the bigger log twenty feet away needs to be rolled closer, and the large stump that he always uses now appears to be of no use whatsoever. He can hear her pulling up beside the truck. It is almost time for the sun to set, but there’s still enough light for Ben to appreciate a surreal vision. He watches Donna – his goddess – now walking toward him, pulling a little red wagon behind her. It is one those children’s toys that belongs to Melanie, as does this minivan. Donna’s ponytail seems to bob in unison with the little squeak of the wagon wheels. On her little red wagon, a large cooler is gently bouncing, and Ben could hear the ice bounce as well. She parks her wagon right next to the stump, which now appears to have a use after all. She laughs at his kid-in-the-candy-store smile, “I told you dinner is my treat tonight . . . See?” She opens the lid and he watches her brush away some ice, revealing a pair of large lobster tails. She looks up at him and says, “Oops, I forgot something!” She asks him to help her get the cooler off the wagon. He takes it off and then watches her rush away with the wagon, back to the van. She returns quickly with another load. This time it includes a sturdy cardboard box, some grilling utensils behind that, and a little fold-up table tucked in there somewhere. “This is amazing,” he finally says, as they unpack the lobster, the garlic and butter and olive oil and other seasonings, the baby potatoes that just need warming, and the tossed salad that only needs the dressing added. It becomes obvious that all this was prepared from scratch. Normally he liked to go for a walk about now and watch the sun set, but tonight that will not happen. Instead it feels like the sun is watching them, as they tenderly prepare a feast for two, and as if they are one. Thankfully she notices this very kind sunset, and she insists that they pause for a minute to acknowledge it. There is a silence, a very awkward one, as he so much wants to hold her hand or put an arm around her, while she very much wants him to do neither. She is just not ready for that kind of affection. Sensing his anguish over the matter, she breaks the silence. “C’mon,” she says. “Let’s cook this stuff and eat − I’m famished.” Soon the lobster tails are ready for grilling. She asks him to hold them over the fire, telling him that she has one more surprise for him. As she walks to the van she talks over her shoulder, “I do my own kind of camping you know. Nowhere near here, but still I like to do it my way.” Once more she heads to the van and returns with yet another box, though a little smaller one. She pulls out some small pottery bowls, deep ones, eight in all. She takes each one and places it in the ground, scooping up some of the sand to recess each bowl. She places the eight bowls in a kind of haphazard semi-circle, about six or seven feet around the perimeter of the fire, so that the bowls are within eyesight of the furniture-log. Then she pours something in each bowl, some kind of candle oil. Finally, with a barbeque utensil, she grabs a tiny ember from the edge of the fire and lights the wick in each bowl. As the sun is now fully set, it feels like it's still there, in these little flames, and there they are, in space surrounded by floating candles. He watches her with warm admiration. She smiles in return at his obvious satisfaction. Few words are spoken in these last preparations − more words were simply not required. Even the toast was unspoken, neither sure just what to say. Now with plates full and comfortably seated, bibs and all, they sit back on the thick blankets that he laid out in front of the log. She’s so thankful that the conversation is light and airy and not full of the intensity of yesterday. She listens to him lose himself in the poetry of how he feels about their current surroundings. “It’s all play you know. Don’t you think so? . . . I mean the water, just listen to it . . . when I walk on the beach I like to watch it. But it doesn’t look like water though, it looks more like ointment than an ocean – applied with countless seamless fingers – all blending together. And the waves just play with the sand . . . and the sand doesn’t mind it all . . . it looks more like a beautiful skin – the beach – the tender soft spots of the earth. So all I can see is this one long, continuous playful and delightful rubbing . . . the sands of time basking in the touch of the hands of time. It’s all a selfless give and take. I know you don’t like me talking about love, but I’m not sure you understand what that means to me . . . that word, that verb. I see it all around me, all kinds of love, and it’s no wonder it’s beyond definition − it’s there – everywhere in nature – and I really want some of that. It’s always in motion and yet sometimes it seems so still . . . it all looks so easy out there, like water melting sand, and I don’t know why it’s so hard for people . . . at least for me.” Donna doesn’t know what to say. She’d never heard such poetry from him before, though she knows that for Ben this is beyond poetry. He's describing his reality, how he sees the world . . . it seems that he sees so much without even looking. On the one hand it feels like she is joining him in this dream of his, and it is so welcoming, but on the other it scares her, though she does not know why. “Oh Ben, that’s all right, you'll be just fine . . . you know, I have a lot I want to tell you . . . I have a hunch it’s going to be a long night.” She pauses, looking intently for his reaction, and by the warmth of his eyes she knows to continue, “There is so much you don’t know about me, and you deserve to know some of it, but not all . . . I have a lot of secrets. I love your ideas about love. It’s all very precious. You see the world very differently than I do. I didn’t come here to fall in love – not with you or anyone – but for now, more than anything I need a friend. I mean, I have some friends, really nice people who would do anything for me, and yet they really know so very little about me. You say you want to know the real me. No one that I admire or respect has ever confronted me as you have lately. It feels like you know parts of me so well. And that’s struck me so deeply, and I really, really need you to just be a friend . . . no more dreams of forever, okay?” Without hesitation he replies with, “Okay,” and the speed of his reply makes her nervous, but less so when he reassures her that he’s in no hurry. He acknowledges that he is very much a dreamer, but then assures her that he’s also well aware of the realities of life. That’s as serious as it got over dinner. She asks about Chika and he tells her about some of the funniest times he has had with her. In turn, she tells him about summers in Quebec and some of the kinder times in Montreal, and how studying psychology eventually came about. The sharing of anecdotes continues well after dinner. Ben thanks her more than once, telling her how this surprise is better than Christmas, and he manages to convince her that cleaning the dishes can wait until morning. After another glass of wine, she suggests some coffee. The wine is wonderful but is making her sleepy. He feels the same and agrees to coffee, and he is pleased that for once he gets to make it for her. When the coffee is almost ready, Donna goes to the cooler and gets some real cream, much to Ben’s delight. As she passes him the cream, he sees that she has one hand behind her back. “I almost forgot, there’s one more surprise − dessert anyone?” she says, as the hidden arm comes forward. She presents him with a small paper bag, telling him that she didn’t make this part, but she’s sure he will love it all the same. Ben’s eyes light up once again as he opens the bag, and by the smell alone he knows what it is, chocolate coated glazed croissants! These treats will never see the second cup of coffee. As they begin that second cup, Donna moves from her relaxed position to one where she is sitting straight up, with her back resting gently against the blankets covering the log, and with her legs crossed in a lotus position. “As I said, I have a lot of secrets. I have no intention of telling you all of them. But I think you should know that I’ve shut my practice down. I was going to do it gradually, over a few months, but as of today I’m finished.” He’s stunned, “What? You’re kidding. I don’t believe you! Why?” “Because it’s wrong. You said so yourself, nothing comes of it − you’ve made no progress, you say, though I still think you have − but it’s not something you can measure now, is it?” “Nothing that matters really can be, the measuring I mean,” he replies. “Anyway, I didn’t end it just because of yesterday. I’m very much not that impulsive. I just got tired of all the acting. I just can’t do that anymore.” “What do mean, ‘acting’”? “I’m a fake Ben . . . that diploma on the wall is a fake. I never finished my training in counselling, I have absolutely no professional credentials.” She’s a little surprised and heart-warmed by how calm he remains through all of this, and even more so by his tiny tender confession that follows. “That’s okay Donna. I’m not really a professional house painter − I’m not certified either.” He is serious, but she lets out a little laugh, which he doesn’t mind as he suddenly realizes that it’s not the same thing. “So why did you do it Donna? All that pretension. Was it the money?” She pauses. Oddly enough, she really hadn’t anticipated the question. She buys time by topping up her coffee, and his, and finds herself resisting the urge to declare a ‘pee break’ especially given the environment. “I suppose it was partly the money, but it was much more than that. It’s complicated. I’ve always wanted my independence, craved it, needed it for my sanity? Then there’s my curiosity about things, about men − and women − and about intimacy.” Now he pauses, but only for a few seconds, as he replies, “You want to know about love as much as I do, don’t you?” Startled by this insight, she becomes flushed and that apple in her throat returns from that rainy day not that long ago, “You know, I probably do, but differently than you. You seem to want to immerse yourself in it. I prefer to just observe.” Then to her surprise she blurts, “I really don’t trust love, doubt that I ever will.” Ben pauses, but not for long, “I’m not surprised. I never thought of you like that until quite recently, but now I can sort of see that, just as you’ve said it. Maybe that’s why I’ve always had you on that proverbial pedestal . . . the unattainable goddess?” She wants to cry now, recognizing how in three words he has summed up her entire life since childhood. It seems the conversation is over now. There is more to tell that is important, at least to her, but it involves more big secrets. She is determined not to share those with him, at least not for now. Donna suddenly remembers that Ben mentioned having secrets too. Perhaps he needs to reveal them to her, but she is in no frame of mind to hear them tonight. She has no need or desire that way. As she remains silent to his question, out of frustration Ben goes to say something more, but stops himself. Donna notices his hesitation, “What is it? What were you going to say?” “Never mind. It’s not important.” “Oh no you don’t . . . I’m not going to let you off that easily.” “You know, for a fake shrink you sure have a way of getting people to open up.” “That’s not it − nice segue though. C’mon, let’s have it.” “I wanted to say just what I was thinking . . . ‘Why did you have to be so damn beautiful?’ . . . but I know it doesn’t really matter, so I’m sorry.” Donna is lost for words . . . for perhaps the first time in her adult life, at the age of 37, it feels good to be beautiful. Chapter 12

It’s Not the Tips

At Maison des Papillons long weekends begin after closing on Saturday night. Pierre Allarde doesn’t do Sunday brunches and Mondays are not good fine dining nights on long weekends. Besides, he knows Philippe and his kitchen staff are entitled to a life outside of the restaurant. After meeting in the park, Pierre had called Sunni and they made arrangements for her to start tonight - Thursday - again tomorrow, and work Saturday as well. This worked out nicely as he could now tell Georgia that she could have those shifts off to attend a family reunion. Pierre asked Sunni if she wanted to continue their conversation in person before starting her first shift back. She told him no, that’s she’s okay, but perhaps soon, and she asked if coffee on Sunday might work. He agreed but this time insisted on picking the place and offered to pick her up, an offer she accepted. While Ben Talbot was packing up his camping gear on Friday afternoon, Sunaria was packing up her work outfit. It was custom designed, as were all the outfits worn by the young ladies at Papillon. She had an outfit of a blouse and slacks, two of them actually, and then a pair of very tasteful dresses. Normally Pierre had the ladies return these outfits when they left his employee, but he made an exception in her case, as he had a hunch she would come back. For her first shift back, it will be the slacks and the blouse and a pin with a butterfly on it, an accessory she handpicked from the same store where all the serving staff shopped for similar things. Pierre had discovered this shop, one that has a pleasant selection of elegant butterfly-themed accessories, all as tasteful as the outfits. He was so happy when he found it, and it was an easy decision to give each of the servers a $200 annual allowance for shopping there. He told them to be careful though, as these butterflies are well hidden in the “jungle”, as he called it. They all laughed when he informed them that they probably refer to this jungle as “Pier 2”, the marketplace. This too had become a tradition of sorts, as staff gifts were often found in the jungle. Around the time Ben and Donna were finishing their lobster dinner, Sunaria was serving the last of the same at Papillion. One of her favourite dishes, the lobster special also turned out to be very popular with the Friday customers. In another hour the restaurant would be closing and she had hoped there might be a tail left for her at the end of the night. That was her favourite part of any given shift, the closing, as then her and the others could snack away while doing their final chores, and the food was so darn good! Of course this pleased Philippe more than anyone. Her shift was uneventful in terms of “incidents”. Everyone was polite, friendly, in a festive mood and this rubbed off on Sunaria, so she in turn enhanced the festivities. Any jokes or innuendos were only in good humour, attempts to be funny, and they were. One elderly gentleman went so far as to invite her to join him on his yacht on Sunday, and this happened in the presence of his wife and another couple. Before Sunni could say anything, the wife jumped in and said, “My dear, don’t pay any attention to him. The only excitement he has on that yacht is a good game of Yahtzee!” The other three at the table then chided old Sid on being such a bore, and Sunni didn’t help matters when she teased the man that was teasing poor old Sid. She told him, “Well I hear you like to fondle those dice just a little too long when you play!” They all roared at that, so much so that every table around them stopped to take notice of the commotion, and everyone was happy. Pierre also noticed the roar of laughter and smiled from his position at the podium where normally the maitre d’ would be standing. He is so pleased that everything is going well for her, and all his meticulous planning is turning out as he had hoped. Unknown to Sunni, he personally made the seating arrangements for her section for tonight, and for tomorrow as well. The maitre d’ had the weekend off, so that morning he made the arrangements, carefully seating her section with the customers he knew would be safe for Sunni. He will be performing the role of maitre d’ for all the foreseeable future. What none of staff knew is that their trusted maitre d’ would not be returning to the restaurant. Pierre had long suspected that the man had troubles and that in turn he, the maitre d’ by the name of Jerome, was a bit of a hidden trouble himself. Pierre didn’t mind the occasional bottle of wine going missing or the little extra cash people in Jerome’s position find ways of making. However, it had gone too far when a long-time patron brought it to Pierre’s attention that Jerome’s outside passions were not all so healthy. This lady liked to play Agatha Christie with her gossip, rather than come right to the point. Over the years Pierre has learned to be very careful in accepting rumours as truth, especially this one. He asked his loyal patron what she meant, and after about a five minute conversation he finally asked her, “Are you trying to tell me that you think Jerome has a cocaine problem?” To this question the lady nodded her head. Pierre simply thanked her for her concern and they both knew it was the end of the conversation. Since then, in the past month or so, Pierre kept a closer eye on his maitre d’. The restaurateur had enough experience in such matters. It is a no-win situation. If her claim is true then he will have no choice. He knows it’s a war out there, so many attacks on hearts and minds. Even the rich and the near-rich have their battles and this is one of them, though his main concern is keeping this form of poison away from his papillons − his girls, and from the other staff as well. After that there is a concern for the reputation of les Maison, but that is far from primary right now. Sure enough, the rumour was confirmed a few days ago, much to Pierre’s dismay. Just around dusk he noticed Jerome heading outside for a quick cigarette, which is normally fine, but this time it seemed be at an inopportune moment, as it was busy inside. On a hunch Pierre followed Jerome outside, leaving about a minute later. When he got outside he couldn’t see Jerome anywhere. Smokers usual lit up towards the end of the building, around a corner, where there is a little lane. Pierre walked to the lane and looked around the corner and there he was, with his back toward him. Jerome must have heard someone coming, and he did seem nervous. As he turned to face Pierre there was a trace of white powder at the tip of one nostril. “Being a little sloppy there Jerome . . . here, let me help you.” As he says this, Pierre grabs his hanky and wipes the dripping nostril. Jerome tries to block this swipe but is too late. He is defensive and curt in his response, “I know it’s busy in there Pierre. I just needed a quick puff, I’ll be right in, okay?” “No, it’s not okay Jerome. I’m sorry but there are some things I just can’t tolerate and cocaine is one of them.” Pierre is now holding the handkerchief in front of the maitre d’s face. Jerome denies that it’s coke and they argue over the matter, though it is only he who is arguing, knowing that his time at Papillon is now over. “You won’t find another one like me, you know that don’t you?” “You’re right there, Jerome. You were an excellent maitre d’ and I wish you all the best, but somewhere else. But most of all I really hope you stop using this stuff. You know it’s crap, and you can only do it for so long. But I can’t take the risk of having you around. I won’t tell any of the others. And for now I’ll be the maitre d’ and I’ll just see how that goes for awhile.” The maitre d’ swears at him now but Pierre maintains his composure, “Go home Jerome. I’ll tell anyone that asks that you went home sick.” Then in an effort to help him in a different way, Pierre adds, “You know you are getting a reputation. Someone tipped me off about your ‘passion’, so you see it is not a secret, and you know this can be a very small city. Now please go home . . . just go. Would you like me to call you a cab? And I’d rather not have to call the police. You know that’s not my style.” By now Jerome has calmed down, and with a shrugged posture he brushes past Pierre and heads down the street, hearing Pierre wishing him luck and telling him that he will send his final pay cheque in the mail, couriered tomorrow. Pierre then went back inside the restaurant, smelling trouble from two directions. He is worried that there will be more problems from Jerome, but he is more concerned about the trouble he senses from the other direction, the kind that gossipy patrons bring. He hopes in her case it is nothing more than her little vengeance in some past experience with Jerome . . . he has known of the man’s “interfering ways” for a long time now. Before resuming his normal course of affairs, he carefully placed this tainted handkerchief in a clean plastic bag. Then he tucked the bag in one of his desk drawers, hoping he will never have to use it as any form of evidence. Since that event, all the scheduled employees had now heard that Jerome would not be coming back. Some wanted to know why. Pierre wasn’t sure what to tell them other than it was the best for both of them, that Jerome had some personal issues to deal with, and that Pierre had wished him all the best for the future. He really wanted to tell them not to contact this man, but once again he is frustrated by the knowledge that this was another of those matters out of his control. However, he was very sure they would eventually figure out the cocaine aspect of Jerome’s demise; they were too smart not to. While he told everyone that he would now fill the maitre d’s shoes, he didn’t tell them the real reason why he is in no hurry to fill the sudden vacancy. There is another circumstance that seems out of his control, a 30% drop in revenue which has gradually crept into house over the past two years. For the first time in fifteen years he feels the end may be inevitable, and it scares the hell out of him, but he hides it well. The others have no idea about this current state of affairs. The restaurant remains almost full to capacity on most nights, but still, overall there has been a 10% decrease in bookings. On top of that, people are ordering a little less food, more of the less expensive dishes, fewer desserts, and less wine and liquor, and less expensive bottles, all of which takes its toll. His basic formula for success is still intact. Revenue from the meals covers the cost of the food plus all his employee expenses, but now not quite. The proceeds from the wine and liquor cover the balance of the overheads, except for his salary, and then there is some left for profits. The profits have almost disappeared, as a portion is now used to cover what the meals no longer do. As for Pierre, he lives off the coffee and desserts, which are like cash cows for him, and traditionally a source of a very comfortable living. One more year in this trend and it’s all over, or at least somehow downsizing will be necessary. He wishes he hadn’t listened to his accountant three years ago in terms of the tax advantages of leasing that BMW. He could do without that overhead and he doesn’t even care for the darn thing, and he’s glad he’s in the last year of the lease. Then there’s the building, his pride and joy, and the nest egg that he owns, which is now becoming an issue in its own way. While he really respects the knowledge and wisdom of one of his dearest friends, this friend’s advice about commercial real estate is also most annoying. Thankfully this dear friend sincerely appreciates the personal attachment, which Pierre expressed quite succinctly in their most recent meeting, “Don’t take this wrong Charles, but this is not just a restaurant, it is a home, it is my house, my Maison des papillons, and I am Monsieur Allarde and not Mr. Lartimer!” At that time Charles Lartimer gave his dear friend a warm pat on the back and told him not to worry so much, that things will work out, somehow. Pierre responded by explaining that he understood how the building could be used to bring in more money, through a conversion to condos or other ventures, but it wasn’t about the money. It was about “what then?”, especially for himself and Philippe. As much as he adores the rest of the staff, and is concerned for them, he knows that they will have the easiest time adapting to any closure. The real difficulty is how will Pierre survive without any more papillons to care for – he’s just not ready for that. The last of Friday night’s customers have now left the building and the doors are locked. As is customary, the entire staff takes their customary positions among a couple of tables, the one’s nearest the kitchen. Those that want it take a glass of wine, or juice or coffee, and simply rest their feet for fifteen or twenty minutes and just visit. In the meantime Pierre does the paperwork and prepares the remaining tips based on the credit card receipts. Before they leave, the waitresses will be reminded to leave some cash with him. They each have an envelope for storing it in his safe, and he even offers them a cheque option, all of this designed to minimize the dangers of carrying too much cash around, especially late at night and on a weekend. By around midnight everything that needs to be done is done and the staff trickle out, heading home or to perhaps out to join the nightlife of Victoria. For most of his staff the preference is home, as they have all worked hard and are tired. Sunaria would be the last to leave. Before she left, Pierre called her aside and asked how her evening went, and then asked if she was in a hurry to get going. “It was wonderful Pierre. Thank you . . . I'm in no rush.” “And the tips, they are okay tonight?” “The tips? That’s funny . . . you know they are always more than enough here. That will never be a problem.” “Always is a long time my dear. I think butterflies know that better than we do! But at your age, why should you think about ‘always’?” he says in a mocking tone. She laughs, “But I’m always thinking. Seems to be a thing with me. Maybe Andrea is right.” As she pauses, Pierre asks, “Right about what?” She laughs and just says, “Yes . . . that’s exactly it!” Pierre now has a completely perplexed look on his face, which only brings about a louder laugh from Sunni, as she tosses her head back in the amusement. She brings her head forward again and at the same time adds, “You just answered your own question!” With Pierre still looking lost, Sunni continues, “Andrea told me that I should pursue my writing, and that’s becoming my real passion. So you said ‘Right about what?’ and Andrea asks me that all the time, ‘Write about what?’ . . . get it? . . . Right . . . write? . . . les memes choses?” Finally Pierre gets her little play on words, “Ahhh, voila! The same thing, for sure. And of course, that future is written all over you. I know you can think – and I’m sure you will write – and write very well. C’est bonne!” “Who knows, maybe I’ll write about this place someday? What would you think of that?” He smiles, “You know, many people are scared about being written about, but not me, not this place. Do you know how much writing there is already? About butterflies? In art, literature, songs and operas and music, and now movies, it’s all pretty amazing when you think about it.” “Well there you go. Now I have something to think about . . . more thinking.” “You won’t have to think too hard. There certainly won’t be much to say about an old little man like me. Maybe I can help you though. How about a title? Let me see . . .” He gets up from his chair, puts one hand behind his back and the other under his chin, and paces like a scholar deep in thought and then it comes to him. “Voici! I have it. Les Nouveau Misérables - un peu! How is that?” She tells him that it’s a little wordy, but he is not listening. That’s just as well, as her head is swirling with more than one catchy show tune from Les Miserables, her favourite Broadway production. While she tries to think of something to say, Pierre has already begun to dance . . . and sing:

Master of the House Doling out the charm Ready with a handshake And an open palm . . . .

He stops singing then, but keeps humming, obviously not knowing the rest of the lyrics. He keeps dancing. Sunni lets him continue for a minute, then starts clapping to let me off the hook. He takes a bow and goes to sit down, while she tells him that he missed his calling and that he should have been an actor, or a singer. “Oh, but I am! I have been told many times that when it comes to singing I should pay attention to one of France’s great treasures, Marcel Marceau.” “Who?” “Marcel Marceau.” He sees that she has no idea who this is, so he guides her to his office, “Come with me. I’ll show you on the internet. He was, and is, the world’s greatest mime.” She follows and he finds a couple of videos and a one-page biography on the artist. “You see, I’ve been told that I need to learn to sing like him . . . in complete silence!” She laughs, “I can’t imagine you doing that.” He laughs, at her and at himself, and then talks with pride of his countrymen, “Some day I think they will make him the patron saint of France.” “Why is that?” she asks. “My dear it’s quite simple. He will be the only Frenchman who ever understood or knew how to ‘shut up’ − a French miracle if ever there was one!” She pauses to think, then quips, “But just imagine if all the saints had nothing to say. Wouldn’t the church be out of business?” He looks at her in amazement, “You are definitely the writer, and I suppose in that commercial regard, perhaps all we can do is hope and pray?” Before he leads her out of his office he returns to the computer, finding his favourite quote from Marcel Marceau, “Here’s something I think you will like, something really nice this man had to say. Here it is.” Then he reads the quote: “Music and silence . . . combine strongly because music is done in silence, and silence is full of music.” “Wow, that’s so beautiful. Mind if I write that down?” “By all means. Here you go,” and he hands her a pen and paper. She muses as she writes, “Perhaps with more silence from the preachers, then maybe we will hear the birds again, and their singing will be sweeter than the silence?” She’s listening to him as she is writing, “You know I see much more of Jean Valjean in you than any master of the house.” With that she looks up and smiles, while in return he blushes slightly at the compliment. “Come on, let me take you home. It’s getting late. You can save that cab fare. Besides, didn’t you want to talk to me about something? You mentioned something about that bakery you worked for . . . remember? It came up during our phone call. I have no idea what it is Sunni, but I want to hear. In fact, I want to hear about all kinds of your ideas. By the way, do you still want to get together on Sunday?” She cannot refuse such a kind gesture in deeds and words, and she tells him that she no longer feels any need to meet on Sunday. He locks the door to Papillon behind them. The silence is precious but does not last long in the drive to her place. The discussion becomes just as precious as the silence. He asks her about the bakery. She tells him it is not really a concern of his, that it has nothing to do with him at all. She explains it isn’t so much about the bakery as it is about her favourite visitor there. Then she explains how at the end of each shift she would give this man a bag of leftover baking and something to drink. She makes no mention of the money. She goes on to say how much she’s worried about him, how she has no idea where or how to find him. Then she apologizes, telling Pierre she didn’t know why she brought it up, that it really isn’t his problem. When she paused she looked over to Pierre. She couldn’t see his face very well in the dark, but she could definitively detect the sadness. A few seconds into the silence, Pierre made a statement, followed by a tender silence for the remainder of the drive home. “Not my problem? . . . Ohhh, my dear Sunaria, but it is − les miserables − a little and a lot, the story that never seems to end.” Chapter 13

Fully Applying the Principles

The clouds and the sun are teasing each other today. The sun is warm, but the air cools dramatically when the clouds have their way, playing as they want on this Sunday morning. The breeze seems to be of the same teasing nature. All the same, the sun keeps smiling. This morning Donna Belauche feels very much at home in this environment . . . soaking in the warm and cool of it, and then the warm again . . . all in all, sensational. She has kept this splendid mood since that splendid Friday night with Ben Talbot. The night flowed gracefully into dawn. The same happened with Donna sneaking past them, turning to mid-afternoon, when they finally headed their separate ways yesterday, Saturday afternoon.

* * *

On that Friday night, mostly because they knew they had a long drive the next day, they forced themselves into periods of sleep-rest. They first dozed off around 2:00 in the morning. They had cuddled up as spoons, sleeping outside, by the fires. Ben told her that the tent was only there in the event of rain. She woke up first, around 7:00 and it was the need to pee that aroused her from this deep sleep. When she returned to the nest, he was awake, and she figured that would happen. He asked her what woke her and she said it must have been the sound of the waves, the sound of the water. At that he rose up from his sleeping position and just said, “Yeah . . . I have to pee too!” While the snuggling was friendly and cozy, she wanted to clarify some things early in the day. She waited until he started the fire, followed by the brewing of fresh coffee. She even waited until Ben finished making those omelettes. After that meal, while they continued their coffee, she thanked again him for the wonderful night, as if none of it was any of her doing. He did the same in his own way. “You know Ben, this is a friendship and nothing more . . . But I hope you understand how that’s pretty much everything for me. You do understand that, don’t you.” “I think so − I hope so . . . I’m trying to.” She laughs, “Trying to? You make it sound like work . . . perhaps I need to paint you a picture?” “Somehow I get the feeling you’re making fun of me again?” “Would you have it any other way?” “No,” he says immediately, but with a little more thought he changes his response to, “Well, maybe just a little!” “Ha. Just as I thought! You want more than making fun do you? Well, well, well. Hmm . . . what am I going to do with you?” “Well then, why don’t you just consider me a work in progress?” “And so now you see yourself as a work of art? My, my, didn’t you wake up with a load of confidence?” “Now what’s wrong with a work of art?” “Nothing, I suppose . . . I guess it just depends on how it progresses. Can you create playfully? Perhaps finger painting? You did hear what I said last night, didn’t you? I just quit my practice. No more work for me, not even art.” She teases him with a playful pinch, as she says, “I want to play, baby, all just playing for now . . . do you still have that load on your mind this morning?” He can see by her smile that she means what she's saying, though he’s still not sure entirely what it is that she means, being both serious and flirtatious at the same time. Donna laughs, amused by his look of perplexity, like a schoolboy. It appears that Ben is frustrated in more ways than one. He’s sitting up now, with his back against the log, while his legs are stretched out under the blankets. Finally he says, “What can I say? I’m still waking up. You make it sound like I'm your boy-toy now!” “Oh, you think so? Suddenly the work in progress sees himself as Adonis? Are you as hard as that rock − or are you going to be my play dough this morning?” Her words arouse Ben – they are no longer lost on him – with no effort at all, a part of him becomes statuesque. He watches her put down her coffee mug, then she moves toward him. While kneeling, she takes one arm and slides it under the blanket and her hand feels so soft, as its warmth slides from his knee to his thigh. She avoids looking up and making eye contact. Instead she places herself completely under the covers and he feels her hands undoing the knot in his pants, and then she pulls them down. He is fully erect, as the tip of her tongue soon discovers. Her left hand wraps around his shaft, as if he is a toy now. It feels like she finds his shape to be ideally suited for this kind of play. She discovers all of him down there, and with the most playful tongue he has ever known. His lower pulse quickens and throbs, and as it does, she slows down and slides her lips around the rim of his head, letting the bottom of her tongue tease all the slopes it finds. The circles of her motion spiral in a slow and steady rhythm, and they moan together when his early juices surface. She prolongs his tension by playfully licking from his base back up to the tip, stopping here and there to lap awhile. She continues this play until she is ready to have him fully release. He is astounded by how she controls him . . . many times he felt he had reached the point of no return, but each time she found a different way to subdue him . . . and then begin again. When she finally allowed him to culminate in that final pleasure, that release he yearns for, her mouth, her tongue and lips, engulf him in a flurry of flicking and sucking . . . until he completely surrenders. The conquest is only complete once the lost drop of evidence disappears . . . she slowly licks away until there is no more to be found. Then she gently rubs his thighs again, one with each hand, and he can hear a little giggle under the covers when her final touches make his body shudder. After that she pulls back the covers, nestles over beside him, back into their spoon position, and says, “Now how about we take a little nap?” No other words are spoken as he covers her gently, making sure the cool morning air stays off her shoulders, and they once again enjoy their sleep-rest. After a few hours they woke up to the midday heat, now uncomfortable under all the blankets. Ben is quiet. He seems to be still lost in a dream, kind of shy, not knowing what to say, but knowing “thank you” are definitely the last words to choose. “It’s okay Ben. No worries. You don’t have to say anything . . . can I tell you something?” Relieved to have a simple question to answer, he replies, “Yes.” “I really enjoyed that. I know you’d like to thank me, but that’s so not necessary. It’s been a long time for me. I know I’m good at pleasing a man that way, probably because I like it that much. So think of it as a gift from a friend, nothing more, okay?” “What can I say?” Before he can say more she puts an index finger to his mouth to hush him, and then she continues, “And I don’t want you thinking you owe me something now − god knows that’s the last thing I want. I don’t want anything more from you than what we have right now, what we had last night, and I don’t think that I’ll ever want more from you beyond this friendship. Now do you understand?” “More all the time.” They begin packing up as it will be well into the afternoon before they are home, and Ben needs to get the truck back to Chika. He finds himself looking forward to getting home. The intensity of the past 24 hours has been incredibly marvellous, but also a little overwhelming. One doesn’t make friendships like this every day. It didn’t take much convincing to leave all those dirty dishes for another time, and she didn’t mind having something to do when she got home. They left packing the coffee stuff to the last, as she promised to stay for one more cup before leaving. As he prepared a small fresh pot, she went to the car one more time, telling him once again, “Oops, I almost forgot, I have one more surprise for you.” Ben just shook his head playfully, thinking that it must be more of the donut-kind of surprise. As she heads toward the van he goes to the truck and grabs a couple of small lawn chairs from the back; the log is making him sore. Then he notices something resting on the front seat, grabs it and hides it on the ground, under the empty kindling bag. He is pouring the coffee for both as she returns with her surprise. “What’s with the lawn chairs? . . . Here I thought we were packing, not unpacking?” “My bum’s just getting a little too sore for that log. Hope you don’t mind.” “Not at all. I know the feeling!” They laugh at the pun but then she gets rather serious, emotional in a tender way that is unique to her, or so it seems to Ben. He asks her what’s on her mind, then remembers the surprise and asks about that. “Ben, I have something for you. I really didn’t have to think long about it all . . . there’s something I want you to have. It’s very important for me that you accept it, no hesitations or questions . . . so please take this, and I am so sorry.” Ben is watching her eyes becoming a little watery and she comes right up to him and passes over a piece of paper to him. He looks down and sees that it is a certified cheque in the amount of $10,000 and she sees that once again she has rendered him speechless. As he looks up to her and goes to say something, once again she lifts that index finger to his lips to hush him, telling him, “It’s okay. Your look says it all. Ben, you’re a kind and decent man. This is simply the only right thing I can do. Can we leave it at that?” With those words she gives him a big hug, and for him it feels more than a friendly one, but not the same as lovers, and it seems this too, this kind of hug, is unique to her. He wants to ease her intense emotions. Then he remembers what he tucked under the bag, so he tells her, “Okay, no more surprises for now, except I have one for you! Now close your eyes.” Thankfully she obeys, and he can sense her tension floating away . . . she appears to be more of a child now, waiting for a birthday present . . . and so he makes her wait. He gives her a few more seconds, letting her closed eyes remove the watering that was in them. Then he bends down and takes the present from under the bag. Before he puts it in her hand he tells her to keep her eyes shut until he tells her to open them. “I picked this up yesterday. It’s funny because I didn’t know why I’d want this one in particular, but now I know . . . this was meant for you, and I really want you to have it . . . I think in the last twenty-four hours I’ve come to know a bit about this myself.” He puts the gift in her hands, “Okay, you can open them now.” She looks down toward the gift and pulls it closer to read the cover of this gift, a book called Dancing Goddess. Her face is beaming at the kindness, yet she has no idea what the book is about. Already though, she finds amusement in the sub-title. “Dancing Goddess . . . and look at this sub-title, ‘Principles of the Matriarch Aesthetic’ . . . didn’t I just apply some of those a few hours ago?” Ben roars in laughter, and it seems to be catchy, as she’s laughing as well, just as hard. “I hope you enjoy it. It really does look interesting. Maybe some day you can explain it to me. In your words though.” Then he pauses and there is one more unavoidable question, and this time he gets it just right, at least for her, “I’m not going to ask ‘Where do we go from here?’ I just want to know when I’ll see you again. Whaddya say that you just call me sometime, but I’ll be thinking about you, so that sounds like it’s a little too open-ended, so will you call me within the next couple of weeks?” “That sounds perfectly fine by me Ben. For sure. It’s been wonderful, but now it’s time. And as far as ‘Where do we go from here?’ I don’t think we have much choice . . . it’s that way!”

* * *

Now, on this Sunday morning, the memory of these events, and more, are on her mind. Lounging on her cushioned chair on the patio, the coffee is good, and so is the reading. It’s a challenging read, non-fiction and historical, informative and thought- provoking. She even takes notes and when she goes inside from her patio position she takes the notes with her. Then she goes on to the internet, and does some research on these notes. The subject of most interest right now is that of gypsies, especially the role of humour in their folklore. There is one particular story that amuses her most, a tale about a young man, smitten with a maiden, and being taunted by the young lady of his affection. The lady tells him that in order to prove his love – and to win her affection – he must first fetch her a chicken! This anecdote alone puts a fresh perspective on so much of her past, even to the point of alleviating some of the pain hidden in the small chest in the base of that clock, the same pain that still lingers deep inside the human chest she carries around. But for now, her playful concern is with this poor gypsy boy, “Let him find that chicken and then let’s see what she does with that, not with the chicken though, but with him!” She pours another half cup of coffee and takes it back out to the patio, still thinking of that chicken story, and trying so very hard to feel some kind of sympathy . . . more for the chicken than for either of the young couple! The inexplicable absurdity of it all – of life – amuses her to no end and she finds herself humming to the tune of that chicken- dance song, the one she only hears at weddings, the one that nobody ever forgets. Was she losing her mind or just reinventing it? She thinks the latter.

* * *

Ever since that last phone call, the final one to her other seven clients, she has felt somehow emancipated. Her simple exit plan worked brilliantly, partly because there were no lawyers or other similar professionals in her little group of seven. She reduced the plan to a little script and reviewed the results after each call. It was really so simple, especially when she was so sure of their real motives in spending time with her . . . their sessions. The first call went something like this, “Hello Harry? This is Donna Belauche calling. How are you?” “Hello Donna. I’m surprised to hear from you. I’m fine, how are you?” “Oh, okay I suppose. Listen Harry, something has come up and I’m afraid it’s going to affect our professional relationship,” and then she pauses intentionally. “You sound a little shaken up. What is it?” “I’m not sure how I can tell you this, it’s really quite embarrassing. Do you have a minute?” Harry replies with an awkward “Sure” and Donna is certain her plan is working to a tee, at least so far. “Okay . . . how can I put this? It seems I’ve gotten myself in a terrible personal relationship. I’ve been seeing someone for about a year now and I really thought I knew him, but it turns out I don’t. I tried to break it off gently but he’s kind of aggressive, at least he is now . . . I had to get a restraining order,” and she once again pauses intentionally. “That’s terrible Donna. But what does this have to do with you and me?” Bingo. “Well here’s the worse part Harry. He’s very jealous. Actually that was one of his problems when he first came to see me, but after years of therapy I thought I had cured him, and everything was just going so well,” and after yet another pause, she asks, “Are you with me Harry?” “Yes, of course. Is there more?” “Yes there is. He thinks I’m using all my clients against him, that I’m secretly trying to seduce each of you. He thinks all my clients think I’m gorgeous and really just want my body . . . Harry, do you think I’m gorgeous? He’s threatened to show up at any time. It’s horrible. I’ve gotten some expert legal advice and I’m going to take it and stop my business for now. It’s for your protection as well. I hope you understand.” “Of course I do. Listen, I have to get going now. I really appreciate the call and your concern. I wish I could help you somehow, but I can’t. Is this it then? Is this goodbye?” “I’m afraid so Harry. By the way, you’ve done wonderfully well over the past six months and I’m sure you will be fine. I’d recommend someone to you but I really don’t think it’s necessary. What do you think?” “I agree totally. Besides nobody’s as, well, as talented as you are, and I don’t think I’ll find anyone so enjoyable to be with, if you don’t mind me saying so.” “Not at all Harry. I have to go now too. You take care now okay? Goodbye.” “Goodbye Donna. Good luck to you too.” Click. Each call went basically the same, with only slight variances along the way. With each one her confidence grew and she felt like she was running a seven kilometre race, with her pulling away from the pack after each successful call. By ten in the morning, Friday morning, the one remaining closure occurred and the weekend began, though it felt more like the beginning of a new life, and this is still how it feels. So much for dragging the whole mess out over the summer. This is much better, and this lie is so much better than any other set of lies she would have needed to concoct – over an extended “weaning off” period − better for them and better for her, and so much more fun!

* * *

While enjoying this last bit of coffee and a little more reading, she glances up toward the sun and estimates it must be about 1:00 in the afternoon. She takes what she has back inside, props it all on the kitchen table, and notices the time on the microwave clock. It’s now panic time – it’s 1:45 and she is supposed to be at a meeting in less than an hour. They have these meetings every Sunday on long weekends, Donna and her two partners. What has become a long weekend tradition works out very well for her. Her close lady friends, Melanie and the others, are usually off doing various family things on long weekends, so there is no shopping at the market or brunches on these weekends. Instead it is only the “three musketeers” as they often call themselves. Sometimes she sees them as champion fighters of a different kind. Each one has no close family ties anywhere near Victoria, and they are all very much single, very much alone. Yet they manage to fight off the loneliness as best they can, each understanding the other’s pain that way, and totally with no need to discuss the matter or belabour it with words. They have become very close friends, partly because of this kind of bonding. She is the youngest at 37, though her partners only know her as “thirty something”. Pierre Allarde is in the middle at 41, though the other two only know him as being “fortyish”. Charles Lartimer is the eldest at 52 but to the others he is simply Charles − and they refuse to call him Chad, and apparently so does everyone else he knows. Perhaps it is this air about him, this almost Dali-esque persona, often perceived as smug and arrogant, but nothing could be further from the truth. Charles has the stature for the part of Dali, and up until a few years ago even the moustache came close. It was then that Donna had finally convinced him to remove the damn thing. She convinced him that he looked like some kind of circus ringmaster. He was hurt by this, but when he finally succumbed to the razor, he thanked her, “Dammit Donna, you know, you were right!” The meetings are always lighthearted and she hopes this one will be too, especially given her current state of mind. The weekend has been so damn wonderful, and hopefully they will understand, as once more she must make another confession. This will be much like the one for Ben, from the heart, so hopefully they will understand. However, matters like this are far from certain, never certain with friends, and perhaps less so with ones who are also partners in business, a venture that she continues to hope is not a crime after all. Her body still aches a bit from her night outdoors, so she wishes the pulsating hot shower could soothe the aches a little longer. Unfortunately she needs to hurry. She called Charles before the shower, and of course he tells her not to worry, that the driver will be waiting outside. Still, she does not like to keep anyone waiting on her. She dresses quickly and throws a change of clothing into a duffle bag, hoping she hasn’t forgotten anything important. Just before closing the door, she remembers she almost forgot the most important item, her laptop and the notes stored inside it’s case. She grabs it and rushes down the stairs, slowing down after she catches herself from what would have been a tragic fall. In that instant she recalls one of Ben’s stories, the one about the needless rushing of traffic, and for what, to save a few seconds? She relaxes now and smiles at the thought of his sweetness, and of all of it. Chapter 14

The Gathering of a Monkey, a Toad, and a Pig

The driver stops at the end of the driveway of 317 Browning Road. He opens the door for Donna and offers to help her carry her duffle bag and laptop case, and to help her around back, to the garden area. She declines the offer and heads along the path by herself. She listens to a few birds enjoying their afternoon, looking for them as she periodically glances up at the trees. She only spots a few robins. She smiles at her own play on words, thinking how today they look all spruced up . . . yet they are playing among the maples! She can hear the men talking, mostly Charles. As she comes around the corner she can see them now, about forty meters away. She calls out a greeting and they just wave hello. Now, standing next to them, she puts her bags down and patiently waits for their argument to finish. She crosses her arms, tilts her head and just grins at their spectacle. She’s seen and heard this one before and it always ends the same, but she never tires of their banter. “I am not putting garlic in with these beautiful roses. These are David Austin roses you know. Special hybrid teas. Tell me Pierre, when in Quebec, does one put garlic in one’s tea?” Donna laughs. The two of them glance at her and say nothing, at least not to her. “When in Victoria one doesn’t put shit in one’s tea, and yet I’ve seen you put all kinds of shit around your precious roses. What do you have to say about that?” Pierre declares, sensing a victory at hand. He does appear to have Charles on the ropes now. The sun is warm at the moment, and so Charles takes off his sunhat, literally scratching his head, looking for his next move in their game of gardening chess. “I say it’s time we give this a rest and tend to our lady guest here. This meeting is adjourned.” With that Charles puts his hat back on. Pierre declares, “Check mate!” Then Donna joins in, “If you keep this discussion going any longer, those pastries I spotted on the patio won’t be fresh much longer, so why don’t we just call it another ‘stale mate’? Okay fellas?” She then grabs her bag and case and heads up the gentle hill towards the patio, or rather the center of a huge gazebo, where they usually visit on these occasions. They follow her, thankfully in silence. It's as if they both know that if there is one more utterance from either, well then, you may as well kiss goodbye to the notion of any business being done on this fine afternoon. As they get settled on the patio, Donna is thankful that it is tea now, as she’s had her fill of coffee for awhile. The tea is English, but of course not from England, while the pastry is French, but certainly not from France. “What a civil combination we have today . . . English tea and French pastry, how very patriotic on Canada Day!” she says with tongue in cheek, which is now savouring a crème-filled pastry. Pierre immediately takes a cue from her comment, as she hoped he would, “A minute ago you were making peace and now you want to start another war . . . the French against the English?” He laughs at the scenario, “Cream puffs against the rose gardeners, and tea ones at that!” Then it is Charles turn, “You know Pierre, I think if Quebec really wanted to separate, they would have done it by now. But they can’t. They really don’t know how − the only thing they’re really good at separating are their eggs!” At those words Donna almost chokes on a mouthful of crème, shocked and now laughing. “I’m telling you, the two of you should be on television. Next to the two of you, that pair of hecklers on ‘The Muppets’ wouldn’t have a chance!” Pierre agrees, looking at Donna when she tells her that Charles is half way there, explaining how their host already has the wardrobe to go with the characters − so all he needs is a little make-up and he’s ready! Donna asks whether they’re just going to rant all day or actually discuss some business. Charles says to her, “Whoa there, aren’t we in a hurry today? You know it’s always both. What’s the matter? Do you have a date or something?” Then Pierre sides with Charles, “Ahhh . . . oui, perhaps a late rendezvous?” “Now how can I ever top a Sunday afternoon with the likes of you two?” Her two male partners look at each other, nod their heads in agreement, look at her, and in unison they confirm, “Yes, you are right,” from one and, “C’est bon!” from the other. Donna changes her tone to a more serious one, “I wouldn’t mind if we get down to business soon. I’ve done up an agenda, but there’s some new things to discuss, personal things.” She pauses there, then adds, “But first I have something to tell you both. Actually I’ve made some changes − personal ones, career ones.” The two men become more serious now. They exchange a worried and puzzled glance at each other and then look at her with the same troubled glance. Pierre speaks first, “Are you all right Donna? All of a sudden you look a little pale.” “Thanks Pierre. I’m fine. You know, I’ve practised this speech a hundred times, but now that it’s time, well, I’m still a little nervous, so just give me a sec, okay?” As she takes a sip of tea, Charles notices how her hand seems a little shaky. He wants to console her, so he moves closer and puts a warm and calming palm over her nervous hand, “It’s okay Donna. You’re with friends here. Just let it out − and by the way, I hear that 101 is a lucky number!” His words and gesture work their magic. She takes a deep breath and continues, “Okay, here I go. As of Friday I’m no longer practising my counselling. I’ve let all my clients know this and they are all in agreement. The quick closure actually went much better than expected . . . and I’m so relieved that it’s all over!” The two men are stunned at the news. Charles asks, “All of them?” in reference to her clients. Pierre asks, “How can you do that? I mean financially speaking?” Then he quickly adds, “Excuse me, I know that’s none of my business . . . I guess it’s more of a rhetorical question.” “That’s okay. You’re my partners so I guess you have a right to know.” Then she looks at Charles, “Yes, all of them, I’ve told all eight of my clients. They each handled it very well. Though to be honest, speaking as friends here, there was really only one in the bunch that I gave a shit about − the rest were nothing more than a bunch of bullshit!” Pierre quips, “Ah, that’s my Donna Belauche, always the professional!” and to that the three of them share some polite and cordial laughter. “I’ll be okay you know, I mean financially, but part of that has to do with our little business venture.” She is interrupted by Charles, “Not so little anymore.” “Yes, that’s right, for sure, but that’s not why I quit the practice, just so you know.” She looks at Charles and tells them that there is more and she needs them to just listen for a bit, and how that would help her immensely. She then proceeds to confess as she did to Ben, telling them about her false credentials, how she did start graduate school but never finished, and so on. She did not mention anything about a name change or about the set of secrets still sitting in the bottom of her clock. She hopes she never will. It doesn’t take long for her to tell this story and when she’s done she says “That’s it!” and sits back, now ready for what she expects will be a backlash of contempt. To her amazement each of them have a warm grin on their faces. There is silence for a few moments. Charles looks at Pierre and asks him if he minds Charles speaking first. Pierre nods his approval and then Charles stands up and starts pacing, obviously mincing his thoughts into words. She senses something surprising coming. The suspense, and their grins, make her even more uncomfortable. Do they not take her seriously? “Donna, as you can see, we’re not really surprised, not at all actually. We kind of figured there was something fishy about the whole thing right from the beginning. You know Pierre and I do business together besides this one, so we see each other more often than the three of us getting together. And don’t think we did any kind of ‘official due diligence’ on you because we didn’t . . . we didn’t see a need for that. We both figured it was just a matter of time before you came clean with us.” He pauses and starts to chuckle, “Frankly we’re just amazed how you’ve been able to keep this charade going for so long . . . you know, you’re quite the operator!” Then Pierre chirps in, “But I don’t think either of us ever thought you’d just give it up ‘just like that’ − at least not so abruptly. We did think you’d eventually give it up if our site keeps performing like it is now.” Donna finds herself swirling in a mixture of emotions. She feels like a fool now. Here she thought she was going to feel better about no longer betraying these friends, but now that she has confessed, it is she who is feeling betrayed. In a way, she feels violated. She looks at Charles straight in the eyes, “You’ve been spying on me haven’t you?” Not surprised by the accusation, he replies, “Yes, a bit, but probably not as you think. There are things you don’t know, there are other secrets, and as you will soon find out, a most remarkable set of coincidences.” He pauses, and with a genuine smile he goes on, “This is turning out to be such an adventure for an old guy like me. It’s really something. I think this calls for some champagne!” “Champagne? You admit that you’ve been spying on me and now you want champagne?” Charles laughs in a kind way, “My dear, a few minutes ago you just admitted to your two business partners how your entire business is a fraud. Please cut me a little slack . . . you’ve freed yourself from some pretty big shackles . . . now just try to be a little patient.” At these words, her jaw almost reaches down to her waist. They are rejuvenating in their truth and in her self-revelation. Those three words that have been haunting her now make a little sense, “bound and impatient”. She suddenly realizes that none of this uneasiness ever had anything to with Ben, nor with any feelings of love for him, or even guilt about its absence. Her emancipation feels like it has gone to yet another level. As Charles saunters off in his gardening boots and coveralls, she calls out to him, “Okay, I’ll be patient, but in that case you better make it two bottles!” Pierre lets out a loud laugh – he hopes the champagne will ease any remnants of her tension. He really enjoys Donna's company and wishes he had more time to spend with her. He doesn’t really know any other ladies close to his age, at least none that are half as interesting as Donna. He is as much smitten by her as Ben is, perhaps more so, though it seems Pierre doesn’t realize how deep this adoration goes, at least not so far. Their contact comes mostly through Charles and his new art project – that is how they first met. The models for his project have all come from Papillon, by Pierre’s suggestion. When Pierre feels that one of his staff is someone suitable for the project, he then discusses this with Donna. From there, based largely on Donna’s judgment, a meeting is arranged between Donna and Pierre and the potential model. After that, Donna meets one or two more times with the new model, but privately, without Pierre. Eventually, if all goes well, and it always does, then Donna will also arrange for her and the new model to meet briefly with Charles. At that point they make more definitive plans and preparations for the model’s involvement in the art project, including a well- planned medical test. Pierre’s role is more one of introduction, but also one of looking out for the models once they’ve become involved. They are all his papillons. So far each one that becomes involved in the project fully desires to remain in it. This now includes all seven of them. The only exception is Sunni, at least for now. Remaining involved goes beyond just the modelling. After receiving their special 45-minute treatment, the one after the modelling, each model is then asked an important question. She is asked whether she would like to learn how to apply the kind of treatments she has received. They always say yes, and they each take turns participating this way. The guidance all comes from Donna. She teaches them many different cleansing techniques, massage more in the ways of a tantric massage, and other more sensual skills she learned years ago. These she acquired in specially arranged travels to certain locations in India, Peru, Tahiti and others . . . some unknown even to herself. Without exception, the young ladies became enamoured in the joy of giving exquisite pleasure as much as in the receiving of it. Pierre’s role as liaison is vital. It is not just that his butterflies enjoy the project, it is perhaps that they enjoy it too much. It is turning out to be almost a competition among them – some are more impatient than others – usually only two are allowed for the next event in this ongoing project. Recently Donna has allowed three – one model and two attendants – a few had become proficient enough so that Donna's presence was not always needed for these sessions. For Pierre it is all still new, and from his perspective it has become a very intriguing challenge in managing his home, Maison des Papillons. He knows it is something very special for all of them. He knows nothing of Donna’s ways, so he really knows nothing of the intimate details of what goes on during those treatments . . . Pierre respects their privacy too much to make deeper inquiries . . . he also trusts Donna. Pierre has a good reason to keep this kind of distance. He feels that would be a violation of his relationship with the ladies, that it would ruin everything. On this they all agree. So he knows nothing of the art that is created, nor the artist, not even his name. As for Donna, her main concern is taking special care of these young ladies in her own way. It is a very important role for her – the actual art that is created is of far less interest – she too has never seen any of the final art. Like Pierre, she knows nothing of the artist, not even his name. As much as she likes art, it is not her passion, as it is with Charles, so the artist is not her concern. Charles likes that part of the arrangement most of all, this anonymity of the final art . . . and its creator. For him the real interest is in the art, the process and the product, and even more, he is interested in the progress of the artist. As the hub of the entire project, he couldn’t be happier how it has developed. He recently boasted to Donna during a phone conversation, “and all this without a strategic plan.” As they continue to wait for Charles to return with the champagne, Pierre compliments Donna on all the fine work she has done with the ladies. He wants to ignore the issue of her past deception, preferring to focus on her more positive aspects, “This is a big change for you, that shows big time.” He passes her one of those genuine smiles, adding, “You’ve always looked ‘ten years younger’ but now you sound it and you do the walk. It’s quite remarkable to see . . . like a metamorphosis.” “You’re so kind Pierre, always the gentleman. How is it that you managed to stay single all these years? . . . Oops, sorry! . . . I suppose that’s my turn at rhetoric,” she says with her own genuinely warm style. “Well if you must know, that one’s pretty easy. There was someone really special, way back in high school and before that. We knew each other as little kids. By the time high school finished I was so happy to be done with it all, but I really had no special plans, no big dreams, aside from her. Now that I think of it, I suppose I just thought that the two of us would continue as my parents did, live happily on the farm.” “So what happened?” “Chantal loved her magazines. I think I convinced her that she was much prettier than any of the girls on those covers, and she was. But her real talent and passion was the piano . . . she just had more confidence in her looks.” “So let me guess. She left for the big city and you drifted apart?” “Tabernacle! To be reduced so easily − une saga peu!” “Oh, Pierre - I’m sorry, it’s not a little story, it’s actually a big story. It just happens all the time and yet each one is different. Don’t tell me you’ve been holding this candle for her all this time? There must have been many other women after her?” “For a fake therapist you sure know how to get people to talk . . . you’re a monkey!” She laughs at his defensiveness, “No, just a woman! But now that you’ve stopped your story . . . well . . . you’re a toad!” He laughs back, “But at least toads have nice legs.” He stands up and does a little macho pose for her amusement, and for the first time she sees him as a rooster. “But do you have any chickens?” she says, still giggling, and then she tells him the story about the gypsies. As she tells it, Pierre fantasizes about Donna in a long gypsy skirt, dancing around a huge fire, with her bosom glowing hotter than the embers, and he hears the crackling of the wood in her dangerous manoeuvres, dancing close to the flames. Lost in these thoughts, Pierre doesn’t hear Charles approaching and neither does she, at least not until they hear him announcing, “It’s time for a toast, or two or three!” With that announcement he plunks down the bottles of champagne on the table, not one or two, but three. “C’mon you two. We have much to celebrate. There’s a bottle each . . no glasses, not today! – Today we go bohemian! – Pierre, you’re not driving tonight. You can spend the night. Same with you Donna, you will stay here tonight? . . . After all, now you have tomorrow open, Tuesday too, for that matter!” She replies, “WTF!” Charles looks at her in mild disdain, “’What the fuck?’ There’s no need to swear about it?” While he’s talking she has already popped her cork, and with the chilled champagne oozing out of the bottle, she covers it with her mouth, her head tilted over the bottle, trying to contain the foamy bubbles while most of them drip down from her mouth. Her head no longer tilted, she stands proudly, wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her windbreaker, and calls out, “Cheers – here’s to frog legs and chicken stories!” Pierre goes next, calling out, “Here’s to a monkey pretending to be a Donna!” Charles goes last, poetically wishing, “To many happy and fruitful adventures . . . and to the love in life.” On that note they each take an extra long gulp, and then it is Pierre who belches first. Donna calls out “Toad!” and then she belches. Pierre calls out “Monkey!” Charles refuses to belch, accuses them of being crude, and in unison Donna and Pierre call out “Chicken!” and at that Charles takes another big gulp and unleashes the biggest belch of all. “By the way Charles, I didn’t say ‘What the fuck!’ I said WTF . . . I also have Wednesday, Thursday, Friday off!” By now they are all feeling a little buzz from the champagne and Charles retorts, “Clever girl . . . now Pierre, my dear friend, for that comment . . . will you please give our clever girl a little slap?” Donna looks over at Pierre and to her surprise, she notices the flash of a little grin, and he has a twinkle in his eyes, both of which he is trying to hide. He notices her quick glance and blushes uncontrollably. She, in turn, feels a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks and she reflexively closes her eyes and bows her head slowly, attempting to hide both her embarrassment and her curiosity. Meanwhile Charles is completely enthralled by the spectacle, refusing to offer any kind of relief, and then he suggests, “Perhaps you two should just share a room tonight?” Donna retorts, “Ha. Maybe we’ll just use your room . . . and you can sit in the corner and watch!” He just says, “Well . . . this just might be the best meeting ever.” While these two are finishing their banter, Pierre is busy looking for something hidden under the gazebo. He pulls out a small plastic bag that has some rolled cigarettes in it, as well as some organic substance. He lights up one of the joints, takes a deep whiff and passes it on to Donna. She inhales deeply and passes it on to Charles. Before he takes a drag he says, “What next . . . now I suppose later we will order pizza?” As he finishes his drag he passes the cigarette on to Pierre, who just says, “Cheesecake.” “Cheesecake? Why cheesecake?” and then Donna adds, “No cheesecake for me, or pizza either − I’ve already had a ton of food this weekend.” Pierre passes the joint over to Donna while Charles says, “Well something more healthy then. Let’s see . . . how does a crab salad sound?” She passes it on to Charles, who takes the last drag from the joint, and there is consensus on the salad and Pierre and Donna agree to make it “jointly” as they put it. Pierre then says, “So I take it then that this meeting is now adjourned?” Donna becomes quite serious, almost sober for a second, “But I’ve brought all kinds of material to go over − there’s lots to talk about − the future.” “Ah, ‘the future.’ Yes, we’ll get to that soon enough!” Charles bellows, snickering at his own humour. Then he gets serious for a moment, “But there are more pressing issues, such as the present, and perhaps because of that, the past as well.” Pierre and Donna are both puzzled by the comment, so Pierre asks, “What do you mean by that, Chad?” Charles is concentrating so hard that he completely misses how, for the first time, Pierre has called him by this nickname, one that no one has used to address him since boarding school. Charles looks at Donna as he responds to Pierre’s question, “Donna you’ve shared something really important today, and I know how hard that was for you. I have something to tell you as well. I didn’t mean for it to work this way, believe me I didn’t. You know I don’t want to hurt any of you. As I said earlier . . . ‘remarkable coincidences’. I know the two of you don’t care much about the art ,but I do, and I really care about the artist as well. You know Donna, it’s incredible what you do with that technology, and what we’ve done with this site. Every time we do an event, you monitor the art, at least as it begins . . . at the same time neither you, nor I, or anyone can see the artist on the web site. All they see are the models, the backgrounds, and some of the art − all very fascinating, and I’m certainly glad no one can see me as well.” He pauses, hunched over and now sighing. “What’s the matter Charles?” she asks, “Are you in love with this artist? You know you are with friends here. You don’t need to hide anything, so it’s perfectly okay if you are . . . and it doesn’t matter if it’s a woman or a man. Would you like us to meet her? Him?” He raises his head and addresses them both, “The artist is a man. It’s not what you think though. Yes, I suppose I love this young man, but more as a master craftsman loves an apprentice who turns out to be a genius. Do you know how rare it is to come across true genius in art? It borders on miraculous. But it’s not me that I’m worried about, it’s the artist.” Then he looks at Donna and speaks a little slower, “And it’s about you Donna.” “Me? I’ve got nothing to do with your artist . . . why me?” Charles pauses, sighing once again, “You are correct in that I have been spying on you in a way, but very indirectly. You see I recognized this boy’s genius right away and I’ve kept very close tabs on him, especially when he really started blossoming in to his own style. I have him followed because I’m worried he may stumble in to someone else’s hands. There are tons of vultures in the art world – ones that would devour him – so I’m trying to protect him, and our project, and I suppose the art. Is that so wrong?” Pierre knows exactly how Charles feels, “Not at all my friend. That is exactly how I feel about les papillons . . . but thankfully I do not follow them!” Upon further reflection he adds, “But there are many times when I am tempted to do just that.” “Thanks Pierre. – Now Donna, back to this artist, and for that matter, there is this issue of love. It seems the artist has fallen in love, but certainly not with me. At least he thinks he has.” He takes a deep breath now and asks her, “Are you ready for this?” He sees a look of shock in Donna’s face, almost terrified – the weekend is now gushing with one surprise after another. “It’s Ben isn’t it? He’s your artist! He’s your artist?” she calls out. “Yes dear . . . Ben is our artist . . . you are being adored by an incredibly gifted talent . . . believe me, I know.” He is thankful that for now she is speechless, as there is one question that he is afraid to ask, but under the circumstances he has no choice, “My dear Donna, there is one question, there is something I don’t know. I think you will agree it is important to all of us − are you in love with him, with Ben Talbot, this ‘painter of the house’?” She stands up now. She approaches Charles with the intent to slap him, harder than she had slapped Ben the other day, but then she manages to restrain herself. It is the memory of Ben’s words that stops her, “You didn’t need to slap me.” Then another thought occurs to her. This is his big secret – this is what Ben has been hiding from her. This art that he loves so much, that he seems to want to talk about all the time, but never really does. More than that, it is part of his search for love – to see it so naturally – beyond the merely human, but through humans, and to somehow express this in his art. She plunks to her chair in bewilderment. Her entire perception of Ben is now changing on the fly. All those sessions on intimacy, and she thought she knew him inside out, yet there was always this mystery about him. She wants to be angry about it all, to be angry with Ben . . . but she can’t. Instead, her thoughts of her new friend − the artist − are more tender than ever. Oddly though, it is that old note that also creeps in, the one she wrote in her journal from their first meeting, the one that simply said, “be very careful!” . . . now she thinks she knows why. “I told him that we are friends. He is becoming my dear friend. I don’t think there is much more to say than that. I’m like you Charles. Yes, I suppose love him, in a way, but I’m far from ‘in love’ with him. And still, somehow this seems to change everything − but not in terms of love. I just don’t see that happening.” She quickly looks at Pierre, then qualifies her last statement, “Not with him, I mean not with Ben.” Charles breathes a huge sigh of relief, “I’m not sure about that Donna, I mean about ‘this changes everything’. I don’t necessarily agree with that. With your permission, and yours too Pierre, I’d like to talk to Ben in private. Yes, things have changed. The question is whether it is for the better. We don’t have to decide today, that would be very unwise in our condition. Donna, I thinks it’s very good that you now some have time on your hands . . . I think you’re going to need it.” The other two partners agree. There is silence for a minute before Pierre tells them that he wants to say something, but he’s not sure he should right now. The other two tell him that he may as well, and after that it’s time for that crab salad – they agree that after dinner, perhaps the best idea is to just mellow out and watch a movie or two this evening. They often do this under more normal occasions, after completing their “business as usual”. Today is different though; it is incomplete and more and more, the business is becoming less and less usual. “Okay. Actually my news isn’t anywhere so dramatic. There is someone new at Papillon and I think she may be wonderful for the project. She is the most adorable young lady I have met since this whole project began. I’m not completely sure though, mostly because she is so unique. I’m guessing she is very much like your artist, what’s his name, Ben? She has a big heart, probably very creative, definitely a dreamer. I am sure she is destined to be a writer, she certainly seems to have that potential, perhaps even a great one, but then what do I know? What I do know is that she is the most adorable of them all, and she simply has no idea of her own presence. I hope you are telling the truth about ‘your dear friend’ Donna, because an artist like Ben could easily lose himself in adoration of a model like this, especially if he ever gets a hint of her inner strength and beauty. I know if I were a much younger man, I would already be in love with her . . . she may be one of those who suffers a life of great pain because of all she has to offer. I’ve seen it happen before . . . and it can be heart-breaking to watch.” Donna and Charles are captivated by his description, not just the words but by his hypnotic and caring tone, and this goes well beyond the effect of any marijuana, which was mild to begin with. They remain silent – they can tell he wants to get something else off his chest. “You know when I think of her, possibly our new model, I can’t help wonder whether it’s all okay, what we are doing. Sometimes it feels like we are violating some kind of ‘sacred trust’ and that worries me. Very soon I think we all need to rethink the whole thing. I think that’s what we agreed to earlier. I know there’s a lot of money in this now, but like we said at the beginning, it’s not really about the money, is it? I mean I’m pretty sure we’re not hurting anyone – but are we really helping them like we think we are, or are we just enjoying a game? . . . As it turns out, a very profitable one . . . yes, we have a lot to talk about, but not just now. Should we go in?” The other two nod in agreement. The air has become chilly anyway. Donna gives each of them a warm hug. The men take the empty bottles into the house while she carries her duffle bag and laptop case and follows behind them. She feels drained at all that has happened and is so very thankful to just listen to the two gardeners go at it some more. “You know Charles, roses really do love garlic . . . and carrots really do love tomatoes. I wish you’d read those books I gave you. This is serious stuff. You’ll really thank me some day.” “You know Pierre, someday I may do just that, but I don’t know whether I will thank you – or stuff you − and whether that will be with a tomato . . . or a carrot!” Pierre just gives him a playful jab on the shoulder and shoots a barb back at his friend, “When it comes to companion planting, some days I wonder whether you will be the companion that I end up planting!” . . . and in the house they go. Chapter 15

The Goddess Awakens?

As it turns out they did order pizza after all, and garlic bread, and a large crab salad for Donna, though she couldn’t resist at least one piece of pizza. Instead of more champagne they enjoyed some red wine, except for Pierre, who switched to Pepsi. He insisted on going home that night, and assured them that he will be fine to drive by the end of the movie. He won’t be staying for a possible second one. They watch one that they all agree is a classic. They have seen it a few times, but each time they marvel at the ingenuity of it all, The Sting, a film where it is hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys, and where it seems like no one really knows what is really going on. They pause it near the end so that Charles can make some coffee, mostly to help Pierre wake up for his drive home, but also to satisfy Donna’s cravings. She insists that it doesn’t keep her up at night, but that Coke or Pepsi do. While Charles prepares the coffee, Donna expresses her disappointment to Pierre, about his insistence to go home. “I can’t believe you’re not spending the night here. It’s been such a nice day, exhausting but nice, and it’s not like you have to work tomorrow.” “I know, and I’m sorry. But I’m tired and just want to sleep in my own bed. And I know we won’t be talking about business tonight, or in the morning for that matter. I’m really having second thoughts about all of this, you know.” “Somehow I think it has something to do with this new girl. Is that it?” “Boy Donna, you can sure read me like a book, a real simple one at that.” She replies, “You always cut yourself short. I’ve known a lot of men in my life, all kinds of men. Lots of smart men, professionals, but they don’t have a clue about life − you do. What you have, that’s very rare.” “Thanks Donna. You know, when you let your hair down you remind me so much of someone I knew so long ago now. She was pretty rare too. And so does this ‘new girl’ as you call her.” “What’s her name? How did you find her?” “She’s the closest friend to one of my senior servers. She recently lost her job. I’m sorry, but you know I don’t give out names until I’m sure the person is someone you should meet. She has a very unique name − she used to work in a bakery. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just a thing with me, though I’m sure you and her will hit it off.” There is a pause. For Donna it has just been one surprise after another and she’s beginning to wonder whether it will ever end. “I don’t believe it, what a coincidence. By any chance is her name Sunaria, a goddess with skin like light chocolate?” She pauses and with a whimsical smile she adds, “The kind that melts in your mouth?” “Now how the hell did you know that?” She laughs, “Lucky guess I suppose!” Then she switches to a more serious tone, “That bakery is only a few blocks from my office. I actually just met her there just a few weeks ago. And then it just closed down. Actually when we said goodbye, I think we both wanted to meet again. For now I just follow her blog.” “So do you find her adorable?” “Exquisitely so − and in many ways − not just for her looks. She’s very bright. Her writing is very good, somehow very refreshing, but also very sad at times.” “Refreshing . . that’s the perfect word for her. And I’m really worried about spoiling that. I know she has a very natural curiosity, a curiosity about pretty much everything. And she’s such a thinker, and she has this great big heart. Yes, very sad at times, and I’m afraid perhaps rather fragile too, more than she lets on to anyone. She’s just too good to tamper with . . . now that I think about, isn’t that what we’re doing? Aren’t we tampering? Perhaps interfering?” “You sound like you’re in love with her . . . are you?” “No. No, I’m not. She’s way too young for me. I love all that she is though, I can’t deny that. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I have a hunch you were very much like her around that age.” Donna is genuinely touched, and surprised, by the compliment. As close to objective as she can be, she agrees of his assessment of Dawn Belcourt at the age of 22, but she says nothing in response. Aside from admiring Pierre’s uncanny insight, she finds herself questioning whether she is also guilty of “cutting oneself short.” “If you’re so concerned about Sunni, then why don’t you just leave her out of the project?” “That may not be so easy. As much as I like Andrea, I just have a hunch that she won’t be keeping our secrets from Sunaria much longer.” “You mean Andrea’s her best friend? Wow! And what makes you say that?” “First of all, I just found out they are more than friends, they are roommates, and I’m guessing very close ones. I’ve never had this issue of two butterflies living together − and such close ones at that!” “I see, yeah, wow, now that’s quite a household . . . so is there more?” “Isn’t there always? Yes. Andrea has been on cloud nine since last Sunday, since that one year anniversary . . . remember? And do you remember that time a year ago, when Andrea jumped in, and then all this started taking off?” “Yes, I remember − first model for our project . . . she’s very gifted you know. And wasn’t it her that seemed to trigger something in the artist . . . umm, I mean in Ben?” “Yeah . . . that’s what Charles said. She loves doing it every chance she gets, I mean being in the project, modelling or not . . . you know . . . the sessions after.” “Oh yeah, I know, and like I said, well, Andrea’s in a class of her own. As for those sessions . . . if you really understood all of it, you’d easily understand their desires. So for wanting to always be part of that, who wouldn’t . . . and so?” “Well she came to me a few days later, after the anniversary, and she thanked me and gave me a big hug and a little kiss. She told me that last Sunday had been the ultimate for her. She said how getting to know the artist, after the modelling, took everything to ‘another level’ for her . . . I’m really happy for you that Ben is just your friend . . . it seems they really had quite the time, at least she did, but I refused to listen to any of the details. It felt like she was just so excited that she just had to say something to someone!” He pauses for a second, seemingly switching mental focus, “As for Sunni, if Andrea says anything to her then it’s only a matter of time before she comes to me, wanting to get involved with the project.” “You sound so sure of that. How do you know? And still, you can always refuse her, right? And where is Charles with that coffee? Actually I could use a drink about now, maybe a double . . . Ben and Andrea? Now that I didn’t know, another one of Charles’s little surprises . . . I had no idea . . . no wonder he wanted me to work from home for that event − what a bugger!” Now she thinks of what was supposed to be a rule, the one where the artist’s involvement stops. She gives Charles the benefit of the doubt, figuring he must have got caught in the excitement of the anniversary gift for Ben, completely forgetting about the rule. Or perhaps he succumbed to Andrea’s wish, the one of meeting an artist that she couldn’t even see before, given the lighting on the stage. Then she remembers her role in the gift . . . yes, it seems perhaps it turned out to be a gift for Donna’s favourite as well . . . for Andrea. “Are you okay Donna?” She slowly nods her head, so Pierre continues, “Let’s just say I’ve gotten to know Sunni pretty well . . . we’ve had some really good discussions. I think you know by now Donna, I have a pretty good sense in these matters . . . after all, les papillons, these are my girls, so I know them, at least I really try. I hope that make sense to you.” Once again she nods her head as a sign of understanding, and of appreciation. He goes on, “As for ‘refusing’ it’s not so easy to do that. Do you know I’ve done that twice already, and both times it turned out badly − each time it was someone who had left though . . . I wouldn’t hire them back . . . there was a lot of tension, even anger . . . did you know that?” “No . . . I had no idea.” “I don’t tell you and Charles everything – none of us do – it’s just part of my role in the project. I’m pretty sure the ladies who quit were more interested in getting back into the art project than in coming to work for me – it’s not all a bed of roses you know.” “I can see that − so there is some garlic too then?” He laughs now, “But I love the garlic as much as the roses . . . monkey!” “Toad!” she replies. Donna is really enjoying listening to Pierre, finding him more endearing with every exchange. Still, she wonders what is taking Charles so long. She continues the dialogue. “So let me see then . . . from what you are saying, Mr. Allarde is now in a no-win situation? . . . If you say ‘no’ to Sunni you might lose her, or at the very least she won’t be the same at the restaurant. If you say ‘yes’ . . . then what? Then she has the most marvellous sexual experience – some would say beyond sexual – something she may not get for the rest of her life – now tell me again, what is so bad about that?” She can see that she has put him on the spot. As she waits for his answer, she adds, “Now where the hell do you think Charles went?” “Oh he’ll be along soon. I’m guessing he probably took a stroll in the garden. He does that sometimes in the night, you know. As for Sunni – and all of them for that matter – I still don't know exactly what you mean, but it does sound like an amazing experience − I always figured it must be very special – I’m sure Sunni will be no different in that regard, but now you've really got me wondering just what exactly does happen after the art!” Pierre’s expression becomes more cheerful, “Whatever it is, they change after that. They all become more confident, like a burden has been lifted off their shoulders. There is no confusion, or at least much less of it . . . but perhaps it is too much?” He becomes sombre again, “I mean, for example, those two ladies I just told you about . . . when they returned to me not that long ago, both of them were completely miserable. They jumped into relationships, each with a very successful man, but it all fell apart very quickly – I can’t help but think that we spoiled them in a way. They had all the material comforts that a person could want, but what they received from us – or perhaps from you – through this ‘art project’ – well you can’t really ‘export’ that, can you?” “Ohhh . . . now I see what’s upsetting you so much. Yes, you’re right, we can’t make everything perfect for them – for the rest of their lives – so then what we must be doing something wrong?” He laughs now, so very impressed with the way she thinks, and how nice it is to be arguing in such a pleasant way. “Donna, I had no idea you are such a talented debater, if that is the word for it . . . very astute, I’m impressed . . . I’m really enjoying this, our time alone.” “Thank you . . . me too. But I think you see my point. These ladies know exactly what they’re getting into . . . we tell them, at least as best we can. They know they will be doing nude modelling. They know they are being taped for the internet, but it doesn’t matter because of the body painting, the accessories, they are completely unrecognizable . . . and what happens after is all by choice.” Donna smiles proudly now, “I told each of them there will be a nice massage, and I told them a bit of what I’ve learned . . . they knew if there was anything that makes them uncomfortable, then they could always stop the treatment . . . so wasn’t I being honest?” “Ahhh, but that’s just it . . . you, I mean ‘we’ . . . didn’t tell them everything. Like I just said, we all know this changes them. Yes, in a way, perhaps they become closer to real butterflies? But we don’t warn them of the dangers . . . of future disappointments? And then they come back and want back in . . . it’s almost addictive you know . . . there have been many tears.” Calmly, and with supreme tenderness, Donna replies, “But do you really know how exquisite the tears of joy are . . . the ones that come from their ‘after-experience’ . . . do you know how it is that most people go their entire lives without knowing that? That’s what keeps them coming back. And it’s not only receiving such pleasure, it’s also the joy of helping someone get to such a state of ecstasy . . . but it’s not an addiction, it’s just all so very beautiful . . . it’s the finest kind of art.” Pierre listens closely. He can see how concerned she is for les papillons. He agrees with her assessment of the term ‘addictive’ and he understands what she says about the beauty of it all. He knows she has been the integral part of all that. Now more than ever, he wishes he could at least witness what she describes, at least just once, but only with her. Pierre thinks of something else that troubles him, another aspect, something he wants Donna to know, and to hear what she thinks on the matter. “You know, Sunni said something about Papillon that really hit me in the gut, even though I think she was kidding. She was talking about how much the girls enjoy working there, how they all get along so well. She said it was like a ‘cult’ and then she laughed and apologized . . . But you know, she may be right?” “Do you really think that’s true Pierre . . . I don’t think so.” “Well my dear Donna, as times goes on it does feel more that way. It’s like this. Perhaps even subconsciously, the ladies don’t seem so interested in real relationships anymore. They get much more excited about their next turn in one of their ‘events’ here at 317 Browning. You can see that a few days before it happens and for many days after. You are very right. I can see that very clearly now. You don’t see these ladies almost every day though, but I do.” He pauses, takes a gulp of his Pepsi before continuing, “We’ve created a new art form all right . . . or perhaps reinventing a very old one? An extremely sensual one, but more and more it seems dangerous in the long run . . . will they be happier ten years from now or much sadder? We don’t really know that do we? I mean does such ecstasy have a price?” “Wow Pierre. You’ve really thought this through. I really don’t know. But I want to tell you something, from a woman’s perspective. Okay?” “Le divin féminin - très bien!” She laughs at the flattery, “Divine feminine? Very well, if you say so! Okay, how can I put this? . . . You, all of us, give the ladies a chance at something different, we free them from all kinds of shackles of tradition. They get to know how precious life can be, at least a very wonderful part of life . . . And at the risk of being sexist, though I’m not, I think you know this as well as I . . . a woman’s experience can be so much more intense than a man’s. Now that I hear you though, I think you’re right in a way . . . I wonder if we’re giving them a taste of heaven, then throwing them back into some kind of hell?” It is her turn to take a sip but can’t − she wonders again where Charles is with that coffee, so she just continues, feeling parched, “You know, it’s been about a year now, and that sounds like a long time, but it really isn’t in the context of their lives . . . I like how you put it. I don’t think any of us ever thought of it like you have. I guess we’ve all been so enthralled with the ‘pleasures of the moment’ that we’ve never really considered the long term impact . . . until now. And I totally agree . . . there are these longer term concerns.” Just then she stops herself in her tracks. It’s almost alarming to her now, as she flashes back to her only discussion with Sunaria, the one about The Chapman Report and the issues of measuring relationships and sex. Pierre watches her trying to process her thoughts, then he adds another perspective. “It’s funny, isn’t it? It doesn’t seem to matter what we say or do, all the good things about what we’ve created, and it always come back to the same thing, doesn’t it?” “My dear Pierre, whatever do you mean?” “It always comes back to love.” Then, in his grand way, he stands up and spreads his arms full out, “I want to love this much!” He walks around in one spot and waves one arm in the air, telling her, “And for this long, and then longer. I don’t want to stop it.” Then he stops. He looks at her with a very sheepish grin, and laughing at himself, he proclaims to her, “Sacrament, never mind ‘stop it’ . . . I don’t even know how to start it!” “Aren’t we a pair!” she proclaims, adding, “Well maybe there is something we can do after all. Maybe we just have to take it all to another level. After all, the three of us have all been through a lot, we know a lot about a little hell, and I don’t know about you, but I have had a few tastes of heaven along the way.” She pauses, her tone becomes subdued, “but that was so long ago. I was about the same age as them − your girls − now it seems like such a long time ago.” “Now you’ve lost me Donna . . . and stop making yourself sound old . . . you’re not.” “Thanks Pierre, I appreciate that. Anyways, let me try to explain . . . it’s really very simple. We just have to turn some of these negatives into something positive. We just have to help them recognize what we know as a little hell, and do our damnedest to fix that . . . it’s time to ‘change a little hell’ . . . capiche?” “Ahhh . . . brilliant! Yes, perhaps you are right. But does that mean more meddling?” “More like coaching . . . besides, can you think of anything better to do?” “Mais non, and you?” She pauses, suddenly she has a blank look on her face, and a stark reality greets her just then, “mais non . . . now, can we go find Charles?” Pierre is still standing, now in front of the fireplace. Donna is sitting on a large, plush armchair, facing him, and with her back to the hallway. As she gets up, she sees Pierre looking past her, looking down the hallway that leads to the kitchen. She turns to see what he is looking at and now she can see Charles coming towards them. He’s carrying a tray with coffee and mugs and all the fixings and something else that she can’t make out from this distance, something covered with a cloth napkin. Only a few feet away now, he looks at Pierre and grins. “Yes, you are right Pierre . . . I did go for my walk in the garden. Sorry I took so long, but I had a hunch you two could use some time alone. You don’t always need a windbag like me around. Besides, why have an English one when you can have a French one?” The three-way laughter begins again. Charles places the tray on the coffee table and sneaks a couple of mysterious objects away from under the napkin, putting them behind his back. His guests are now sitting as they were when he left. He goes to Donna first, politely bows, and presents her with something, one of the things that he's hiding behind his back. “This is for you, my dear Donna.” and he hands her one of his most precious flowers, a Jane Austen rose, “From a garden that really isn’t mine, as Ben says, to a lady who belongs to no one, as I say.” Still having one hand behind his back, Charles then moves closer to Pierre and asks him to close his eyes and hold out his hand. As Pierre opens his palm to Charles, the host presents the guest with the other surprise, “This is for you Pierre. Please accept it from the bottom of my fridge.” Pierre opens his eyes and looks down to see a large bulb of garlic resting in his palm. Charles laughs without shame at his own prank and they all join in the amusement. In a moment they settle down and Charles gets the movie ready for the conclusion. As he does so, Pierre manages to get the last word in, but addresses his comment to Donna from across the room. “Like I keep saying, ‘garlic loves roses’. . .” And from Donna comes a sweet reply, “I thought it was the other way around, don’t ‘roses love garlic’?” It appears that Charles hears none of this, as he sits down and fidgets with the remote, moving the film back a bit, a few minutes from where they left off, “Now where were we?” Within half an hour The Sting is over. It is getting on to midnight and Pierre bids adieu to his musketeer friends. Charles insists again that he should spend the night, but Pierre will have nothing of it. Donna says nothing, fully understanding his need for home. Besides, it’s a safe choice on his part, for both of them. As he puts his jacket on, Donna picks hers off the hanger and puts it on. Charles looks puzzled until Donna tells him that she has some unfinished business to go over with Pierre, and she won’t be long. Now Pierre is as puzzled as Charles. They walk side by side down the long driveway, neither of them saying a word. Pierre clicks his key to open the car door and then turns to Donna to ask her what’s on her mind. As he turns and tries to speak, she puts an index finger to his mouth and says “Shhh.” Then she cups his face and kisses him gently on the lips. It’s a brief kiss, and then she pulls her lips back slightly. She kisses him again, only with more firmness and a little longer. Then she pulls away to moisten her lips with her tongue, and his lips as well, and she kisses him again. By this third kiss he has softly cupped the back of her head, hoping to lose his fingers in the softness of her hair. They kiss passionately now. He leans closer to her, wishing he could just melt in to her. She kisses as if her tongue has a mind of its own, and his tongue follows. It is the kiss of two but with one mind. Eventually it must end, this kiss, which is the only awkward moment, the ending of it. “Can I come see you tomorrow?” she asks. “Just come over and surprise me, I’ll be home all day.” “I’ll bring some lunch then . . . be sure you are hungry, okay?” “Mademoiselle, after that kiss I am sure that you will always have a way of making me hungry.” He touches her cheek with his palm and kisses her softly on the lips, lingering for a few more moments, and then simply says “bonsoir”. She feels light-headed on her walk back to the house, dreading the need to spend more time with Charles, simply because now she just wants to go to bed. When she gets back in, Charles is nowhere in sight, and with the coffee and cups now all gone, she goes to the kitchen to look for him. There he is, doing the dishes, pretending not to suspect any of what just happened. He looks over at her approaching him. Donna sees him smiling, and it is the warmest smile she has ever seen on his animated face. Charles, in turn, now sees her beauty in an entirely new way, one with the look of love. “I was hoping we could stay up late tonight and just talk.” he says. “There is so much to cover now. This has been a big day for you – for me too, and for Pierre as well! But now I can see you are in no condition to talk . . . I’m very happy for you” “Yeah, I’m pretty tired . . . Hey, what do you mean by ‘no condition’?” Charles can tell by her voice that his words have broken her trance − she has awakened and he feels a small tinge of guilt because of it. He continues to wash the dishes. “I thought you were tired . . . that answer might take a few minutes . . . are you sure you want me to continue?” She grabs a dry towel, picks up one of the coffee mugs, and they are standing side by side now, doing the dishes together. “Well how rude would that be, leaving you alone to do the dishes? . . . Now what’s on your mind? You look like the canary that ate the mouse!” He looks at her dumbfounded, “Boy did you get that one wrong! It’s the cat that ate the canary!” “You mean the mouse got away? – Poor canary.” “You . . . such a kidder sometimes . . . I think you know very well what’s on my mind. I knew it would happen . . . it was just a matter of time.” “Time for what?” “Still playing coy? All right then . . . you and Pierre, I saw your destiny the minute I introduced you two. But you needed today . . . my little child, you don’t understand do you?” “What’s there to understand? I think you presume too much! Now you’re beginning to sound like Ben . . . such a dreamer!” He becomes almost stern. He’s in too good a mood to scold, or to be taken overly serious. He tells her how he knew how much Pierre has been captivated by her all this time. He tells her that Pierre wears his heart on his sleeve, but hides that through his concern for the sleeves of others, much more than his own. “My dear Donna, do you know that it was only because of you that Pierre agreed to become more involved in this project? He was quite against it, but I managed to convince him, and in the end he really trusted your judgment, despite everything.” “What do you mean, he was against it? And in spite of what?” “He didn’t like the aspect of any of this having to do with money. That really bothered him. It bothered me too, you know. I mean money is the last thing I need. But I told him you needed it. So he went along with that.” “What? Why would you say that?” she says defensively. “Come on Donna. Do you forget what we talked about earlier? I told you that we pretty much knew you were a fraud a long time ago, at least I did . . . and I didn’t have to say anything to Pierre. He figured it out for himself, at least some of it. You can’t hide from the past Donna. You can try, and you do a marvellous job of that. But the truth is very real, and sometimes it just seeps out, but then perhaps sometimes the dam bursts?” “So he trusted me even though he knew my practice was a fraud?” “Yes, very much so. In a way I suppose you did him a favour. You see as much as he admires you, this false life of yours has always kept him back, so he could only admire you from a distance. It is not his style to confront you − or anyone − on this kind of thing. He and I have talked about this off and on, in a different way, and I convinced him to be patient. I told him that some day you would break free of . . . I think the term I used was, ‘the binds of deception’. Does that make sense?” “More than you will ever know, Charles, more than you will ever know.” “Good then. Now do you see why I was so excited to celebrate today?” “I suppose . . . I mean, it is so nice to be rid of that secret. Thank you. Thanks for being so patient and understanding.” The dishes are done now. Charles takes the towel from her, dries his hands and then tosses it on the counter. He grabs her arms gently but firmly, and looks at her closely, with a look of genuine affection. “No Donna, thank you. Today you’ve changed everything. But this isn’t about the business, nor is this about me. Don’t you see? – You don’t, do you?” “No, I suppose I don’t.” “It’s really very simple . . . by removing those binds you have opened the door for love, and she blew right in . . . you should have seen yourselves!” He is laughing at them now, at Donna and Pierre, doing his best to imitate them, “You know, I heard the two of you . . . Garlic loves roses . . . isn’t it roses love garlic? . . . you two are so funny! You thought I didn’t hear? Do you really think I just had an urge to go for a walk? I thought you knew me better than that . . . you and Ben and Pierre . . . you’re not the only ones who delight in love, even as a passive observer.” “Me? Why do you put me in there? I’m not in love with anybody? I think you must still be high . . . and I’d say you’ve been anything but passive!” “Okay Donna, if you say so . . . by the way, when was the last time a kiss felt that special?” “A kiss? . . . You bugger . . . you were watching? How did you know?” “I didn’t . . . not until now!” and again he laughs heartily, especially at her protests, and how she so desperately wants to hide her true feelings. She tries to remain angry but she just can’t, and she too starts laughing. He mimics her a little more, and there they are, behaving like two grown children. Now she has no choice but to invoke the only remaining defence in her arsenal. She begins to tickle him until he cries out, “Stop . . . I have to pee!” Chapter 16

And So They Dance

The surprises of that Sunday stretched beyond 317 Browning Road. While Donna lazed around in her pyjamas and housecoat, reading the book Ben gave her, The Dancing Goddess, half way across the city another dance was in the making. Around the time Donna began chapter three, late in the morning, Andrea and Sunaria were just beginning their day. A few days ago they had agreed to hang out together for at least part of this long weekend, mostly on Sunday. When they first talked about it, Sunni had suggested perhaps spending the day in the park, a long walk, and then hopefully a little shopping or people-watching. Andrea found the idea very amusing. When Sunaria stopped with the suggestions, she told Sunni that by Sunday morning her feet, and perhaps her back, would probably not be up for that. Andrea suggested that they should just play it by ear. It turns that Andrea was right. After her first two shifts, and when she woke up this Sunday morning, Sunni didn’t feel like doing much of anything. She thought about that monthly massage, the one that's part of their benefit package. Now she's thinking it sounds more like a punishment or a tease, like it wouldn't be enough – it should be more like once a week. She slept in. For her, 10:30 in the morning is pretty late to be getting up. Today it seems early. Andrea slept in too, not rising until 11:00. This is after a late night out, dancing and sharing a few drinks with some of her old friends from the steakhouse, where she used to work. After gulping down a glass of cold water, along with two aspirins, and then a glass of orange juice, Andrea moped into the shower. When she was done she left the door open, letting the steam float into the hallway. Sunni happened to be coming down the hall at the same time, and laughed at the sight of her almost-naked friend, “You look like you’re coming out of a cloud!” “If you could see inside my head right now, that would be about right.” “Ahhh . . . poor Andrea. You’d think it was you who worked their butt off last night. C’mon I’ve got just the cure . . . let’s do a little yoga!” Andrea stops her trek to the bedroom, turns and looks at Sunni with a stunned look, then gives Sunni her honest assessment of the yoga idea, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me?” “Ouch!” Sunaria laughs at her roommate’s resistance, “Well it’s either that or you have to give me a nice massage, so it’s your choice . . . lady’s choice!” Now in a more playful mood, Andrea replies, “So who put you in charge? You think you’re the boss now? Should I call you Pierre?” “Honey, you give me that massage and you can call me anything you want! I tell you what, let’s wait awhile, maybe you’ll change your mind once you wake up some more – I mean about the yoga – besides, you used to like doing it. Me too. I sure wish we could’ve stayed with that routine, don’t you?” “Yeah, it did feel good . . . too bad we didn’t stick with it. By the way, I know exactly how you’re feeling . . . and yeah, that yoga sure got rid of that sore back, and even the feet a bit. I just stopped because I wanted to get more fresh air, so I switched to running, remember?” “Yeah, I remember. I don’t know how or why you do that though. I mean that’s just as hard on you as working, isn’t it?” “Almost, I suppose, still it’s nice to get out . . . get some fresh air.” “You know, I just had a thought.” Before she can share it, Andrea goes, “Uh oh!” Sunni laughs, “Oh, I think you might like this one. Actually, I’ll make you a deal. If you do twenty minutes of yoga with me this morning, then I’ll take us shopping later, and we can pick one out for the both of us . . . what do you say?” “What are you talking about? Pick what out – a ‘Power Yoga’ video?” Sunni laughs again, “No, much better than that − a new bike − it can be for both of us!” It seems this idea actually wakes up Andrea more than the water, both hot and cold, and more than the orange juice or pills. “Now why didn’t I think of that? And long ago! That sounds so much better the running − I really don’t like the running, you know. Sounds much better than your power yoga idea, too.” “Power yoga? . . . Nice try! . . . That was your idea, you monkey! Besides, I like our yoga a lot more – the ‘old school’ kind. And who the hell ever invented that power yoga? Have you seen it? May as well just join the damn army! And when you think about it, what does that say about the real yoga . . . that there’s no power in it? . . . I don’t think so!” “Uh oh − Sunni’s thinking again! Now go think somewhere else while I get dressed . . . I can see you’re all ready.” Andrea looks admiringly at Sunaria’s outfit – dark-beige cotton gym shorts and a peach-coloured sweatshirt, with the sleeves rolled up. It all goes so well with that glorious mop of afro hair, a little longer at the back, a style that makes her appear much taller than five-foot-four. She is certain that Sunni has no idea how much she adores that luxuriant caramel complexion. “Okay,” says Sunni. “Yeah, I’m ready. I’ll start making some room in the living room. Hurry up.” “Slave driver.” Sunni is halfway down the hall but still manages to hear that last comment. She calls back to Andrea, “Honk, honk!” Once she gets to the living room, Sunni slides the small coffee table towards one of the windows, near the adjacent dining room built comfortably for four. After that she looks around the living room. The entertainment center stays where it is. The two light- weight armchairs can each be moved back a few feet, and they are. She decides the couch will require Andrea’s assistance, so she picks up the little book that she left on the couch, lays down, props her head on one armrest while her legs rest comfortably in a fully- stretched position. She reads a little while she waits for Andrea. Sunni really likes this book. It was one of the books from Ben’s place. She found it a few days later, in the bottom of that sack she calls a purse. He had pulled it from the shelf that night. Ben really wanted her to read it, but she wasn’t paying much attention to him then. She remembers changing the subject, and there was no further mention of this Mark Twain book – she figured all his writings were for boys. Her curiosity got the best of her, and now she is really enjoying Letters from the Sandwich Islands. It only takes a few minutes for Andrea to make her entrance, wearing her light- mauve body suit, the image of an Olympic gymnast, only with a little less muscle tone, and at five-foot-seven, probably with a little more height. Her long light-brown hair is still visibly moist. Andrea takes one look at her roommate and shakes her head in amusement. “Done already? Or is this a new position I don’t know about . . . the ‘slave driver on the couch’ position? Reading again? Let me guess, old school yoga?” “Perhaps . . . do you really want to know? It’s really something, but it’s not really about yoga, it’s about Hawaii . . . in 1866 . . . not that long ago when you think about it . . . and by Mark Twain, of all people!” Andrea parks herself in one of the armchairs, “Okay then, let’s hear about it – I know we’ll never get started until you finish!” “Well it’s not really a novel. It’s a series of letters or articles he wrote when he traveled to Hawaii. They were published in an old Sacramento newspaper. From the intro, it sounds like Twain was only about thirty, and this was some of his earlier writing, written just before another book, The Innocents Abroad. If he were writing today, except for the length of some of the letters, I’m guessing he’d probably put some of this in a blog. Anyways, there’s some really nice descriptions of their culture in here, before it got assimilated, or more like while that was happening. I’m trying to find the part Ben told me about . . . the part about how the families took on the mother’s name . . . the way he put it . . . the tradition sounds so innocent, and so wonderfully honest!” “Wait a minute . . . did you say Ben? Let me guess, you stole the book from his place?” Andrea says in a teasing manner. “No . . . he’s the thief . . . he went into my purse! He had to . . . so he could hide this book in there. Anyway, like I was saying, any idea why the children took on the mother’s name?” “I haven’t got a clue . . . are you almost done? My head’s about to start hurting again.” “I should start calling you Diamond Head! Okay, here’s the reason . . . they take on the mother’s name for the simplest of reasons . . . they always know who the mother is!” Andrea lets out a startled little laugh, “Oh, how brutally honest! That is so funny!” “Yeah. It’s actually all really interesting stuff . . . there’s a paragraph here, about some regular Saturday dancing. He has it marked. I want to read it to you and then we can get on to the yoga, okay?” “Okay.” Sunni quickly finds the marked page. Then she tells Andrea that the paragraph is from a letter, or chapter, called “Saturday in Honolulu”:

At night they feasted and the girls danced the lascivious hula hula − a dance that is said to exhibit the very perfection of educated motion of limb and arm, hand, head and body, and the exactest uniformity of movement and accuracy of ‘time.’ It was performed by a circle of girls with no raiment on them to speak of, who went through with an infinite variety of motions and figures without prompting, and yet so true was their ‘time,’ and in such perfect concert did they move that when they were placed in a straight line, hands, arms, bodies, limbs and heads waved, swayed, gesticulated, bowed, stooped, whirled, squirmed, twisted, and undulated as if they were part and parcel of a single individual; and it was difficult to believe that they were not moved in a body by some exquisite piece of mechanism.

Sunni stops there, and with a big smile she looks at Andrea, “Pretty amazing, huh . . . he makes it sound like they were dancing with the divine!” “Wow. Awesome . . . it sounds so hypnotic,” Andrea replies in a dreamy tone. “Yeah, well, like I said, there’s a lot more . . . you should read about all the ladies riding through town, like a weekly parade and almost nude, two or three together on one horse, and tons of horses −” “My oh my, now that would be quite the sight . . . maybe I will read that, but later . . . C’mon now, help me move this couch so we can get started.” So now, while half a city away, as Donna reads about The Dancing Goddess, these two angels begin their stretching . . . if there is to be any dancing, it will have to follow. There are necks to stretch, arm circles, and then there are calves and hamstrings, toes and backs and thighs and torsos, all these parts and more, they all patiently wait their turn, but eventually they all become limber. The ladies try to remain silent. They sit across from each other in a classic lotus position, and begin their solemn ritual of breathing exercises. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, hold it a bit, breathe out. And again, and then again, and by the tenth time, the unavoidable happens, the “omm” turns to “umm” as Andrea begins her little game. “Okay smarty-shorts, I’ve noticed you’ve got your thinking cap on today. Let’s play our little game. Let’s see . . I know, how about dancing?” Sunni’s face lights up. She likes Andrea’s little brainteaser game. Andrea seems to enjoy oozing out every bit of corny humour inside Sunni’s very active mind. They always pick a theme for this game. Today Andrea picked it − dancing − and now she will describe an event, or a scenario of sorts. Sunni must then come up with an appropriate title to match what Andrea describes, something like a book title, or one for a short story. “Okay Sunni, let’s start with that big old Russian lady that comes to Papillon about once a week. I know you’ve seen her − the one that always has all that bright red lipstick all over her face!” Sunni laughs, “Oh, that one. Ha! That’s easy. Let me see, a Russian dance . . . I know . . . ‘Fox Trotsky’, how’s that?” “Good one! Three points. Now I have to think.” “That’s good − that means I can finish my breathing exercises.” “Ha-ha. Okay, how about this. Two people think they are in love but only know each other by exchanging Youtube videos. Now what kind of dance is that?” she asks ominously, certain she has Sunaria stumped. “The Blue ‘Dan & You Tube’ Waltz.” “Buzzz − groan. Minus two points. Next.” “What? There’s no negative points. You can’t do that!” “Take it up with the rules committee. They’re the same people that make those power yoga videos!” Now she's laughing more than doing her breathing exercises, “Should I go on?” “Of course . . . I have to get my points back.” “Okay, here’s a good one. How would you describe all those kids you told me about. You know, all your friends from Scarborough, ‘the hood’ as you called it. Didn’t you say they were really trying to get back to their African roots? How the hell do you do that in Toronto? That must be incredibly hard.” “Yeah, that was very hard. But you know, I kinda miss that place. It was tough but so very real . . . okay, hmm, let me see. Well there’s the ‘Watusi’ so how about ‘Wat U say?’ . . . five points?” “Ding, ding, ding . . . 4.5 points.” “Now half points − ‘Girl, What you say?’ − I think in that case it should be ‘halftime’ then!” “No, just one more okay? Then I’m going to put on some music and we can finish our yoga.” “Okay . . . fire away.” “Ben and Sunaria sitting on a couch on a Friday night, in his living room, eating Chinese food . . . and squishing grapes . . . now what do you call that?” Without thinking, Sunni blurts, “Ballroom dancing.” “Eureka! 5,000 points − 2.5 of them for telling the truth − well done Sunni!” “No, no! − I take that back . . . chicken dance, it was the chicken dance!” Andrea is bent over laughing now, trying to touch her toes will sitting on the floor, but she can’t because of the laughing. In the meantime Sunni stands up and starts dancing like a chicken. Andrea can’t take it anymore, so she stands up and just turns on the stereo, and the first song that comes on is perfect for dancing . . . Bolero. Andrea looks at Sunni, and like a swan, she curves her neck, and then gives her roommate a dramatic stare. Andrea approaches her with an outstretched arm, and she beckons Sunaria to dance with her. It’s all very playful as they improvise, neither of them really knowing what they are doing. If there were dance judges watching them, they would call it the fusing of the tango and flamenco, and the rest would be considered “a fugue of nameless other contortions”, but charming nonetheless. As the dance progresses, Andrea becomes more intense, more adventurous. Half way through, she puts an arm around Sunni’s waist and spins her around. Soon after, she puts that arm back there, on Sunni’s back but a little lower, and gently pulls Sunni toward her. When she removes her arm, she does so by subtly gliding it down over Sunaria’s buttock. None of this is lost on Sunaria. The affections mildly arouse her, and while she has no desire to reciprocate the touches, neither does she feel any desire to halt the reception of Andrea’s movements. Andrea, on the other hand, has no desire of her own, other than to explore these gorgeous curves and her partner’s hypnotic sways. As the music continues, Andrea now slides her hand down again, once again caressing Sunni’s lower cheek, then her hand moves upward, reaching under Sunni’s sweat shirt to feel her back. Intuitively, Sunni gracefully turns around, with the back of her hair now brushing Andrea’s breasts. Andrea’s hand is still under the sweatshirt, caressing the lower curve of Sunni’s breast, then moving downward to rub her torso. When she feels Sunaria’s quiver she takes her by the hand and whispers to Sunni, “C’mon, it’s time for that massage.” Sunni follows, as Andrea takes her by the hand to Sunni’s bed, where Andrea tells her to lay face down. Andrea straddles her from behind, letting only a portion of her weight rest on the back of Sunaria’s thighs. Then, with both hands, she begins rubbing the taut muscles along Sunni’s spine, applying pressure with both thumbs and less so with her palms and fingers. All the while she feels the tension release from Sunni’s body, even more so when she leans over and gently kisses, then licks, the small of her back, and then the top of her full-moon buttocks, and then even lower still, to where the top of her thighs meet the moon. The moans are encouraging, as neither wants to stop what they are doing, and so neither does. Over the next half hour and then some, Sunaria enjoys the most exquisite massage she has ever had . . . and then some. Andrea has no professional training in massage − she simply improvises based on her memory of her monthly massage through work, (and then some). The more amorous aspects have become second nature to her, in no small way because of her experiences at 317 Browning Road. Eventually Andrea explores Sunni’s entire body, now a naked one, first with warm and soothing hands, and then with her warm and soothing mouth. Culminating in the juiciest part of the dance, Andrea smiles inside when she hears the sound of pure joy that emits from Sunaria, the sounds that says more than all the words she had ever read on the subject. This was not the sound of what she calls “the raw orgasm” . . . that kind of animalism that has its place, but not here, not today. Instead, it is more like the music of honey, as if honey could play the harp. It starts with the drip of a moan, and flows continuously so that one climax is more than one, but it becomes impossible to count or separate them, and when the sad time comes for it to stop, there is no sadness, as there is no more longing for more. It is complete, and as far as Sunaria can tell, the closest to heaven on earth that one could possibly know. After Sunni becomes completely silent, and motionless, she remains lying on her back, almost paralyzed. She has her eyes closed now. Andrea whispers for her to just go to sleep, and she does. While she drifts away Andrea continues to let her hands flow around Sunni’s body, with a firm but gentle and steady motion, not sexual, but still very sensual. In a few minutes she covers her with the blanket on the bed, and then returns to her own bedroom for a nap as well. As Sunaria drifts off, she thinks of her evening with Ben, wishing he could have pleased her as Andrea has, still puzzled why he didn’t try more that way, more in the ways of Andrea. Now she realizes why she wanted him to call. As much as she enjoys this experience with Andrea, she also wants to find a man to share this kind of joy with her. She had hoped for Ben in that dream. She knows that if that were to ever happen, she will be so very happy to give him the same satisfaction in her own ways. Still though, she is unsure of these ways; she is not Andrea. Her mind awakens before her eyes open − she prefers to leave them shut. She senses that her body does not want to move, and she wishes her mind felt the same − no thinking right now, please be still. Unfortunately her pleading fails, and she begins to try to figure out what time it is, and for that matter, what day is it? Where am I? She opens her eyes and feels some sunlight, so at least she knows it is not night time. When she sees that she is in her bed now, and not on the couch, she comes to, thinking of Andrea’s final touches before she fell asleep. She curls up to sleep some more. After another thirty minutes she wakes for good now, saunters off for a refreshing shower, smiling that all her pains are gone now . . . if a person can walk and float at the same time, then she must be floating. Andrea’s bedroom door is open, and Sunni peeks in, seeing that her roommate is sleeping, though it looks like she is stirring a bit. Her little digital alarm clock says it is now 4:31 and this is relevant in that now Sunni has a convenient excuse – she can present her friend with her bicycle-gift on another day − thankfully, it is now too late for shopping. She wanted to do something special for her, as a thank you for helping her get her job back, and this is the perfect way. By fibbing about it − the bicycle − as being something to share, there will be no argument from Andrea, no refusing to accept her gift . . . when it comes time to share, to let Sunni ride, she knows Andrea will accede gracefully. By the time Sunni has showered and dressed, Andrea has gotten up, put on some sweat pants and a sweat shirt, and has put all the furniture back in it’s proper position. When Sunni finally makes it to the living room, she sees that Andrea is now out on the balcony, soaking in the sun as it winds its way between and through the scattered clouds. From this 3rd floor height, the sound of children playing in the park below is cheerful, peaceful, and she smiles as she does one more stretch, upward. Sunni comes out to join her, gives her a gentle rub on the top of one shoulder and asks Andrea if she had a nice sleep. Andrea just nods, then turns her head to Sunaria, who is now standing over by the end of the balcony, with her back leaning against the railing, about eight feet away. Andrea says nothing, and instead just turns her head downward slightly, towards Sunni’s abdomen and then up to her face, and after that look, she asks, “And you?” “Oh yeah. I was gone . . . really gone. I really didn’t want to wake up. It took me forever to figure out what day it is.” Andrea smiles warmly, once more recognizing the Yogi Berra logic of what her dear friend has just said, but she’s feeling too mellow to get into more banter. She loves this aspect of Sunaria, when she is more relaxed, when that busy mind of her lets her somehow relax for a change − less worried. “Every day should feel this good, don’t you think?” she muses. Andrea agrees, but is careful in her response. She learned long ago that without careful wording, Sunaria can easily be ignited into a session of lightning thoughts that turn into a lot of words and exhausting ideas, and she knows neither of them want that right now. “So Sunni, how do we make this day last? It sure has gone by fast. It’s almost supper time. Are you getting hungry? I just remembered that I haven’t really eaten anything today.” Poor Sunni blushes, and at the sight of this, Andrea does too, surprised more at her own reaction than at Sunaria’s sudden shyness. Andrea makes a suggestion, “How do you feel about some pizza tonight, or maybe Chinese? Your choice.” “That sounds great. You okay with pizza? By the way, this is my treat tonight - $450 in two nights, that’s pretty good for a rookie!” Andrea smiles, “That’s great Sunni. Sure okay, that’s sweet, but that’s it. No gifts after that, got it? I know you. You get a little money and you just want to spend it on everybody. Don’t, okay?” “Oh, I’m not that bad.” She asks Andrea what kind of pizza she wants, but she doesn’t hear the answer. Without warning, she is lost in thought and concern for that dear man who accepted her daily offerings, the homeless man from the bakery, wondering whether he has found someone else. She wonders whether he is making that someone else smile, giving that person the opportunity to help him, even if it’s only a little . . . mostly she really wonders if he is still alive. “Sunni? Did you hear me?” “What?” “You must be still in dreamland. I asked if you want some garlic bread with the pepperoni and mushroom.” “Dreaming? . . . Yeah, I guess I was. Sure. That all sounds good.” “Are you okay? What were you thinking about?” “I was just thinking how lucky we are, that’s all. C’mon, looks go inside, it’s getting a little chilly now.” Chapter 17

Pushing Buttons . . . and Talking it Over

By the time the pizza arrives it is a little after 6:30 and the poor pie never got a chance to see what 7:00 is all about, neither did the garlic bread. Over supper they decide that it’s a perfect night for a movie marathon, or at least one or two. Andrea searches the free movie channels first, hoping they can avoid the cost of the pay-per-view. The only thing that catches the attention of both is an older movie, a 1995 film called First Knight. They both know a little about the tales of the knights of the round table from other films; the books seemed to be very much a “guy thing”, but still, they are intrigued. There are some big names in the movie. Sean Connery plays the role of King Arthur and Richard Gere plays Lancelot, so it can’t be that bad. Mostly they want to see what this Lady Guinevere is all about. As the movie begins, the character is immediately captivating, and so is the actress, Julia Ormond. As the film progresses, they do find themselves laughing once in awhile, though it is far from a comedy. It all seems so distant, so formal and different. This catches their interest much more than the current time’s offerings of stale Goth, or the feel-sorry-for- the-zombie schlock that has become prominent in what they agree appears to be a dying industry, at least the art of it all. They both like movies, and so they often ask each other what’s wrong with them these days? It is more than a rhetorical question, but neither can really figure it out. As happens often when they both enjoy a movie together, now and then they pause for a brief discussion on the current part of the film. It didn’t take long for Andrea to become the default controller of the remote. Putting such a weapon in the hands of Sunaria only results in the viewing being jeopardized by too many pauses, and consequently an ending that often gets missed due to exhaustion. Regretfully, Sunaria had to plead guilty when Andrea first made the charge . . . and Andrea does try her best to push the buttons at just the right time. The initial pause comes when Lancelot first meets Guinevere. He is rescuing her, and then he flirts with her, even to the point of a tender kiss, an uninvited kiss, at least by words. The charm of the scene comes from the dilemma of the two minds speaking differently than the two bodies, where the heart seems unclear. Whenever the knight and Guinevere converse throughout the film, there is this ongoing plight between the two. As she presses the pause button for the first time, Andrea asks Sunaria, “I wonder how accurate this film is, how close the dialogue is to the original stories?” “It’s kind of funny isn’t it? Weird in a way . . . I have no idea about the accuracy. I wonder how close those legends were to reality, or was it all just the fantasy of the day?” “What do mean by ‘fantasy-of-the-day’?” “I mean I wonder whether things were so bad back then . . . harsh. If so, then the common people really needed something to believe in − no real heroes or leaders − so they had to kind of create their own saviour in a way?” “I wouldn’t doubt that. And all these centuries later, the stories are still more or less the same. It’s hard to find real heroes today. When I look at all the media, I don’t have any. Certainly not with all these celebrities. Not with the sports figures, and definitely not the politicians. And it feels like all the so-called religious leaders, well they all come across as ‘spiritually-dead’ − phoney in a way.” Andrea stops there, switching back to the movie now, “I’m not really crazy about either of these leading men, are you?” Sunni replies, “Not really. The characters are interesting though. And I’m surprised there is so much about love, and even the whole thing about marriage, marrying for love or other reasons, or both? . . . Was it ever just about love? . . . She really plays this role well, and it’s hard to believe that a man could have written some of these conversations, especially all those years ago, in medieval times. She is one of my favourite actresses though . . . she’s so understated. You know, there aren’t many actors, man or woman, that I’d really want to meet, but I’d say she might be one of them − I think Marilyn would have loved her.” Andrea replies, “There you go again . . . you and your Marilyn. I’ll never understand that.” “Me neither, but there are so many mysteries about her, much more than the books even touch on . . . I heard somewhere that she actually had an IQ of 130 . . . that’s borderline genius . . . and all self-taught! It’s more like there are so many questions that come up because of the books, but no one addresses them . . . like why would anyone bother checking her IQ in the first place? Anyways, let’s go on, okay?” Andrea sits back and presses the play button and another half hour goes by and then there is another pause, after King Arthur says something to Lancelot about love and fear, something to the effect that a man “who fears nothing is a man who loves nothing.” They both had something to say about that, though Sunni found Arthur’s follow-up statement more intriguing, when he said he isn’t sure about that, unsure about his statement concerning love and fear. “All these brave men – soldiers – ready to kill, and then talking about love. I don’t know . . . Sunni, there’s just something wrong about it all . . . and these ladies just go along with it. And today it seems even worse. It’s like every one defends war so much . . . men and women . . . like peace just doesn’t seem to be any real kind of objective, at least not true peace.” Then out of the blue she says softly, “And someone once told me that butterflies seem to live without knowing any fear at all.” “Yeah well, don’t forget this is Hollywood.” Sunni replies, not hearing the whisper about the butterflies. “What do you mean by that?” “Well just look at the kind of movies that have come out over the past ten years or so. I mean when is the last time you saw a really good love story? . . . and why is any movie about love only supposed to be for women? Shouldn’t they be for men too? I don’t get it . . . chick flicks . . . kind of sad, really. Anyways, I can’t think of one really good film that way, in the last ten years, at least not one coming out of Hollywood. All these writers . . . it’s like none of them really get it. Has it become impossible to put love on film? Was it really ever possible? Or maybe just a bit? It appears very hard to do. It’s so sad really. And yet Hollywood is still very powerful.” “What do you mean, ‘powerful’ . . . it’s just movies.” “It’s never been ‘just movies’. Film has been a powerful weapon pretty much since it was invented. Much of it is modern day fantasy creation, in a way, but now there’s so many bad guys as heroes, so much slime and violence, basically very little about love. I can’t remember exactly where I read or heard it, but a long time ago now, when I was still in school, I heard that down there if you wanted to make a war film, then the military would help. They would supply all kinds of technical support, military equipment to be used in the films, and I think maybe even some financing. The one hitch was that they, the military, had to have final script approval. That’s what I mean by powerful . . . not to mention the issues of censorship, freedom of expression.” “You really think movies have that kind of brainwashing capability?” “Well that’s not really what I said . . . I suppose so, when you put it that way . . . yes! Maybe not in isolation though . . . more like part of our larger culture. Just look at all the gaming . . . look at what’s ‘news’ and what isn’t. You know, from a socio-cultural perspective, very little is said about the impact of all this technology, all this media bombardment . . . Can I tell you a little story? It’s about just one small part of all this electronic media . . . maybe sometimes a little story makes it easier to understand than a big one.” “Okay, a little one − then it’s time for some popcorn . . . and that’s an order!” Sunni laughs, “Yes sir! Now here’s a little thing I learned from a friend, from a long time ago. It happened in Montreal. He and I were on the subway and in the middle of a quiet night . . . we got stalled for awhile, the subway just stopped. It must have been half an hour, but it seemed longer. Eventually a voice came over the speakers saying that there had been an accident, and soon we started moving again. I must have looked puzzled . . . my friend must have seen that . . . he explained that what the guy meant by accident is that someone had jumped in front of a train – somewhere along the line − it was a suicide − ” As she pauses, Andrea asks what that has to with the media. “Okay. Here’s the rest of the story. My friend told me that this happens something like once a month. He said that one day he read in the paper how the radio stations decided to stop reporting the suicides. Instead they reported the incident as an accident. The reason the stations stopped was that someone noticed that when these suicides were widely reported, there would often be another one within the next day or so, as opposed to once a month. Now do you see what I mean?” “Yeah. Geez, what a depressing story. Can we get back to the movie when the popcorn’s ready?” “For sure. I’m sorry Andrea, you’re right. But you know, when it comes to writing, I want it to be about love − no ugly, insane violence − there’s so much of that now. And you know what? Those kind of writers are a dime a dozen.” “That’s what I love about you Sunni, this strength you have − please don’t ever write about anything else. That’s what will make you special.” Andrea then gets up and starts to make the popcorn. Sunni calls out that the next pause can only be about love, and Andrea calls back with her approval. They watch the remainder in silence. There is the kidnapping of the lady, the rescue, the unavoidable war, and the brave Lancelot jumping off his horse, removing his mask and killing one enemy person after another. Guinevere gives her implied endorsement, a sad but firm one, mounted on a large horse next to King Arthur, who is mounted on an equally large horse. After the war there are a couple of scenes about love. Arthur, who is much older than Lancelot and Guinevere, accidentally finds them caught up in the moment, in a passionate kiss. There is a dialogue between the elder Arthur and his queen about love from the heart, and from the head − the will. Soon there is a trial, with both Lancelot and the lady being judged in public, the former for treason. It is almost as if “the moment” is being put on trial. Before Andrea can press the pause button, there is an invasion, and another drawn out, exasperating, scene of bloodshed. Andrea and Sunni have no further discussions, and soon the movie is over. “Mind if we talk about something else?” Sunni asks Andrea. “Anything else.” Sunni gently says, “I want to talk about you.” “Me? Whatever for?” Andrea nervously replies. “Okay, what is it?” Sunni waits for a few moments. She wants to talk about the afternoon’s dancing. She wants to find just the right words, though her hesitation has nothing to do with what happened between them. After all, she already knew of Andrea’s sexual appetites, and while this was the first time she had been a feast for one of those appetites, there have been other women in Sunni’s past, ones who were granted a similar indulgence, and men too. Andrea excuses herself for a minute, going to the bathroom while Sunaria thinks a little more. She has her question now, so she just waits for Andrea to return. She feels confident that Andrea won’t mind it. They don’t talk much about relationships and dating, but they know enough of each other to appreciate their commonality. What they have in common is an appreciation for the joy of sex, both in the giving and the receiving of such pleasure. Neither considers themselves to be promiscuous, and they have no problem in trusting their own judgment – knowing when it is right to partake in the feast, and with no current need for “happy ever after.” Andrea returns and sits in the armchair now, while Sunni remains on the couch. They are at right angle to one another, and both relaxing by resting their feet upon the coffee table. Andrea gives Sunni an impatient look, the one that says, “C’mon, let’s have it.” Sunni asks, “Where did you learn to do that?” Taken aback by the directness, Andrea replies, “Wow, I didn’t see that one coming. Here I thought you’d want to talk about love and why I don’t have a boyfriend . . . or a girlfriend.” “Well that too . . . now that you mention it, why don’t you? You never say much about when you go out . . . Are you seeing someone? You didn’t learn all that from your monthly massage . . . certainly not from some video. You have such a talent . . . talents . . . what’s the word for it?” “Exquisite?” Andrea says with a smile. “Exquisite beyond words. And that’s coming from a writer!” Sunni smiles, giving Andrea her second warmest one of the day. Now it is Andrea’s turn to pause, and it appears she is having an epiphany of sorts, “I just realized something. I really can’t remember the last time I’ve been on a real date. Sure, I’ve been asked many times, but it’s been years now. It seems I’ve lost interest in it all. I mean, like I date once in awhile, but it all seems so staged − not like you and Ben − now that sounded so real. All mine are kind of like drama-dates . . . how strange, now that I think of it.” “Wow . . . I feel sorry for you. Here I thought you must have some secret lover, one you only get to see once in awhile . . . maybe like an affair?” “Why would you think that?” “I don’t know. I guess it’s because ever once in awhile you seem so very happy. It happens a few days before you mysteriously disappear for the evening, and then it lasts even longer after, but only once every couple of months or so.” “Ohhh . . . that. You’ve noticed, have you?” “What do you mean, ‘that’? What have you been up to? What do you do all those mysterious nights when you leave here with that little bag, and why is it usually on a Sunday?” “My, my . . . not only a writer but a detective as well,” she replies, becoming flustered as much as defensive. It appears that she is trying to make a decision of sorts, and Sunaria can sense this, so she waits patiently, letting her dear friend think things through. Andrea now puts her feet on the floor and her elbows on her thighs, and she leans forward, giving Sunni a very odd look, odd because it is quite serious and yet so very playful. “Maybe you should talk to Pierre some more.” Now Sunni is completely confused, “Pierre? Why? No . . . I want to talk to my best friend Andrea . . . tell me Andrea . . . it’s okay, I can keep a secret.” For the first time in the short history of the project of 317 Browning Road, une papillon takes it upon herself to tell the story of all the exquisite joys that she attains there. Andrea knew it would only be a matter of time before Sunaria would become involved, but she thought that would come through Pierre and not herself. When she is finished, she sits back and waits for Sunni’s reaction. “That’s incredible . . .wow! After all that, no wonder you have no interest in dating . . . but how long do you think it will go on . . . and then what?” “I haven’t really thought about that. We’re just all caught up in the pleasure of it all . . . is that wrong?” “Not at all Andrea . . . do you think if I talk to Pierre, that he will let me do some modelling?” Chapter 18

On to the Frying Pan

Donna slept like a baby in her usual guestroom at 317 Browning Road. It is one of eight or so, Charles thinks there may have been as many as ten, it’s hard to keep track, as not all are really bedrooms anymore. Her room here is about the same size as her bedroom at home, more than ample and just as tastefully decorated, but more old fashioned. Charles convinced her long ago to leave a few things there for last minute decisions, things like pyjamas, a toothbrush, and whatever else she might need for her sleepovers. Before going to bed last night, the two of them agreed to meet for breakfast around 10:00 on this Monday morning. Even though she slept well, by eight in the morning she was awake, but sluggish after yesterday's emotional events. Thankfully, she long ago saw the wisdom of bringing a little coffee machine. This makes her room rather complete, like having all the amenities of a first class hotel room, in one of the older hotels, but without room service. Charles is a marvellous host, sometimes leaving a chocolate treat on her pillow. This morning the chocolate makes a nice companion for the coffee. After the first cup, she made some notes on yesterday’s discussions, strictly from the business end. Charles had warned her at bedtime that there will be plenty to discuss in the morning, and maybe into the afternoon. After yesterday she wants to be prepared for everything. He seemed so happy about it all − not just yesterday’s visit with her and Pierre, but the promises of today’s continuation − and she figures that deep inside he must be a very lonely man, and especially alone in such a big house. By 9:00 she has had enough of her laptop and all her notes. She avoids the urge to check out her favourite blogs, and instead she takes a long and leisurely shower. By a quarter to ten she is on her way down to the massive kitchen, a friendly place to be. She’s not surprised to see that Charles is already there. She is surprised to see him reading a book, her book, and then she remembers leaving it out somewhere in the commotion of yesterday, when she managed to break herself from the other two musketeers for a bit. “Good morning Charles, have a good sleep?” “Splendid, my dear. And I have no doubt you did as well?” “Yes,” she says with a smile, finding herself going up behind him and giving him a caring hug around the shoulders. “Enjoying the book?” “I think it would be very enjoyable . . . especially if I understood at least one or two paragraphs!” She laughs, “Yes, well, it is about the goddess and not the god . . . so of course it is much more mysterious.” “No argument here . . . Wherever did you find it?” “Ben gave it to me − as a present.” “A present? Hmmm. You know he often speaks about you in a round-about way. I’d say he thinks he’s in love with you – but he never mentions you by name – or how he knows you. He thinks this is his secret from me . . . it’s almost too hard to watch sometimes. He’s not very good at lying, but he does his best at acting when necessary.” Donna has poured herself some of the good coffee now, much better than what she had in her room. Ben was right. Her coffee can really vary, one brew to the next. Charles is much more consistent that way, and she savours the aroma while sitting across him, at the kitchen table. “You’re so mean Charles, playing such a game . . . poor Ben.” “My dear, do you see that over there?” and he grins as he points to a small mirror on the side of a cupboard. “Okay. Yeah, I get it . . . he is a bit of pussycat though, isn’t he?” “He’s very different than anyone I’ve ever met – he is a true artist – I don’t think you really know what that means. Maybe I’ll explain that later. I say that for a few reasons. He only has a glimpse of his own talents − his genius − it’s all so innocent, but not totally. After all, he is still human, but perhaps somehow other than that, at times. That imagination – his gift – that’s why he’s such a dreamer.” He pauses there, goes to refill his cup, and when he sits down again, he tells her more, “You and he would be poison together, you know that, don’t you? I’m sure you are close, at least now, but it would never work. I can’t tell him that though, not as directly as I'd like to. But now it doesn’t matter, at least not in the same way . . . you and Pierre, how very nice!” “Why do I think that all this time you’ve been playing matchmaker?” She looks at him and watches a sparkle in his eyes get brighter at her claim, “You bugger! You have been! . . . Shame on you!” He just smiles, “Don’t criticize me for my only real joy in life, other than the art.” He takes a pensive pause before speaking from the heart, “You know Donna, without you and Pierre, and now Ben and this art and all of it, well, I don’t know what I would do. Look at this place. It’s huge, and there’s just me. I needed to do something or I’d go mad.” “I don’t know why you stay here, so big and empty. I’m mean it’s beautiful, but it’s so much.” “I know, but it’s not so easy to leave after all this time, not so easy to sell, not at all that simple. And then there is my garden . . . my escape.” “I envy you that passion. But then why don’t you fill up these rooms, at least some of them? Then maybe you could hire some help around here, help you with the cleaning?” “Again, it’s not so simple. First of all, if I hire someone to do the cleaning, then I’d have to spend a lot more time messing it up! As for tenants, I’d be a terrible hotel manager, too set in my ways I suppose. Sometimes I feel I am damned no matter what. You know, Ben sometimes speaks of the homeless and we argue, more like discuss, these kinds of issues. I think he’s finally appreciating it from my perspective, the so-called rich guy. In the big scheme of things, I’m not even rich − $17 million, give or take, that’s no big deal these days.” “That’s rich, Charles.” He is silent. He looks around the room, at the frying pan set out for pancakes or an omelette, her choice. “Come over here with me Donna. I want to show you something. You think I’m rich, do you? I think about this a lot these days. Sometimes I think I should sell it all and just give most of it away. Of course my family in Europe would crucify me, but then we’re already so dead to each other − not much of love there, not for a long time now.” She follows him and watches as he turns an element on the stove to the high setting. He goes to the utensil drawer and removes a tablespoon. “Now I want you to watch something here,” he says as he grabs the large frying pan and kind of waves it and then holds it steady, “You see the bottom of this pan? What do you see . . . nothing, right? It really hit me the other day. There is something like a billion people around the world in their own kind of extreme poverty . . . dire straits. So think of this empty frying pan as being the plight of those one billion people, maybe more.” He puts the pan on the hot element, letting it heat up for a few seconds. While it is getting hot, he goes to the sink and carefully fills the tablespoon with water. Then he carries it over to the oven, holds it over the pan, placing his free hand underneath the spoon to block any dripping. “Okay Donna. Now take a look at this spoon − the water − that’s all of my $17 million right there . . . now watch what happens.” He removes his bottom hand and pours the water, his $17 million, onto the hot pan. The water sizzles and within seconds it has completely disappeared, as if it were never there. He asks her to look at the pan again and tell him what she sees now. Donna almost cries at the site of the pan, and then his visible anguish. The hand that holds the pan is shaking uncontrollably as he guides it to the sink. She can think of nothing to say. He knows there is nothing really more to say and he is thankful for the silence. The pan remains as it was . . . so very dry. “Ben’s right you know,” he finally says to her, “He may be a dreamer but he’s also a very smart one. He told me that these kinds of problems will never be solved with money . . . at best money is a very short-term solution. I guess I just kind of had to figure that out for myself, in my own way, as Einstein and others say. So I just do what I can, and sometimes it feels good, especially on days like yesterday.” She smiles at him once more, takes his hand in hers and reaches up to his cheek and kisses him very softly, with all the tenderness she has to give, “Now you just sit down. Today I’m going to make you a Spanish omelette.” Just as Charles sits down, Donna begins checking in various drawers for a cookbook, and in frustration, she looks over to her host and asks, “So how does one make a Spanish omelette?” This breaks his funk, and he jumps up and chides her once more, “My dear, I have no fucking idea . . . but for starters I’m guessing it involves a Spanish chicken, and a rooster.” He pauses, and then adds with a twinkle, “It must involve garlic as well, so maybe you should call the Frenchman? Or maybe I should call him?” “Don’t you dare. Besides, he’ll need his eggs for later!” She lets out a little giggle, then backtracks, “Of course I’m just kidding.” “My poor Ben, he really doesn’t know what he’s missing.” She blushes at the comment, “Oh, I’m sure he will get the gist of it in his dreams . . . he’s bound to find someone though, don’t you think?” “Funny you should ask. Actually I think he has, but he doesn’t seem to quite know that yet. You know, he doesn’t just talk about you. There’s someone else. He mentions her sometimes and his face just lights up, and the little stories are quite funny, like two school kids. I’m guessing she may be quite a bit younger, and I have a hunch she may be smart enough for him, perhaps a dreamer as well. If they are two of the same, and if they ever become coupled, they will probably make each other joyfully miserable for the duration. Their lives will be full of passion and kindness, but also the sharing of all kinds of painful insights, and hopefully they will protect each other from all that stuff . . . the horrors of reality, so different from their wonderful dreams.” Donna is completely surprised by this comment, “I have no idea what you are talking about. Ben is completely alone − there’s no one that important in his life − no, I don’t think so. This time you’re completely wrong. He’s being seeing me for years now. He wouldn’t be able to hide such a person from me.” “Oh, but he’s a better actor than you Ms. Belauche . . . by far. You see, he does it without even trying, just like he does his art, so he’s really not hiding anything. Most times I don’t think he’s really himself. He’s much more comfortable being ‘nobody’ and I mean that in the purest sense of the word. Besides, he, well, I tell you what . . . later, before you go home, I will show you his art . . . then you will see.” “You mean you haven’t sold any of it?” “Of course I haven’t sold any of it. It’s not really mine to sell. The truth is I really don’t know what to do with it, so it’s all here. You know I’m not really a full blown art dealer, that’s a whole different world, one that Ben knows nothing about, nor do I want him to . . . if anything I want to protect him from that. That’s why I keep an eye on him, my drivers and all. Yes, I do buy and sell some art, nothing big though, it’s more of just a hobby. It’s Ben’s art that is my passion, and I’m thrilled to be a small part of it. I wonder how long it will last though. We need to talk about making some changes, and the money thing doesn’t seem quite right anymore.” “Charles, are you ever going to make me that omelette?” He replies, “Here I thought you were just waiting for instructions!” They laugh at each other’s misunderstanding. He suggests that they do it together and tells her to get the eggs out of the fridge. Then he tells her that she may as well get out some onion and green pepper, and some cheese, the cheddar. That’s about how far as Donna got in terms of participation. Charles shakes his head at how useless she is in the whole process, but playfully so. She watches him, her arms are now crossed, and she is annoyed at how he won’t let her do anything, and they both know the truth of this . . . her limited competence, at least in this kitchen. While preparing the egg mixture he mentions how he managed to ‘steal’ a few onions and green peppers from Pierre’s garden. He almost cuts himself while enjoying a belly laugh over the caper. Then he explains how he leaves his mark when such a heist is accomplished. “I leave him a little reminder, you know. When one of the drivers captures these vegetables, I have them leave a clump of garlic in the garden − but I’m pretty sure he never even notices it! That’s why every now and then I present him with a little garlic . . . I wonder if he will ever catch on?” Donna smiles in admiration, but curiosity gets the best of her, “Now what are your drivers doing in his garden?” “Ohhh, well that’s a whole other story. Maybe I’ll explain later. He sure likes that garden doesn’t he? Did he ever tell you about how he came to pick out the name for the restaurant? The story about his childhood?” “Actually yes, he did,” she acknowledges with a smile, thinking back to that time. She remembers how she felt when he told her . . . if she considered herself capable of love, then she would want this man, Pierre, to know that. Charles goes on, “And did he tell you about this garden of his, the one here in Victoria? Don’t answer . . . I’m sure he didn’t . . . it’s not his style. But I will tell you because I think you should know.” As Charles pours the omelette mixture onto the frying pan, he tells her how Pierre teaches the drivers as much as he can about gardening. It’s a big garden, and he does need help, and the drivers love helping him. It’s not a home garden, but a large plot, on some other vacant property that Charles owns. Charles asks her if she thinks that Pierre uses the fresh vegetables for the restaurant. Of course she assumes he does, and is really surprised that he doesn’t − none of it. “So what does he do with it all? Let me guess . . . he gives it to a food bank?” “Exactly − all of it. He says it helps him cope with the feasting he and the others prepare. It’s his ‘penance’ as he calls it. He’s really going to be pissed when he hears that I told you.” “No . . . no he won’t . . . I’ll make sure of that . . . I’m so glad you told me that. It just makes everything about him seem more real somehow. No wonder he loves to garden so much.” As he removes the omelettes from the frying pan, he reaches for a little jar from the counter and sprinkles a few drops of something on top of the omelettes. “What’s that . . . Tabasco sauce?” “Yes . . . for you my dear. Voila! Now it’s Spanish . . . there’s your Spanish omelette!” He apologizes about forgetting the toast and she tells him “no matter”, and within a few minutes they have consumed their omelettes. She looks at him with a grin, but he knows there is more to it than a thank you. “Want some toast now? I’m going to make some toast,” she asks him, as she stands up and takes his plate over to the counter. “That’s a great idea. That hit the spot but I’m still a little hungry.” He leans back in his chair, watching her fumble her way around. He laughs, eventually standing up, shaking his head once more as she asks, “Where do you keep the bread? And where’s the toaster? Is this butter or margarine?” “Do you think can make us more coffee?” “Now coffee I can do!” To this comment, he remains politely silent. After the toast is done, they debate about taking their mugs outside, out to the patio, but soon change their mind. Donna did a quick check on the weather, coming back in to tell Charles that it is much cooler than yesterday. The wind must be coming from the north and it looks like it might rain soon. They decide to just lounge around the kitchen, which has always been her favourite room at 317 Browning Road. As they get settled, she reminds him that he owes her the story about the drivers and the garden. “Ah yes, you remembered. I’d hoped you had forgotten . . . are segues always completely lost on you?” he says, smiling. “But perhaps it’s for the best. Besides, we need to talk about business, so why not?” “I have no idea what you mean . . . drivers, Pierre’s garden, business . . . huh? And why do you call them drivers?” “As it turns out I have my own little secrets as well . . . It’s kind of awkward to talk about them. I wish someone else could tell you this story instead of me, just like I told you about Pierre and his garden. Actually I came up with the idea not long after meeting Ben. It made a lot of sense the more our site took off, financially, and Pierre really did need help with the garden. But more than anything the drivers needed help.” She interrupts, “Again, why do you call them drivers?” “I’m getting there! . . . Because that’s what they do. After I got the idea, I went with Pierre to the food bank and talked to the lady that manages it, and she loved the idea and it went from there. It wasn’t hard to do. I wanted to do something to help and so I hired a couple of men as drivers, two people who were down on their luck, career-wise. One of them was a senior partner in a large consulting firm, a chartered accountant who found himself selling focus group packages for the consulting firm − go figure! Basically there was nothing for him to do, not enough accounting business, plus plenty of young guns to step in, and he got the proverbial shaft. You must know how that goes. The other man worked in accounting too, not as senior as the other guy, and he was odd man out due to automation. It takes a long time to recover from crises like that, many never really do, and while these guys still had their homes, they also had a need to use the food bank.” “So how did you find them? Did the food bank lady recommend them? Why those two?” He grins, “Well they just happened to be standing there, in the line, and Pierre overheard one of them trying to explain to the other how carrots love tomatoes. You know Pierre − well, that was enough for him! The conversation began, the three of them hit it off, he looked at me and I nodded. We all went for coffee and I offered to help them. They became my first drivers and they are called drivers because that’s mostly what they do − they mostly deliver food hampers.” “I thought those deliveries were done by volunteers?” “Yes, they are, but I wanted to create a couple of jobs, and they could always use those volunteers for other things.” “So how much do you pay them?” “Interesting question. I suppose I lucked out, as they were accountants. It didn’t take long for them to come up with a figure on a napkin - I just asked them what they needed to get by. They told me and I gave them that, plus 10%, and still do. And the gardening has been a real bonus. It’s a nice break from all the driving, and I find other chores for them to do, and they love it, and they don’t mind playing cab driver once in awhile. I mean, c’mon Donna, who wouldn’t want to drive you around once in awhile?” She blushes. He laughs. “You bugger! Such a flirt. I don’t know whether I’ve just been flattered or insulted. Sheesh!” “You’re being adored . . . as always.” She calms down and thanks him. He goes on to explain how he’s using the money from the site to help these people. He becomes more animated when he describes how it seems to take so much stress out of their lives. Pierre, with the cooperation of Philippe, insisted on entertaining this group of drivers and their wives once in awhile, as often as he can and on a day when the restaurant is closed − a private party. Charles explains how he helps at these parties by serving. That is how he got to know these people better, more as families. Also, he insisted on helping Pierre, Philippe, and Philippe’s girlfriend with the serving and in any other way, as requested. “You mean Philippe cooks on his day off, and his girlfriend helps?” Charles leans back, grinning from ear to ear now, “Yes, and that alone is worth the price of admission. Philippe lives to cook, but on these days it is Pierre’s kitchen and Philippe is more of an advisor and he and I and Carmella do the serving.” He chuckles a little more. “Carmella, what a beautiful name . . . what’s so funny?” “Carmella . . . you should see her! She’s Hungarian you know, about the same age as me, and as Philippe, and she is a gypsy that could sing in the opera – she’s a real pistol – I wouldn’t want to mess with her. But you should she see her and Philippe together. We all keep our eyes on the knives when they’re in the kitchen together! What’s really funny though is how she watches Pierre. She told him she wanted to see how it’s done − how does one take control of one’s own kitchen with this monster- chef around? Apparently they live together now, in her home, and therefore it is her kitchen, and you can imagine how well that goes with Philippe!” By now Donna is grinning as well, imagining the whole scenario. Then she thinks about these drivers some more, and asks, “So this is where you invest your site proceeds? . . . How incredibly wonderful . . . I’m really proud of you . . . I wonder what Pierre does with his share of the money.” Charles gets up now, turns sombre, and goes to the fridge to get some juice − he’s had enough coffee, her coffee. She takes up his offer to switch to the juice as well, and when he sits down, he addresses the issue of Pierre and his share of the money. “Actually Pierre doesn’t take any money from the site. Our combined 50% goes towards the drivers and such . . . He said he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t make money from the girls’ experiences.” Charles becomes very serious now, “I told you how he wasn’t crazy about the whole site idea to begin with, at least in terms of making money from this project. But like I said, I think the two of us were pretty sure you desperately needed this money for some reason, so we went along with it . . . we were right, weren’t we?” For the first time this weekend Donna feels down, almost dirty in a way. The reality of what he is saying has really hit home, and somehow she feels guilty of doing something wrong, yet she also feels confused by it all. “I don’t understand why Pierre would feel that way. The girls all know what they are getting into. There is no deception . . . I don’t get it.” “He said that the thought of taking that money makes him feel like a sophisticated pimp, and that he’d seen enough of that in Montreal. He said whatever the girls experience sounds wonderful, and he just doesn’t want to taint that with anything else.” “Wow . . . what can I say? So he must think of me like a pimp . . . geez, why do I suddenly feel like a sack of shit?” “No, no, it’s not like that. I’m sorry, I think that came out wrong.” He pauses, trying to find a better way of explaining himself. In the meantime, Donna is thinking about last night’s kiss with Pierre. Overcome by emotion, she begins to cry, almost silently, restrained, with only a tear or two showing. Now it is Charles’s turn to give her a hug. He searches for a handkerchief but can't find one, so he gently wipes the tears off her cheeks with his fingers. “It will be fine Donna, I promise . . . It is fine . . . Pierre loves you. He’s not judging you. But you need to understand, he is very protective of these ladies, so he looks at it differently than you and I. You know, he worries about their long term interests, and lately he’s really worried about our project that way.” Donna finds these words very soothing. They remind her of last night’s conversation with Pierre, instead of their kiss. It puts everything back into perspective, and she tries to shut the word ‘pimp’ out of her mind. That is one of her trigger words, part of that ‘locked-in-the-box’ past. Back then though, in those Montreal days − when she worked − she worked very independently. However, she did get to know other young ladies not so fortunate, those with all kinds of agents. They were mostly greedy men who didn’t even need the money. One agent was even a senior female advertising executive . . . she just needed some fresh kicks, finding some kind of new thrill in it all. Charles sees that she is still shook up, in need of more soothing. “Here’s how I see it Donna, for what it’s worth. One of the big issues we’re struggling with really has nothing to do with how the money is used. It doesn’t really matter whether you start using your share as your main source of income, or if Pierre and I give ours to some form of charity. That’s all really after the fact. I think that what’s troubling us − all of us − is that there is something we haven’t told these young ladies, and that is how much money we’re making off the whole thing. The truth is, and I think we’d all agree on this one – all of these ladies were actually very intrigued about being taped – especially when we showed them how their real identity would never be known. But now, the more lucrative it becomes, well I just don’t know . . . and then there is the tulip aspect.” “I’m not sure myself, not any more. But then it all seems to come back to me again, like I’m doing something wrong. Do you think I should forgo my 50% to your cause, or some other cause? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” She dodges the issue of the tulips. “Actually no, not really. I guess what I’m saying is that none of this would be possible without these ladies. Think of it this way, if they knew that for each session, we pull in $20,000 . . . do you think they would be hurt? Don’t you think they might feel used?” “Actually the last one brought in $39,875 . . . I haven’t told you that yet. It seems they really like Andrea. She’s becoming a star.” “That’s just it. A star. And we’re cutting these stars out of the action. But you know what? I’m very sure that if we started paying them a lot of money, it would all fall apart − all of it. Nothing would be the same. And yet it’s not right, the way it is now. Think of it this way. Until yesterday you had no idea who the artist was, and now you know it’s Ben. He doesn’t have a clue about any of this commercial stuff. To him it’s all about the art.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Donna, now that you know it’s Ben, do you think he should get a piece of the action? Do you think he would still go along with all of this?” “Boy, you sure know how to ask the tough questions.” “I warned you last night . . . today we have a lot of business to cover and that’s what we’re doing. By the way, don’t worry about Ben. He will be well taken care of, at least financially.” “What do you mean by that? Are you going to sell his art for him?” “No. I have no intention of doing that. And that reminds me, in a few minutes I want you to see what he has created. I know it’s been a rough morning for you, but believe me, this will put your weekend back on track in terms of pleasant surprises, at least I hope so . . . you’ll see.” Charles stands up now, begins pacing, nervously, “Anyway, I’ve changed my will recently and Ben is in it now, so eventually he will be cared for, as long as I don’t live too too long.” He pauses again, changing his focus from her to the window, looking outside as tells her, “And you’re in there too now, in my will . . . and so is Pierre . . . so you see, you have nothing to worry about . . . do you want to know how much?” Donna turns pale as a ghost. She’s not sure how many more of these surprises she can take. She looks at him with a stunned look, then bows her head, somehow in shame, feeling completely bewildered. By now Charles has turned to face her, to see her reaction. “Oh, Donna, I’m so sorry . . . I feel like I’m bombarding you . . . it’s okay. I’m trying to tell you that all of you have become my family, so what else can I do? . . . Do I need to put some more drops of water on that frying pan? I really can’t think of a better thing to do with my will, but in all fairness, the last thing I want is a big thank you . . . I mean, eventually this will all become your headache, for the bunch of you. But all of you will have to help each other . . . I just hope that I’m doing the right thing, that it keeps you all together . . . such a meddler!” She begins to cry again when he tells her that she doesn’t have to worry now, that he will help her when she needs it, especially now that she has closed her practice. He tells her how silly it is for him to wait until he dies before helping any of them. “I think maybe that’s enough business for today. I really didn’t mean to overwhelm you. Are you okay?” he asks with the tenderness of a loving father. She stands up and paces a bit, trying to stop more tears. Soon she walks over to him and just drapes her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulders. He can feel her gentle nodding. She closes her eyes for a minute. It is one of those tender expressions of love that happen once in awhile in a person’s life. Charles knows this has nothing to do with his wealth, and in recognition of that, he knows this is a moment he will never forget. His unexpected surprise is the shedding of a few tears of his own. He’s very thankful now, thankful that he has managed to leave those two pills alone, the ones in the drawer by his bed, the ones that carry the promise of one last sleep - everlasting peace. That peace will come soon enough. For now he finds enough of it in this precious moment. Chapter 19

A Late Lunch Of Cognac and Pastrami

It is 1:00 in the afternoon by the time Donna gets out of the cab and up the stairs, glad to be home. She insisted on taking a cab. The morning, the entire weekend has caught up with her − she is exhausted now. Her dream of last night has evaporated. She remembers that Pierre is expecting her, but her expectations of him, and of herself, are no longer what she envisioned last night. That dream was set in his home. With no idea what that home looks like, those details did not matter. All she saw in her dream was her seducing him, but then seducing is not the right term. Instant ravishing, no need for words, he wanting to touch all her flesh, while she quickly, but smoothly, undresses for him . . . and then she undresses him. They were to lose themselves in each other, playing gently, then more aggressively, responding only to touch and movement and each other’s wordless sounds. She would mount him and he would know a woman's passion like never before, and the waves of her thrusts would bring them both to a state of exhilarating satisfaction, until the waves calmed in the remains of their now-gentle pool. Now this dream will just have to wait, patiently. Instead she just wants to sleep now, knowing even with that, when she awakens, this dream will still have to wait. She should call him now and tell him not to expect her. She wonders if he has a similar dream, the same expectations for this afternoon. In a way she would like him to be near her right now, to comfort her somehow, as if they were already lovers. The thought seems awkward though, probably because she has no idea what she would say to him . . . all the weekend’s conversations have brought her to a state of a mind that is now numb . . . begging for rest. She thinks of how that might be, if they were already lovers, how he would know what to do, how she could invite him over. How would she welcome him? How would he adore her? She wonders if he would later ravish her, gently, while she slept. She would like that. And after that, together they could just rest beside each other. However, more than anything she wants the rest, especially now. That dream will have to wait as well, as her head rests on the pillows, and still fully dressed, her eyes close and she sees the kiss of last night, from a distance, as though she is watching them both and not just him. With an arm that now feels like it is made of lead, she slowly reaches to the nightstand for her purse. She fumbles for her phone, and then for his number, and then she places the call. The voice on the other end is one of anticipation, “Hello?” “Hi Pierre. It’s me, Donna.” “Ahhh, yes. It is getting late for lunch, non?” “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take a rain check. I’m dead tired right now. I’m in bed as we’re speaking. I’m really sorry, I just can’t do it today.” “Mais oui − I can hear that. Perhaps I could bring you some soup, but it sounds like you want be alone . . . like you need to be alone?” “Yes on both counts,” she says, feeling so guilty now, sensing his disappointment. She knows now that his dream of today must have been quite like hers. “My dear, as I told you last night, I will still be hungry tomorrow, or whenever we should dine together.” Donna is relieved through his patience, and perhaps by his optimism − he seems so sure about “them”. She has a long ways to go in that department, and now she feels that perhaps that is part of why she is tired. Things are happening a little too fast, but in a way, not fast enough. “It’s been such a weekend for me, Pierre. First closing shop so quickly and then last night − and our kiss. It’s like all of a sudden my life is in the wind, if that makes any sense.” “Mais oui. C’est bonne − it’s all good. But that’s just my view. I think, or at least I hope, after some quiet time you will see that, and . . . .” “And what Pierre? Never mind. I’m pretty sure I know − it has to do with the business − the project? Can I tell you something?” “Yes, for sure. Please do.” “Maybe it’s all this excitement of the weekend, all this commotion. But then maybe not. For a change I want to listen to my intuition . . . screw the plans . . . it really is time to wind it down, figure out something else. What do you think?” “I think love has found you in that wind . . . yes, I completely agree.” “You are such a sweet man. You know, until this weekend I really didn’t realize how lucky I am to have you and Charles in my life. Without the two of you, if I had made this change, my practice . . . if I did that all on my own, I'd be feeling completely lost right now.” “And instead, now you are found. You know I think you are right, how you put it a long time ago . . . perhaps we are three musketeers? We should say goodnight now.” “Three musketeers . . . I do like that, but with no loyalty to anyone except ourselves,” she pauses, realizing how greedy that sounds, so she adds, “ and all those others we care about.” “That’s better. Sleep now, okay? And feel free to call me as you please.” Just then there is a knock at Pierre’s side door. It’s a loud one, so loud that Donna can hear it over the phone. “Who’s that?” she asks, wishing she hadn’t, after she realizes that is really none of her business. “I have no idea. I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone other than you, and on a Monday of a long weekend? I better go now . . . maybe it’s Philippe?” “Goodnight Pierre,” she whispers, smiling at how tender he makes ‘goodnight’ sound, even at 1:30 on a rainy Monday afternoon. She hangs up and just like that her leaden arm falls to the bed. She closes her eyes and dreams. As Pierre opens the door, he sees how happy this surprise visitor is to catch him at home. “Hello Pierre!” she bellows and barges through the entrance. “Irene − what an unexpected surprise!” he replies, trying to hide his annoyance. “What took you so long to answer? I almost left,” she tells him while taking off her canopy of a raincoat, but first the wide-brimmed, eel skin hat. Pierre takes the items and invites her in, as he hangs them up on the coat rack. “That’s better,” she says, then asks for something warm to drink, suggesting a cognac, but not in one of those little glasses. He pours her the usual, and today, given the current state of events, he pours one for himself, but in one of those little glasses. “So what in God’s name are you doing here today? I had a hunch I might see you soon, after what you told me about Jerome . . . does this have something to do with him?” “No − thank God! What a pompous prick. You should have gotten rid of him long ago.” This response pretty much confirms his prior suspicion. He has no doubt now that not that long ago his previous maitre d’ had tried to have his way with Pierre’s favourite interior designer, or at least tried desperately to do so, and probably in more ways than one. The fact that Irene was still recovering from the collapse of a committed relationship, with another woman, would not have stopped Jerome . . . that wasn’t his style. “So, once again Irene, what’s on your mind?” “Boy, nothing like small talk. Are you in a hurry . . . need to go somewhere?” No, not at all. Pardon my rudeness. It’s just been a pretty incredible weekend − very busy for what was supposed to be a quiet few days − I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” “Me too. I have some exciting news. I got a big break on Friday, but I think I might need your help a bit, a new project, a nice one. I dropped by yesterday but there was no answer. I just wanted to tell you in person – hope you don’t mind.” He smiles at her now. However annoying as she can be, she has also been very good to him, and for him. Irene Stanowski did an incredible job in helping reshape the entire building. Not just the main floor, where the restaurant is, but also the second floor, which is much like a loft − his home. Irene loves her food almost as much as her cognac, so she graciously accepts his offer to whip up a snack while she waits in the living room, by the warming fire burning in the stone fireplace, the one that she insisted he install. As he prepares a nice pastrami on rye for her, he thinks of those renovations. He spent a fortune but doesn’t regret a cent of it. They became friends in the process. She asked the kind of questions that he never thought of − things like whether he had considered this to be a place to share with a wife . . . and then with little children. That was the toughest question, as he really wanted to live above the restaurant. He also wants kids some day, or at least he did then, but has now resolved himself to dealing with that scenario after he finds a wife, if he finds a wife, or a significant other. She fully understood all of that. After that issue was cleared up, and after sharing his vision of Papillon, she made some very nice suggestions concerning the staff. She did a rough sketch of partitioning off some of the second floor for the staff. This includes a rather large change room, complete with a full bathroom, except with a shower stall instead of a bathtub. The ladies can leave their outfits there, change on the premises, prepare themselves, and rest when necessary − there is fold-up cot and a long couch in the room. They love it. Irene also convinced him to renovate the stairs at the end of the building, a shabby outside staircase. By refurbishing it and then enclosing it, the stairway became an employee-only entrance. At the top of these stairs is a short and narrow hallway. On either side of the hallway is a door: one for the change room, and the other is a door to Pierre’s loft − a necessary requirement to satisfy the fire codes. At the end of the hall is a third door, which leads downstairs to the restaurant. The men have a similar facility on the main floor, but smaller, in the back and close to the kitchen. This facility has it’s own security lock. So does the door going upstairs from the restaurant. An alarm of sorts is connected to the kitchen and to Pierre’s office. It goes off if someone enters the wrong security code for going upstairs, or in either change room. There is also a normal lock and key, but only Pierre has that key. So it all works out very well, and it is all thanks to Irene. As he returns with the sandwiches, Irene is meandering, thinking about some new decorative suggestions for Pierre. By the time he places the tray on the coffee table, she has assumed a more relaxed position, next to the sandwiches. Thankfully her glass is still almost full; he has come to know that she takes too many liberal chances with her drinking and driving, and a woman her age should know better. “So what’s your big news?” he asks with genuine interest. She signals for him to be patient while she finishes the second large bite of her sandwich, including the little splinter of pastrami on the corner of her mouth that quickly gets consumed, mustard and all. She’s always quite the lady, just a very different one when out of the public’s view. “You know, Pierre, I’ve been in a real slump for awhile now, so it’s really nice to let loose for a change, so please pardon my manors. I know I eat like a pig when I’m around you, but you don’t mind do you? I think of you like kind of a brother − we’ve been through a lot − and you’ve been really kind, especially since Estelle dumped me.” “Ah yes, Estelle. How is she doing? Ever hear from her?” “No. It’s completely over. I still don’t get it. How could she leave all this?” She cups her very large breasts and jiggles them a bit, arching her back at the same time, obviously proud on the outside, though inside he knows she is hurting beyond recovery. After a certain age there comes a point where it seems there is no more room for heartbreak, and he worries that she has reached that point. Her other friends console her and coach her constantly, but they cannot stop her newfound passion for food − the other mushy stuff no longer seems to matter. Pierre wishes he could wipe away the little mustard stain which now rests at the forefront of the left side of her bosom, but there is no point. In his usual tender way, Pierre say, “Irene, Irene, Irene − what am I going to do with you? It’s been what, seven months now . . . isn’t it time to move on? And please tell me you haven’t given up.” “Pierre, if you were a woman I’d eat you up! And you’re one to talk − the gardener − ha, the perennial bachelor!” “Touché, my dear,” he says, then pauses, wanting to burst out everything he knows and feels about Donna Belauche, but of course he stops right there. “So here’s the deal Pierre. On Friday I finally landed the most exciting project I’ve had in years. I’m now in charge of redesigning the old Prince Edward school . . . it’s going to be turned into an arts center! Three large floors, one for music, one for dance and one for visual arts − isn’t that amazing? And it’s all for the kids, at least some of the time, then older people at other times. It will be a huge challenge!” “Wow Irene, that is so exciting, and right up your alley. Fantastic! But where do I come in?” “I need you to introduce me to that friend of yours, that eccentric art fellow . . . what’s his name, Charlie?” “You mean Charles . . . you remember him? That’s a long time ago. Why do you need him?” He pauses, then adds, “I hope you’re not going to hit him up for some kind of funding?” “I hope not, but you know how that goes, so if down the road he wants to jump in somehow, that’s fine by me. You know very well how these things go over-budget. They love all my ideas, but I know damn well that I’m already looking at a 20% overage!” She laughs at her own comment, as does Pierre, especially in his recollection of his own 30% surprise by the time all was said and done on Papillon. He didn’t mind because he had already done his own budget that included a 25% allowance for “extras”, so the additional five points was easily absorbed, and he couldn’t be happier how it all turned out. “So aside from the money, what do you want from Charles?” “Well you know it’s certainly not his body, so what’s left? Oh yeah . . . his brain. Didn’t you say he's a pretty good teacher?” “Yes, he is, but there are a ton of art experts around the city who can help you better than he can . . . I don’t get it.” “You don’t have to be coy with me, Pierre. This is a small town − there are rumours, you know. Whatever he’s up to I’m sure you must be aware of it . . . I know you and Charles are very close.” Pierre can feel the hairs bristle now, the ones on the back of his neck. He knew she was going to be trouble when she first came to him about Jerome, and here she is. Suddenly that bright red lipstick that seems to be on half her face has lost its charm. “What rumours are you talking about?” “Just some buzz in some circles − you know I don’t reveal my sources.” She smiles with pride at her own cloak and dagger mystique. Pierre would like to dodge the whole issue, but now he knows he must find out more. He takes advantage of her lighthearted gamesmanship. “Oh, it’s like that is it? How very double-O Irene of you! But you see, if I tell you what I know, then I may to kill you!” She laughs, “0-0-Irene − I like that! As for killing me, a little more cognac, pastrami and Swiss cheese, and you just might succeed.” He sees she is about to take the last bite, so while she does he walks toward the fireplace. It reminds him of how she convinced him into leaving the top of the fireplace bare, leaving room for a large picture. He had originally thought of going with stonework all the way up to the ceiling, but eventually opted for her insistence on a mantle. “I’m so glad you talked me into putting a picture up here. Would you like to see my latest gizmo? Q would be impressed!” Without waiting for an answer, he takes a long and dramatic look at the picture hanging over the fireplace. It is a large, framed print, a limited edition print from one of his favourite living artists, Jack Vettriano. The picture is his most famous one, “The Singing Butler”, though apparently not the artist’s favourite. It features a fairly young couple dancing on a beach, with a maid beside them on the left, and a butler standing on the right. The sky is cloudy. It appears not to be raining, yet both the butler and the maid are each holding an open umbrella, as if to say “just in case”. He muses, “And what is that there on the beach, just to left of the maid? It is a handbag. Just a case!” Yes, this picture always makes him smile. Grinning, he looks over to Irene and says, “Watch this.” Then he proceeds to open the picture in the middle, splitting up the dancing couple. The right and left halves of the picture open like swinging doors. Inside, behind the original picture placement, hangs a large flat-screen television monitor. The back side of each half-picture is completely dark and now hangs on each side of the monitor. He picks up a remote control and turns on the television. It picks up where it left off, which is on one of the scenes from the movie, Rent, the Hollywood version. As the music starts, she can hear that the sound comes from some speakers embedded in the picture-halves. “Excellent!” she says, smiling with her approval, now standing to get a better view. “How ever did you think of that?” Oh, I don’t know . . . but I’m sure glad I did. Do you want to stay for the end of the movie? I love the music, but some of the storyline bothers me a bit . . . great sound, eh?” “Like I said, excellent − well done. So this is how you spend your private time?” “Sometimes. I do like how this all ties in though . . . the music, the art, and now all the digital stuff.” “And that’s what I hear your friend is up to . . . something about combining music and art and dancing with the new ‘digital stuff’ as you put it. But it seems no one knows any details . . . I wonder what really goes on in that big empty house of his?” Pierre is satisfied now that she does not know the full specifics of 317 Browning Road, nonetheless he is still shocked by the accuracy of the rumours. Thankfully, she has no inkling about how some of les papillons refer to their post-treatments as dancing. Someday he must remember to commend Andrea for first coining the term. “Well whatever it is, I still don’t understand the relevance of anything he's doing to anything with your new arts center . . . care to explain?” “I wish I could − I’m just grasping at straws right now. It’s just a gut feeling more than anything, at least for now.” This makes Pierre feel a little more relaxed, but still, he knows her better than that, “I’m guessing you have – what is it they say, ‘multiple objectives’ − is that the term?” She laughs, “Honey, when you’re not having multiple orgasms anymore, it’s best to have some multiple objectives!” He lets out with a loud chuckle at her comment, “Thanks for sharing! I tell you what, the next time I see Charles I’ll mention to him that you are in need of ‘special treatment’ . . . maybe he can help you after all!” Now she laughs out loud, “You little devil! Perhaps that other rumour isn’t true then − the one about you and Charles being lovers?” “Ha . . . where did that come from . . . now why doesn’t that one surprise me? Don’t you find it strange these days? It seems like every time two people of the same sex are close, people jump on the ‘they must be gay’ bandwagon, especially if one of them loves art. So, to clear the record, I love that man, but we are not lovers, never will be.” After a pause, he adds, “Doesn’t it seem like so many relationships are falling apart these days . . . relationships of all kinds? Everyone seems so stressed these days. Where is all the love? Sometimes I wonder whether love is getting lost in the confusion we call civilization . . . anyways, Charles is just my friend, and yes, in a way I love him . . . okay?” “I have to agree with you. When it comes to love, it does seem to be harder to find two people really there . . . so when you have it, or even see it in others, you just have to cherish it . . . do you agree?” “Exactly . . . more than you will ever know . . . and to me cherishing means leaving it alone − no meddling, no interference . . . oh, never mind . . . let’s just watch the movie, okay?” She looks at him pensively, not because of anything he has said though. She senses that he must feel in love with someone, but she also knows that it's too early to make further inquiries. She agrees to some coffee, at his insistence, made to help take the edge off her cognac consumption. When it is ready they sit back and enjoy the show together. Pierre goes back to the first scene, which begins with eight spotlights shining on a dark stage, one circle of light for each person . . . the song that follows is, “Seasons of Love”. They watch in silence. When the movie is over she is much calmer than when she arrived. He promises to talk to Charles and wishes her well with her new assignment; he’s genuinely happy for her. He can see how it has already rejuvenated her, something she so badly needs after being dumped by Estelle, dumped for a younger and thinner version of herself. He helps Irene with her coat. She reaches up and gives him a warm kiss on the cheek, squeezes his hand, and thanks him for everything. As soon as she leaves he heads to the bathroom, grabs the handiest face towel he can find, and then he wipes off this huge smear of bright red lip stick from his cheek, looks at the cloth, and smiles. Chapter 20

Look Out . . . Wet Flooring!

By the time Irene leaves, it is already past three. The rain seems to be oblivious to the time, or at least the counting of it. For now though, it appears to favour Irene, as it slows to more of a trickle. Now that she has left, Pierre relaxes on the couch, watching the rain tap gently on his window, asking to come in, and he finds himself wishing he could do that, let it in, but without damaging anything inside. He sits back and gazes at the fire, now burning in full bloom. He picks up the remote and flips through the scene selections of the movie they had just finished watching, Rent. He watches that delicious, hypnotic scene, the one where an adorable young lady invites a young man into her life, shown in the scene, “Will You Light My Candle?” After that one, he skips through part of another scene, the one that begins with his favourite character, Mimi, dancing at a strip club – the Cat Scratch Club. The part he skips is an incredibly raw, hot, song and dance. That’s not his favoured part − after leaving the strip club, Mimi goes to see her dear friend, Roger. They argue about love, about life, about her philosophy of living in the moment. This is done through music, mainly with the song, “No Day But Today”, which is the part Pierre has been waiting for. When this song begins he turns the volume up a couple of notches, enough so that he doesn’t hear the gentle knock on the door. Whoever is knocking would surely and clearly hear the music from the other side. Recognizing it, she just waits patiently and listens, with her ear to the door:

The heart may freeze or it can burn, The pain will ease and I can learn. There is no future, there is no past. I live this moment as my last . . .

She knocks again, three gentle knocks, knowing that Pierre still won’t hear them. Once again, she stops and listens, alone in the darkness of the hallway − the light bulb has gone out, and with no windows it is completely dark. The music continues:

There’s only us, there’s only this, Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. No other road, no other way − No day but today . . .

This time she not only knocks but also calls out his name. Pierre wonders whether he is just hearing things. He turns down the volume slightly and then clearly hears the knock, immediately thinking, “What the hell does she want now?” Annoyed, he puts the remote down and goes to the door. By this time the knocker is fumbling in her purse for something, a little something her father told her to keep in that big bag of hers, something for emergencies − you never know. As she fumbles, the song continues:

There’s only yes, only tonight. We must let go, to know what’s right. No other course, no other way, No day but today.

She looks down in to her purse, finally finds what she is looking for in the dark, and once more taps on the door − knock, knock, knock. A moment later, Pierre opens the door. A small amount of light from the inside trickles out into the dark hall, and his facial expression turns from a frown to a smile when instead of seeing Irene and her lipstick, he sees another familiar figure. A gorgeous smile greets him, a playful and youthful one. Here stands Sunaria. She has an unlit candle in her hand, a delightful twinkle in her eyes, and all she has to say is, “Got a light?” He opens the door wide for her to come in, lost for words in the surprise, though smiling from ear to ear, but more inwardly that outward. “I’ve always wanted to do that!” she says, turning her head back toward him while he shuts the door behind her. Then she sings with incredibly fine style, “Will you light my candle? . . . Oh won’t you light my candle?” For the second time today, Pierre feels those hairs on his neck bristle, but in a much nicer way this time. “Sunaria, what a pleasant surprise − and what a voice − I had no idea. What ever are you doing here?” “I came to pick up something I forgot from the other day. I didn’t mean to bother you, but as I was coming up the stairs the hall light went out, so I couldn’t see the buttons to get into the change room . . . sorry to bother you.” “No problem, none at all,” and he meant that sincerely, now realizing how she somewhat reminds him of that favourite character, Mimi, both in appearance and demeanour. He says to himself, ‘No wonder you want to protect her so much.’ “I could hear you watching Rent − by the volume, I’m guessing you like the music?” she asks, then adds a more direct question, “Do you really listen to those words? There’s some pretty powerful lyrics all over that musical . . . I love it!” Pierre chuckles, “You hear me watching − I see that you are hearing − that’s quite the pair we make, non?” “Now you’re reminding me of a completely different tune, ‘hear me, see me, touch me − listening to you, I feel the music.’ Isn’t that how it goes?” “Very good Sunni . . . I’m impressed . . . an oldie but a goodie, and what do you know about pinball?” “About the same as I know about Superman − they both require balls of steel!” Pierre chuckles once again, “Well that doesn’t sound like much fun.” Sunni just smiles back, “I can think of nicer things to play with.” Pierre feels a sudden urge to change the subject, more of a necessity than an urge. He is determined to keep his record intact. It is one of his most prized accomplishments, which is to deny succumbing to these delicious attempts at seduction . . . occasional attempts by les papillons. In this moment, he thinks of Donna − or tries to, knowing if she were here, instead of Sunni, the passion would preclude the seduction. “It sounds like you are trying to seduce me. It won’t work, just so you know. It never does.” “What?” she says in a way that reveals both hurt and surprise, “Geez, maybe I should just go.” Pierre instantly recognizes his mistake in judgment, realizing that perhaps his mind is playing tricks on him, especially given his amorous morning thoughts of an afternoon with Donna. “No, please don’t go Sunaria. I’m sorry. What can I say?” Sunaria settles down, “It’s okay Pierre, it happens all the time. I guess it’s my fault. I guess I just assume the people that know me understand when I’m just playing with words − but it always comes across as flirting. Believe me, if I wanted to ‘seduce you’ then you will really know.” “Now you sound frustrated. Is something bothering you?” Pierre doesn't know Sunni that well. Andrea, for example, is very careful in asking such a question – posing it to Sunaria is tantamount to opening Pandora’s Box. Sunni takes a seat on his couch, on the end closest to the window and the rain. It's a steady rain again. Pierre sits at the other end, and is about to learn the lesson that Andrea learned long ago, the one about Pandora. “Is something wrong?” She laughs, “Boy, you really don’t know me that well, do you? . . . Got a light?” she asks again, still holding her candle. “What do you mean then – got a light? – What does that mean? Why is it that I don’t think you’re talking about candles. And by the way, in case you didn’t notice, that is a very seductive scene!” “You really didn’t answer my question − the one about you liking that movie. . . . Do you?” “It has its moments.” She snickers, “That’s one of the main themes.” Then she quotes the last few lines from that song, “No Day But Today” . . . “There’s only now, there’s only here . . . to live to love, or live in fear . . . .” Before Pierre can respond, she thinks of the movie from last evening, First Knight, and asks Pierre, “Do you think if a man, or a person, has no fear, that they can still love?” Pierre can see that she has become more serious, but he can’t resist commenting, “That’s funny, ‘a man or a person’! . .. Okay, just give me a second. That’s a tough question − what ever made you think of that?” She explains the context of the question, the legends of King Arthur, some of the notions on love, and also how the film seems to avoid the issue of the moment. “And here I thought people just watch movies for entertainment.” “Well one movie was a book first, and the other was a Broadway musical.” “Off-Broadway.” “What’s the difference?” Pierre looks at her, chuckles, and shakes his head, “One question at a time, okay?” “Okay.” She stops there, looks at Pierre and sees that he is stumped. She wants to give him time to think, but on the other hand she is impatient. She really wants one of those treats, as she calls them. She looks at him again. He looks pretty cool, after all he is Quebecois, so why not take a chance? Or is that a stupid thing to do? She opts for stupidity. “I know you don’t want any more questions. I’ll give you an answer though − I never told you what I came to pick up. I really hope you don’t mind.” She stops there, reaches for her purse, and has her head down while searching for something. As she finds what she is looking for, she tells him that she is 420 friendly. A second later she pulls out a joint and holds it up for him to see. Finally, she asks him if he thinks it will help him with the answer. Pierre is only mildly surprised. He is beginning to get used to her kind of unexpected bravery, and perhaps her unexpected trust in him? He has come close a few times, but just as with the seductions, he’s never partaken in this kind of experience with any of his butterflies. He thinks of the question on fear. Then he checks his pocket, takes something out and reaches over to Sunaria. “Here Sunni, let me light your candle!” he says, as he flicks on the lighter and lights the joint. While she inhales, he goes over to one of the smaller windows and opens it a bit. He tells her to come over beside him and they can smoke there, so as not to leave the odour in the room. Relieved that she hasn’t overstepped her boundaries, Sunni exhales out the window and passes the joint over to Pierre. “No thanks, I don’t smoke that stuff,” he says with a straight face. “Okay,” she says, now puzzled and embarrassed. “Just kidding − here, give me that thing!” They share the joint mostly in silence, commenting only on how the rain doesn't know what it's doing today, and how it’s pretty cool compared to yesterday. By the time they are done discussing the weather they have finished the joint. Pierre excuses himself to go and get a can of Pepsi, and she agrees to have one as well. When he returns with their drinks, Sunaria has parked herself back on the couch. He sees that she has figured out his remote. She is on the scene selection, and in no time a song of love comes on, “Without You”, a tender song about loss, when two are no longer as one. She is oblivious to his presence, engrossed by the blues of it all, so he stands behind the couch, watching and listening:

Without you the ground thaws, The rain falls, the grass grows, Without you the seeds root, The flowers bloom, The children play, The stars gleam, the poets dream. The eagles fly, without you.

The Earth turns, the sun burns, But I die . . . without you. Without you, the breeze warms, the girls smile, the crowd moves, without you . . .

Life goes on when I’m gone, Cuz I die, without you . . . without you. Pierre says, “That's so beautifully sad . . . as for your question though, perhaps it is a misleading one. After all, do you think you will ever meet such a person, one with no fear . . . no fear of loss? I don’t know any such person, and there is so much one can fear, big or small, in so many ways.” “I have so many − so many that I try not to think about it. No matter how hard we try, we really can’t be butterflies, can we Pierre?” He looks at her with both solemnity and endearment, “Perhaps only for a very short time . . . .” He wants to say more, but his mind is now flooded with too many thoughts. “And there is that moment again . . . just to be. It’s just like in the song, isn’t it? . . . Life.” She wants to say more, but her mind is now flooded with too many thoughts. “It’s a terrible question, isn’t it?” and he tries to laugh, but fails. “Pierre . . . have you ever been in love? What’s it feel like?” “Yes I have. As for how it feels, well that’s another tough question. Are you wanting poetry?” “No. I want truth . . . and some guidance, I suppose. It’s all so crazy for me. How do people do it? I mean it’s easy enough to like someone, to enjoy being with them, but the commitment, that vow of forever . . . how do they do that?” He smiles now, still wishing he could find something in her words, or his own, to laugh about. He takes another gulp of Pepsi, then excuses himself for a minute, returning soon. He passes another joint to her, a fresh one from his private stock, one that he knows will be more potent than the one they just finished, but still pretty mild. There is no hesitation from her when he once again flicks the lighter. Once again she takes the first drag. She passes it back to him. By the time he has inhaled, she has already exhaled, and then lets out a satisfying, “Wow.” Perhaps it is the effect of the marijuana, perhaps it is the music. Then again it might be the subject of their discussion. Or maybe it is the longing for the loving, for the affection that he has yearned since that kiss of last night. Then again it could be this sight of a scared and troubled angel standing beside him, her cheeks glowing with life, glowing even in the dimness of the light through the rain, and through the faint smoke. It may be all of this together, call it the tenderness of the moment, call it what you will, but he calls it wrong, no matter how right it feels . . . in this moment. While he finishes the last of the cigarette, to his surprise Sunaria has opened the window wider. She puts her hands on the sill, palms down, and leans her upper body outward, on an angle, stretching out as far as she can in the rain. She looks up into the water dripping steadily onto her face, enjoying the soaking of her hair. Then she looks downward, letting more of the same water run down her back and neck. When she is fully drenched, she eases herself back in, with no concern about the water now dripping on his hardwood floor. She closes the window, leaving it open just a sliver. She turns to face Pierre, who by now has moved back, standing close to the couch and the coffee table. With full boldness, she turns to face him. As if to taunt him, she lifts her wet sweatshirt up over her head. It is hard to tell in the light, but it appears that the tight black undershirt is also quite wet, at least as far down as her nipples, which are protruding in their inviting stiffness. She bows slightly and shakes some of the water out of her hair. Then she takes both hands and soaks them with the water in her hair. Her hands become drier when she rubs them over the cloth that surrounds her firm and ample breasts. All the time her head is bowed, only slightly, so he can see that her eyes are softly shut. He remains speechless. She stops the rubbing, stops any further attempt at drying, raises her head back up and looks at him with open eyes now. She smiles warmly but not seductively, yet he feels every bit seduced. “People love this about me, don’t they?” she says calmly, but also defiantly, perhaps frustrated in her own way. Pierre remains silent, so she continues, “You must want this. Just look at this gorgeous flesh. It’s here for the taking. I don’t mind. Sometimes, when I just let go, it all seems so easy − just being adored, taken − no resistance, no friction at all.” “Pierre, we could talk all night, couldn’t we . . . is that what you expected? More talk? Like any of that matters? Nothing changes . . . this is more real. This is what I want right now. It’s time you gave in . . . come here.” She walks over to the empty space between the couch and the fireplace. She turns so that he is facing her back. Sunni undoes the string that stops her sweats from sliding to the floor. She loosens the front of her pants, nudging and twisting herself around the waist until her pants simply slide down to the hardwood. Then she steps out of them. Her dark flesh, the tightness of her lean and powerful thighs, the small of her back, all interrupted now by only a white piece of cloth that still covers the most tempting of curves. As she turns to face him again, once more she beckons him, with a very audible whisper, and with no trepidation, “Let’s make it real . . . c’mon in . . . the water’s fine.” Chapter 21

317 Browning Road . . . Revisited

It is quiet now at 317 Browning Road. This is always an adjustment for Charles Lartimer, even though most evenings are just as quiet. It never fails, he’s missing his house guests, especially these ones, Pierre and Donna and now in more recent months, Ben too. Tonight, perhaps more than ever, the aloneness has captured him, making him feel agitated, restless. The excitement of Donna’s transformation, part of an ever- changing plan that now seems like a dream come true, is still fresh in his mind, yet now it is too quiet in the house. Charles couldn't be happier with the changes in Donna's relationship with Pierre, and so sudden . . . all of it makes tonight’s solitude bearable, yet at the same time, he can't seem to relax. Long ago he gave up on finding this kind of happiness, something that he is certain they will share, together . . . Pierre and Donna. He tries not to dwell on the truth that he has never really been in such a close relationship, though he once thought that he was. He sees Ben drifting, as he did at Ben’s age − two dreamers from two very different sets of circumstance, yet the dream is more or less the same. Will Ben wind up alone too? But then there is the art. People without the experience cannot seem to appreciate the joy of it all, no more than the true artist can explain it. Charles is convinced that at times one can know something of love this way, through art, but he cannot prove or explain it. Unfortunately, neither can he show it in his own creations. With Ben it is different. It as if Love flows through him unannounced, at Her own will, and Ben has no idea when this is happening. Charles strongly believes in this. All he has to do is to look at any one of his pupil’s works . . . instead of works, Ben prefers to call them “plays”. Because it is all so effortless, so playful, Ben finds no satisfaction beyond the doing of it. He merely glances at the finished art, finds it to be “okay” and then becomes uncomfortable in any discussion of it, seeking only to move to the next surface in need of some playtime. An hour ago Charles had called Ben and left him a message. He invited him over to the house to join him in yet another viewing of the musical that never gets old. At a time when Charles became completely disenchanted with the film industry, someone decided to put his favourite musical production on to film. This usually turns out badly, but not this time. He had already seen Les Misérables four times on the stage, each time in a different city and with a different company, and he loved each one of these events. To see it captured so nicely in film, the 25th Anniversary Production, and in front of the masses at a football stadium, of all places, this is a remarkable feat. However, he is the first to admit that being there, for the live performance, is always the best, but in a theatre and not a stadium. It’s been well over an hour now and still no reply from Ben, so Charles decided to go it alone. Now well into the film, he is enjoying the song, “Who am I”. To Charles some of the music sounds like the evening’s rain, and if he were to choose a picture of this music, (but not the words), it would look like butterflies. Yet for him, the words portray so much about hope in one man’s struggle to carry on, and for reasons largely unknown. The doorbell rings. Charles ignores it as he listens to the last of the song before pausing the movie. He waits another few seconds and hears a second ring. He is sure it must be Ben, and when he opens the door there is his friend, greeting him with the smile of a rested and determined young man, but also the smile of a man who seems overly enthused, a man on a new mission. Charles welcomes Ben, guides him to the entertainment room, and says nothing in the process. He is too busy thinking, too busy to speak, as he tries to figure out how to tell Ben about his partnership with Donna. He knows this will be tough on Ben, but in the long run it is for the best. This train of thought has rendered him blind to the potential damage of Ben's forthcoming news. “Sit down, my friend. How charming to come . . . unannounced . . . what a nice surprise.” Ben apologizes, “I’m sorry Charles – I should have called. I know you don’t like people just showing up here . . . I can tell. Then again, you did call.” “That’s quite all right. Yes, you do know me well. Maybe I should start liking this ‘showing up’, because it is a nice surprise.” He pauses, then says in a soft and tired voice, “Besides, I think I’m getting pretty tired of this place, of being alone so much.” Taken aback more by the tone more than the words, Ben wants to change the subject, hoping that his news will cheer up his troubled friend. “Can we leave the movie alone, at least for now? I want to talk to you about something . . . I have an idea . . . and I need to tell you something!” “Well, I can see you are about to burst with whatever it is, so let’s have it. By the way, is that your truck parked out front? I thought what’s-her-name had it?” “Chika? Yes, usually, but she’s not feeling well. I was going to return it to her on Saturday, but she said to just hang to it on until tomorrow. Anyways, I want to do something with my art . . . you haven’t sold all of it, have you?” “My dear man, how many times do I have to tell you, I haven’t sold any of it!” Before Charles can say another word, Ben interrupts him, now pacing in his excitement. “I want to put on a show. I’ve come in to some money and I want to use it to put on an exhibition . . . it all makes so much sense now, it’s almost poetic.” Now it is Charles’s turn to interrupt, “Slow down there, Benny my boy. You’re losing me already. Why on earth do you want to put on an exhibition, and what’s all this talk about poetry?” “She has to see. She has to see my work, then she will know, she will see how we do belong together − I’m sure of it − she will see there’s more to me than painting houses. She will love it!” Charles is startled by Ben’s zeal, “Ohhh, now I see . . . it’s a woman! And you think you can impress her with your artistic talents, do you? How very strange, especially coming from you.” “Why do you say that?” Charles lets out a little laugh, “It seems your new-found love has turned you into a hypocrite. I mean, come on, all this time, all your talk about what a person does and how that shouldn’t matter when it comes to love.” “No, I’m not a hypocrite, and yes, that’s what I believe. But you know damn well it counts for something . . . I wish it didn’t, but damn it, I know it does.” “So you will abandon that ideal . . . just for her? I suppose this must be part of love, as you call it, and now you have become an impressionist!” “An impressionist?” “Yes, trying to impress the lady with your mastery . . . how vulgar, perhaps desperate?” Ben becomes irritated, finding nothing amusing in Charles’s comments, “If you knew her then you might understand.” “Okay Ben. I apologize. I can see this is no laughing matter for you. Yes, you must tell me all about her . . . and just how young is she? But I think we should have a drink first − this should be a celebration. And how come you haven’t told me more about her sooner? This must be the young lady you talk about sometimes. The way you’ve talked about her so far, it sounds like you are two kids when you’re together!” Ben tells Charles that he can’t wait to tell him everything. Charles tells him to at least wait a second, as he pours them each a glass of Drambuie, a favourite evening drink for each of them. As he hands it to Ben, he tells him to hold his story until they are upstairs. Then he leads Ben up the main staircase, down a wide hall. There are two closed doors on each side. At the far end are two more doors, a set of large French doors. Charles opens them and begins to turn on the lights, using a series of dimmer switches. Ben enters the room just behind Charles, wondering what his friend is up to. The room is semi-circular. It is a huge balcony that overlooks the gazebo, the trees, and the garden in the back of the house. It is fully enclosed in plexiglass, and the glass appears to be tinted, so it has the sense of being an atrium. There are mounted lights completely surrounding the room. Charles plays with the switches, adjusting each light individually, beginning with the one facing directly onto the garden. As each light becomes a spotlight, each spotlight brings a different picture in to view. Even the artist is taken aback by the beauty of it all . . . Ben watches each of a dozen of his paintings come to life, like images floating in the darkness. A lump comes to his throat. For Charles, there is a lump in the throat as well, which happens often when he comes here for a viewing. “Water colours”, he muses, thinking of the artist’s child-like humour. Ben once tried to explain how nature is the supreme artist, how She seems to prefer to play, not work. She plays with it all . . . water and colors and light and wind . . . playing in this sky full of water, and this light of the sun − “water colours and air brushing and moving pictures!” Charles lets Ben visit the pictures privately, watching with joy now, as Ben drifts from one picture to another, saying nothing. Occasionally he will glance over at Charles, point at something and grin. Charles nods in recognition. Ben smiles, looks again, and moves to the next picture. When he is done his tour, he takes a seat across from Charles. Now they sit in two of three wicker chairs that surround a small and round wicker table with a glass top. “Voila, here is your exhibition, and yes, now I agree, it should be seen . . . but not for the reasons as you stated . . . bad reasons Ben, very bad.” Ben can now see that Charles has a genuine concern about it all. Being nearest to the bottle of Drambuie, Ben delays his response by topping up their drinks. Then after a silent toast, he begins his confession. “I’ve been keeping a secret from you Charles. It’s a big one, at least for me. You see, I’ve been seeing someone for quite awhile now. And I’m crazy about her, want to be with her more all the time. We spent a wonderful night together this weekend, and I finally got to know her better.” He pauses to take another sip, and a deep breath, “I lied to her though . . . I didn’t mean to. She said she just wants to be friends, and I agreed. But the truth is I just can’t do that . . . more than ever I feel she and I are meant to be together . . . I really want you to meet her . . . her name is Donna.” Charles becomes white as a ghost, though Ben can't see the paleness . . . almost all of the light in the room is on the pictures, thankfully not on them. All of a sudden the plans of Charles Lartimer have gone a little sour. Until now there had only been delightful outcomes. He should be feeling sad and sorry for Ben, so woefully deluded in these feelings for Donna. Instead, his mind is already trying to solve this new problem, the one of Ben and Donna. Mr. Lartimer had assumed Ben would be describing a different lady, the other one Ben talked about so much, the one who’s name is unknown to Charles . . . . the one Ben knows as Sunaria. Charles listens, expressionless. Ben is too caught up in his own excitement to notice his friend’s solemnity. Mr. Talbot had practised this story many times for Mr. Lartimer. While he wants to speak only of the truth, unfortunately he still has to hide Donna’s secret. So he needs to lie for her, but not really lie as much as a twist of the truth. He tells Charles that he has been seeing a therapist for awhile now, but not really in a professional way. He tells him that Donna has recently given up her practice, that she has since gone through some kind of change of heart. He tries to explain that however adorable she was before, since she quit counselling she has become like a kid again, like this huge weight has been removed, and how she now seems ready for love. He tells Charles how Donna professes to only want to be friends, but Ben is sure that is just her fear talking. She only needs time, and then she will feel the same as he does, about her. “You know, Charles, what you see in these pictures, that’s all her . . . I mean that’s all I see when I’m painting . . . her. Well, maybe not all the time, but certainly in my dreams, something about the child within – I want to bring that out of her. When I get past her outward beauty, inside her heart, what she hides, it’s all there. That’s what I’m always trying to paint. If you knew her you might understand.” Ben stands up now. He walks over to one corner of the room, looking out into the darkness, waiting for a response that isn’t coming. Finally he says to Charles, “I can hardly wait ‘til you meet her.” “Ben, we need to talk. I mean we really need to talk. I hope you can spend the night . . . I have a hunch you might not feel like driving by the time we’re done tonight.” He pauses there, as he is sure he can hear some noise downstairs. “Are you sure you shut the door when you came in?” “Um, I think so?” “I’ll be right back. Wait here, okay?” Charles doesn’t wait for an answer. Ben remains in the corner while Charles rushes down the hall and the stairs. He can definitely hear more noise, knowing now that someone else has entered the house. As he gets near the bottom of the stairs, he sees Donna there, walking around, looking for signs of life. She turns and sees him, “There you are. What are you doing? And where’s Ben, upstairs? I saw his truck outside. Did you tell him everything? How is he?” She’s throwing questions at him without waiting for answers, nor does she wait for an invitation to go upstairs. She is seven steps up before he calls for her to come back down. She stops her ascension, comes back down and listens to Charles when he tells her to just sit down. “I haven’t told him anything. I was just about to tell him, then I heard someone coming in − you. What the hell are you doing here?” “I forgot some notes in my room. I just came to pick them up . . . what’s wrong? Why are you so upset? You said you’d be alone tonight, just watching a movie. Besides, you promised to show me some art earlier . . . did you forget? − I did.” “You wait here. I don’t want him coming down and seeing you here. I better get back up there. Just wait, okay? Give me a few minutes with him.” “Maybe I should just go.” “No.” He says abruptly, “Just be patient and wait. You don’t know the whole situation. Please just wait.” He is already on his way back upstairs as he gives her that final order, leaving Donna to pace nervously around the large entrance to the house. By the time he gets back to the atrium, Ben is sitting again. Charles sits down as well and Ben watches him take a slug of Drambuie rather than his usual sip. As Charles pours another shot, Ben asks if everything is okay. “Yes, everything is fine. Don’t worry. Now Ben, there is something you need to know about the project.” “After my anniversary surprise I pretty much know everything I need to know − Wow, what a night. I’ll never forget that.” There is silence from Charles. Once again, it seems everything is falling apart. He wonders whether it is over now, but mostly he worries whether he is about to destroy an artist. Will the truth about Donna shatter Ben’s passion, or is it stronger than that? Suddenly he is haunted by the memory of Pierre’s concern, the one about tampering with something sacred. Now more than ever it seems that may be true, in many ominous and indescribable ways. He has no choice now but to hurt his dear friend, Ben Talbot. He wonders and hopes the friendship can bear the truth of it all, the baring of some secrets. “Ben, I need to tell you about my partners. They are truly remarkable people, but to be honest, we all have serious concerns about the future of the project.” He then goes on to tell him the whole story, as much as he can on the fly, though he is sure he is leaving out some important details. Ben appears to be fascinated in how Charles describes Pierre, the restaurant, the role of the models that Ben has painted, but that Pierre knows as les papillons. He tells Charles that he is lucky to have such a partner, and that he would love to meet the man some day. Then he tells Charles that this gentleman, Pierre Allarde, is exactly the kind of man he is worried about, and this is why he needs to find a way to impress Donna. Charles takes a deep breath and tells Ben that Donna is the other partner. He blurts it out just like that. Then he sighs. Ben is speechless and it is his turn to turn pale as a ghost. Pausing for no more than a couple of seconds, Charles apologizes, telling him how he has known of Ben’s association with Donna, but not through her. He tries to explain that until just yesterday, Donna had no idea that Ben was the artist. Ben’s thoughts are a blur. He tells Charles he doesn’t believe him. He tells him that he’s a sick, sick man, telling him that he hopes he rots in hell. Charles listens, he lets Ben vent, feeling a little noxious, as if he just killed a deer with his bare hands, and for no reason at all . . . he thinks he is watching a gifted spirit vanish before his very eyes. In his fifty-some years he realizes he has never fully known the meaning of regret . . . until now. There is only one thing he can do, and so he says, “Please come with me. She’s downstairs. She wants to see you. Please come down, not for me, but for you.” Chapter 22

The Painting

Ben agreed with Charles in terms of confronting Donna. However, he insisted that she come up to the atrium. Charles complied, but reluctantly, as he knew that Ben sought to gain some kind of upper hand in his home court, surrounded by all his creations. Charles knows Donna better than that. Yes, she likes fine art, but she can only see the picture. Like most, she can appreciate the talent and uniqueness, but not the process. It took many years for Charles to learn this about art lovers. No matter how hard they try, few really understand what is truly a gift, something truly priceless . . . but many try. Charles goes downstairs once more, sighs again, and escorts Donna up the stairs. On the way up he warns her that Ben did not take the news well, and that he lied to her about just wanting her friendship. He tells her that Ben is convinced that he's in love with her, and that he is sure she will feel same about him, eventually. He can see her anger mounting with each word, as if it is Donna who has been the victim of lies. Charles makes no mention of the art. As she enters the atrium she won’t even look at Ben. Instead she begins to view the paintings, taking her time, bending over for a closer look and then stepping back, obviously deeply moved by the ephemeral effect of it all. For Ben this is the anticipated sign of their impending union. Then she turns back towards the two men, both sitting around the little wicker table. Before she sits down she looks at Ben and states, “until yesterday I had no idea that you are the artist in our project.” Ben watches her take a seat, flabbergasted by her lack of amazement at his art, completely offended by the absence of comment. Now he is in a position of weakness and not of strength. Hurt by her indifference, he lashes out at Donna Belauche. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Shame on you! I did all this for you . . . all along I thought some day –” She cuts in right there, “You thought some day I’d fall madly in love with you . . . because of your painting? Well guess what, you’re wrong . . . you’re so fucking wrong. What were you thinking? What the hell am I going to do with you?” Then she pauses to take a drink, first whatever was left in Ben’s glass and then taking the same from their host’s glass. She continues, “Fuck it. I’ve had it with you and your adolescent games. Besides, you’re such a liar, a hypocrite, so much talk of love. You certainly didn’t mind your anniversary present, did you? I’ll bet you really got your rocks off that night, huh? Loved every minute of it?” “What? – And what the hell do you know about that night?” “I know you got yourself a really nice treatment, a massage and more − pretty special, right? Well guess what, I arranged the whole damn thing . . . and I didn’t even know it was for you!” Donna pauses, tries to refrain from saying more, but more comes out anyway, “Such great sex . . . certainly not something to share over a campfire . . . was it?” Ben gives her a steely glance, “You’ve got it all wrong. Yeah, it was special all right . . . why don’t you let me tell you about it? After all, you’ve been trying to do that for years, right . . . intimacy counselling − ?” “You haven’t forgiven me at all, have you? . . . You can’t. I already know what happened. The model that night, I gave her clear instructions to pamper you completely – to spoil the artist. She knew exactly what to do and how to do it. I told her for once it was going to be the artist who is going to be treated . . . a one-year anniversary present. She didn’t mind at all – she said, ‘I’ve really been wanting to spend some intimate time with the artist’ . . . those were her exact words, apparently it was a fantasy of hers, so don’t play games now . . . don’t you dare . . . I know exactly what happened.” “Obviously you don’t. You don’t know shit about what really happened. Whatever you planned, that’s not the way it was . . . Do you really want to hear?” Then he looks at Charles and says, “both of you?” Neither says anything. Ben stands up and moves away from them, looking out into the darkness once more. With his back to them he gathers his thoughts. He’s never tried to put the memories of that night into words. He waits until his anger has dissipated, and the memories of that Sunday night help immensely. He paces back and forth a couple of times, then stops and parks in one corner of the atrium. “Yes, it was special time alright, a night I’ll never forget. The lady, the model − what’s her name? . . . I guess I’ll never know. I guess that doesn’t matter. You’re right Donna, she did make me the kindest offer, but not as you describe it. She actually gave me two options. First she asked me if I wanted a very intimate massage. But then before I could answer, she said, ‘Or would you prefer to do me . . . paint me in your own special way?’ – Those were her exact words. I didn’t want the massage . . . I told her I’d rather paint her . . . that I’d love to paint her . . . some more . . . but much differently. At the time I had no idea what was about to happen, what this meant. I’m sure you know the room, dimly lit with a few candles, the table that’s almost a bed, the satin curtain, and then the oils and some kind of tea on the side . . . and all so very warm. It’s pretty intoxicating, as was her body when the robe fell from her shoulders. As that happened, she told me to sit in the armchair in the corner, and to just watch. Then she laid flat on her stomach, on this table. It looked like it was covered with these very thick towels, and then her body kind of sank in that softness. As soon as she laid down, another lady came into the room, from a door in the far corner. She carried more towels, hot ones . . . I could see some of the steam coming off of them. She draped them all over this young lady’s backside. Soon she peeled away some of the top towels and began rubbing something on the model’s body – then wiping it off – I’m sure this was the removing of the body paint. This went on for some time, until her entire body had been cleansed. Then the model sat up. The other lady placed fresh, warm towels under the model, who then laid down again, on her back now. Then the attendant bound the arms of the model to the side of this bed, just above the wrists, and loosely so that the model could still move her hands a bit, maybe a foot at the most. I didn’t find out until later − about her neck, I mean. It had been braced to the bed as well, but again with room for comfortable movement, though only a little. I couldn’t tell at the time, because there was this curtain, a satin one that was just long enough to block the view of the model’s neck and head. So once again, she couldn’t see me.” Ben pauses, then tells them he is almost finished the story. All the while Charles and Donna had taken standing similar positions, with Donna being about five feet away from Ben. Charles is another five feet past Donna – the three of them are parked along the curve of the semi-circle perimeter of the atrium In a few moments of silence, they simply gaze out into the darkness. Just as Ben is about to finish, in a soft voice, Charles tells Ben that the model’s name is Andrea . . . and the other lady’s name is Karen. Ben nods his head in appreciation, then goes on to completion. “Thank you . . . Karen . . . she was giving Andrea all this wonderful attention . . . she came up to me, held out her hand and guided me to where the ointments were. There were candles there, keeping everything warm, some used like little burners. There was some small cups and Karen poured me a little drink, which I assumed was tea. It was tea, with lots of honey, so it was thick, but it had a foreign spiciness to it. This made my lips and tongue warm and tingly, but not hot, all extremely pleasant. After this drink she took my hand and gave me a different bowl . . . it contained something similar . . . it looked the same as the tea, but it was thicker, perhaps with more honey, almost like a glaze. Then she put a painter’s brush in the other hand. I felt the tip and could tell it was of the highest quality, genuine horse hair. It was thick and nicely tapered, suitable for many different kinds of strokes. Karen led me to the foot of the bed. She moved a step away. As some soft music began to play, she undid the belt of her robe and let it fall to the floor. Then she just stood there, naked, and watched me paint. I dipped the brush in the honey glaze and began swirling some of it around one of Andrea’s ankles. I was about to dip my brush and paint some more, but the attendant stopped me, gently pushed me aside, and she leaned over and removed the honey from Andrea’s ankle, with her mouth. When she was done I then painted the knee of the opposite leg, just a few dabs, and then waited for Karen to delicately lap off the glaze from Andrea’s knee. Then there was the side of one calf, one long stroke at a time, and while that was being licked off, I moved upward and began playing with one spot after another. Things seemed to go to another level when I feathered Andrea’s lips with the glaze, and then her tongue as well. When she went to lick it off her lips, I played with her tongue with this tip of the brush . . . we really enjoyed that, and for quite awhile . . . and then there were her ears. . . . The whole experience was wonderful, all so slow and patient and, well, it’s hard to explain. I pretty much painted the entire front of her body, as well as some of her exposed backside. Eventually the honey found it’s way along her sexual sweet spots, first with the brush and then by the touch of Karen's lips, tongue and fingers. The creases and crevices seemed to absorb the glaze, and the strokes of the brush, the various pressures, rhythms, waves, well that could have gone on forever. When Andrea began to moan deeply, and when her torso began to quiver, we could all tell that she was losing control. Impulsively, I went over by the candles and brought back a larger container of the glaze, a little hot now. As Andrea’s pulsating seemed to be coming to a climax, I poured some of this across the top of her pubic mound. I forgot myself and rubbed this area with my hand, instead of with the brush. I did more of the same all around her torso. This surprised her, and Karen as well, who still had her mouth in the lower region. Andrea’s sound intensified, her release was powerful and prolonged, especially when I pressed a little harder. As soon as she began to subside, I poured on some more, rubbed some more, and her pleasure took on a new life. Once again, when she began to relax even slightly, Karen and I would do some more, adding the hot mixture and so on . . . soon Andrea released another flood of sensations. By the fifth time, it was as if Andrea was no longer in control of her body . . . it was if she had surrendered to something else, to her pure joy, and this joy seemed to appreciate the freedom. The sounds of Andrea’s voice, the movement of her body, well, I just can’t describe that, don’t really want to, except to say that they were the sweetest and gentlest sounds and motions I have ever heard or seen . . . like a timeless dance. It was as if pure Joy was rewarding her . . . as if they were cherishing each other . . . and I have no idea how long it all lasted . . . it seemed like forever, and yet it was like time was standing still. When it became obvious that Andrea could take no more, Karen covered her body again, with more towels and then a light blanket. The silence was pure. Andrea dozed off in a gentle sobbing. Then her hands and neck were freed, like she had no recollection of ever being bound. When it was over, the strangest thing happened . . . Karen covered her naked body with Andrea’s robe, put her hair up and then put on that chauffeur’s hat . . . she told me to sit down again and just wait there for a minute. Then she went over to this platter. It had three tulips on it, but she only left one on the platter and put the lid back on. Then she disappeared with this platter – after all of this – such a fuss over a single tulip? When she came back, she took my hand and guided me back to the studio, where I got a glimpse of this tulip flower sitting on the uncovered platter, under a spotlight. Andrea was still sleeping when I left. She looked so precious, and it was all just that − precious − and now I have told you . . . now you know the truth.” Ben is done now. While they stand around the edge of this atrium, when any of them talks, they only turn their heads slightly; from the open French doors it would appear as if they are almost talking to themselves, or speaking to the outside. In this manner, Donna turns her head toward Ben, still feeling somehow vindicated by his intimate secret revealed, one kept so well from her. “You see Ben, there you have it. Such a fantastic experience . . . and I’m happy for you. I keep trying to tell you that. You may not believe me, but it’s true . . . until yesterday I had no idea that the artist in our project was you . . . is you. But that really doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, look at you . . . playing the role of the hurt man in love . . . and not even a lover! It’s almost pathetic. I told you another truth, the one about wanting to be friends . . . now I really don’t even see that. I can see you lied about that . . . about our friendship. As for all this art . . . it’s nice, but for me it’s still just pictures, that’s all. I don’t really care if you paint Mona Lisa’s or Monte Carlos, it’s not that important. As for the Andreas of the world, you can paint as many as you like, that’s up to you.” Ben sighs, upset once again, but says calmly, “Yes, you’ve made all that very clear. I just want you to know one thing before I say goodbye. It’s strange you know . . . I don’t know Andrea beyond hello, and yet what we had together . . . . it’s like we were one and the same . . . such a closeness – true intimacy – so much more than just sex. You know Donna, when I was doing all this art, often I’d be thinking about you, dreaming about us being that close, but now I know – you will never be Andrea – so free. I can see that now, and I guess I have to say I’m sorry . . . I really can’t see you on that pedestal anymore.” After that Ben turns around to leave, only to be startled by the presence of a man in the doorway, the silhouette of a stranger, though he is sure it must be Pierre. Standing to Pierre’s left, and closer to Ben, is Andrea, looking more beautiful than ever, with the light from the hall draping over the flowing mane, and onto her shoulders. Their eyes meet for only a part of a second, after which they both bow their heads, enough to avoid more eye contact. This is done without any shame or humiliation. It is pure, a form of mutual homage, and even then not to each other, but to their shared experience as he described so eloquently. Ben remains where he is, not knowing what to do, while Andrea approaches him, cups one of his cheeks with one hand, and kisses him . . . slowly and softly, on the other cheek. By now Charles and Donna have also turned to greet the surprise visitors. Donna asks Pierre how long they have been standing there. Pierre says, “Long enough to hear Ben's story.” He pauses, and steps aside, gently pulling someone by the arm, someone who was standing behind him. He guides her to the forefront, “I want you all to meet Sunaria Ellice.” Donna looks at her, once again caught off guard by her radiant beauty, and even more so by the way one complements the other, this Andrea and this Sunaria. Donna says, “Well, it seems the surprises just never end − hello again, Sunni.” Sunni has been listening all along. She is less than impressed by the coldness Donna has expressed to Ben. The shock of seeing him here like this has made her numb − there was no warning of any of this for her − she is the outsider amidst this strangeness – she thought she was just coming to meet Charles Lartimer. However, the shock was only momentary. After standing there and listening to Ben’s description of that night’s events, she feels a new kind of warmth for him, like a deep affection for a fellow dreamer. Now their night together makes complete sense – everything that happened, and what didn’t happen – she is so pleased to see him. Sunni says, “Hello Ms. Belauche. Yeah . . . surprises all right.” She looks at her lost Ben, approaches him, and with one hand she gently strokes one of his cheeks, the one Andrea missed. She softly kisses him on the lips . . . her way of telling him “it’s okay”. For Ben, the lingering of this kiss is sublime, and he has no questions of it. Then Sunni turns her head to Donna and says, “By the way, the name is Sunaria – I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.” Donna’s warm smile suddenly turns to a cooler, slightly hurt expression. She has nothing to say. Charles, who has been quiet through all of this, finally steps forward and invites them all downstairs, “where they will be more comfortable.” It appears that none feel very comfortable with the suggestion, except perhaps Pierre and Donna. Ben puts a hand on Charles’s shoulder, and tells him, “No thanks Charles. I think you and your two partners should stay here. I’ll take these ladies home.” Then he turns to Pierre and shakes his hand, “You must be Pierre. I’m Ben Talbot. I think you know by now that I’m the artist in your project . . . at least I used to be.” Pierre tells him that it is a pleasure to meet him, then compliments him on the art. Ben nods his head, says nothing, and guides Andrea and Sunaria down the stairs. He helps them with their jackets and they just drive away. Chapter 23

The Musketeers Get Defensive

The three musketeers remained seated at the little round table. The setting couldn’t be more poetic. The spotlights still shine on Ben’s art, each picture illuminating with the image of a nude model, though there was no full nudity anywhere to be seen. As promised, none of the models were recognizable. You would have to look really hard to see any resemblance, though it was there, in the smiles on their faces. However, these faces, and the bodies as well, were those of young and playful children, very much like the kind of picture that Charles had rescued from the floor at the gallery, the place and time where he first met Ben. These childlike images were certainly naked, but much of that was covered by floating leaves, or snowflakes, or branches of a tree, sometimes a few butterflies, and many more gifts of nature. In another layer of imagery, more like in the wind, you could see some of the shapes of the nude models in their adult forms, but without any facial allusion, floating in peace and beauty. It was definitely poetic, with all this art and the light, contrasted by three sullen mortals, just sitting there, apparently lost in the dark. The three partners seemed oblivious to what some dreamers might view as art itself looking in on this troubled trio, curiously watching them, curious as to what they will do next. They all look so innocent, these pictures, and without a worry in this world. The people in the middle though, they appear to be ridden with guilt and confusion . . . except perhaps for Pierre Allarde, who just appears to be sad. Their collective silence is the most pervasive one the trio have ever known together. For the longest time not one of them wants to talk. Finally, Charles turns to Donna and asks, “So how do you think that went?” Donna senses a leading question, so she keeps her response short, “Fine. You?” “Fine? – That’s all you have to say? – Fine?” He pauses, trying to contain his disdain, “From what I saw, you really wanted to crush him. Would you agree with that?” She pauses, more annoyed than hurt by his accusation, “This has gone far enough. I don’t see that I had any choice. I’m tired of his bullshit . . . and all his talk of love . . . what a pile of crap.” “I’ll take that for a ‘yes’ . . . job well done, congratulations.” Once again he pauses, summoning his patience, “Did it ever occur to you that you might have crushed him in other ways . . . his spirit . . . his art?” “His art? We’re back to that are we? So what’s more important to you Charles, his art . . . or my honesty?” Without hesitation, Charles replies, “That’s an easy one Donna − his art. As for your honesty, tell me something. How long have you been stringing him along? He’s been seeing you for a long time now, even before I met him. I’m curious, how long have you known that he’s crazy about you? And all those other clients of yours . . . my God, that’s it, isn’t it? And such a ‘hook’ − intimacy! And with your looks and charm, wow, I think you’ve redefined customer loyalty.” She wants to get up and slap him, but then she quickly realizes that it's only the truth that hurts, and he is just being honest. Pierre listens, but he is beginning to squirm in his chair, becoming less and less comfortable with the way this conversation is going. He alters his focus between Donna's words and Ben’s art. Donna makes a point of avoiding any looks in Pierre's direction. “Okay Charles, you’ve got me there. Yeah, I’m an asshole, the world’s biggest liar, nothing but a con artist . . . well guess what . . . big fucking deal. Ben will be fine, you’ll see, and so will his art. Now, can we get down to business?” “Just like that, huh? Yes, I agree, Ben’s art will survive. It would be a shame for genius like that to be squelched by such a charade . . . he’s much more of a man than a boy . . . actually he’s both. As for business, well it does look like the project is over.” “You and your goddamn genius . . . they’re just pictures.” Again he summons his patience, “Yes, and Einstein was just a number cruncher.” “Give me a break. I know you’re a big Einstein fan. That’s genius, fine. But Ben? Give me a break!” Pierre jumps in, saying they could all use a break. Charles agrees, and though it is getting late, he offers some wine and they all agree. He gets up and heads down stairs. Pierre offers to go with him and give him a hand. Charles balks but Pierre insists, and it becomes obvious that he really doesn’t want to be alone with Donna, not right now. As they head down the stairs, Charles asks Pierre to get the glasses out and that he will join him in a minute, as he must go to his den for a second to get a few things, “some notes” as he put it. Charles soon returns and selects a bottle of red, without checking the label. There are few words between the two men, the only ones being Pierre’s inquiry about “these mysterious tulips”. Charles sighs at the question, telling Pierre that they will get to that eventually, but he prefers that Donna explains it . . . it was her idea, though Charles also tells Pierre that it was one that he supported all along. The issue of Pierre’s exclusion in the entire tulip issue is never discussed. They return upstairs. While waiting, Donna once more walks around the room, studying the pictures, but in a different way now. She looks for something about herself in each one, something that Ben claims he sees in her, but she can see none of it. When she hears the two men coming down the hall, she takes one more close look at the current picture of interest, she gives her head a little shake and then sits down. Charles pours them each a glass of wine, then he begins the discussion again. By the words that follow, the other two can tell that he is not yet ready to get down to business. They remain in the dark, still surrounded by the glowing art. “Before we go on, can we all agree that we’re going to clear the air tonight, no matter what . . . and no matter how long it takes?” Reluctantly, the other two nod in agreement, acknowledging the necessity. “Okay then. Now where were we?” Charles continues, “Oh yes, Einstein, and genius. Two of my favourite topics. I wonder what he really knew, and thought – perhaps we will never know all of that? Ben claims there is much of that to get to know . . . and I have to agree. He, Mr. Einstein, seemed to have a very high degree of admiration for art, and for imagination . . . and it does seem that he understood that there is something of love through all of it. Pierre, wasn’t it you who once told me about one of those philosophers, the one you like so much . . . how did you put it . . . ‘Art without love is nothing.’ . . . or something like that?” Pierre nods his head in agreement, and at this time he and Donna make eye contact for the first time tonight, though briefly, as they both dart their eyes elsewhere upon contact. Charles looks around the room, at the pictures that appear to be looking at them, the pictures with their warm brightness, and they in their dimness. Surprisingly, Charles begins to chuckle. The other two are both surprised and relieved to see this expression – his personal amusement seems to rub off on them, easing the tension, if only slightly. “I’ll give you a little example of what I mean. I read an article about him a few years ago – it was in a major New York newspaper. The writer is a physicist and he was talking about the discovery of a photon of light that Einstein pondered about, a photon spotted deep in space, supposedly surrounded by nothing. Somewhere in the article, there was mention of some kind of phenomenon that Einstein simply described as “Spooky!” . . . it's that term that makes me chuckle. When I talked to Ben about this, he said that he wondered whether Einstein thought about this photon as he did. You see, he wondered how this photon knew where to go . . . what direction to take . . . why does it change direction, and how is the new arc selected . . . the curves, ultimately never a line. Basically he summed it up by wondering ‘what guides the light’, which is very much different than the term, ‘the guiding light’. You see, there is much more to this artist than pictures, something about art that physics can never explain . . . something well beyond numbers . . . something pure . . . and then there are the colors. Ben talks a lot about curves, how there is something of love in all of it . . . immeasurable, like art? There’s something sublime and innocent in this process, in the ways of people like Ben, those who search for truth – for love – and with no intent. In my view, perhaps that is the only way for genius to exist . . . perhaps ‘no intent but a desire for truth’ is a necessity? So you see, Donna, I will always choose art when presented with choices such as the one you have offered. There is a much greater truth, a truth that can be found through art . . . and no offence, but for me that is much more important than what you call your ‘personal honesty’.” Donna and Pierre remain silent. They seem to understand Charles’s passion for art more than ever before, and there is no argument, nor any desire for one, certainly not over what the man just said. Donna feels she must respond, and soon she does, though she worries about what words will come out, and with what consequence? “He’ll be okay Charles. Listen . . . I know I’m a rotten liar, I can’t deny that anymore. Even when I try to be honest, it doesn’t always come out that way. So, for what’s it worth, I admit it . . . Ben’s way too much for me. And yeah, I’ve known that from the first time he came to see me. There was no doubt then, but even though I had him wrapped around my little finger, or so I thought . . . funny how he always saw me as being so much better than himself − ” She stops there, taking a closer look at her partners now. They remain silent, knowing that she has more to say. Their expressions are not of anger or disgust. It is the look of two people trying hard to give her their support . . . their friendship. To Donna this conveys the message, “she's being much too hard on herself,” and from this she draws the courage to go on. “You two are really something else . . . such smart men! You know I’m mostly full of shit, more screwed up than I ever realized, until now . . . most of my life is one big lie. But then in my own defence, present company excepted, most of my life has been with people who, well, let’s just leave that out for now . . . Anyway, just so you know, Ben and all the others got exactly what they paid for. They got their ‘charming companionship’ every time – two hours at a time – the truth is they probably got more than their money’s worth . . . an ongoing, unattainable fantasy.” She stops there. That lump comes back to her throat, brought on by her words, as they turn into thoughts. The epiphany is crushing . . . she is still living the life that she thought was left behind, the life of Dawn Belcourt, the expert in fantasy fulfillment. Her title had changed, but the role was much the same, though now there is no more fulfillment – not for anyone, and especially not for Donna Belauche. Pierre and Charles are deeply disturbed. They are not bothered by anything she has said, but more by the current image of the woman they adore, in spite of all her acting. Now she is just sitting there, her glass shaking uncontrollably, as some of the wine dribbles down her top while she tries to drink it. She manages to put the wine glass down on the table without more spilling. Donna puts one hand over her mouth as she looks out, and then up, pensively, into the darkness of the night, into the rain. She cannot speak and the two men know that. She bites her lower lip. The light coming from the pictures now reveals the water, but not the water from the dripping rain. Instead, the light watches the flow of tears that she tries to contain in the wells of her eyes. She appears to be on the verge of a complete breakdown, the weight of years of secret pain and sorrow, like a dam about to burst. However, in this moment, all that Pierre can see of her is a tender and hurting child. He stands up and reaches out his hand to her. It's an unspoken invitation for her to stand up, and when she does, he just holds her and hugs her. The tears flow uncontrollably now, and her body shakes in unison to the sobbing. He holds her a little tighter. There is nothing more he can do. She too is without choice, so Donna squeezes Pierre as tightly as she can . . . she just can’t stop the crying.

* * *

Charles gives them their privacy, leaves the room and decides to go downstairs. He goes to the kitchen and sits down at the breakfast table, removing the notes from his pocket. He reads them once again, so thankful that he didn’t address their content to the pair upstairs. Still, he is lost about what to do with this issue – these notes. Is this past of hers really any of his business? “Not if they dissolve the project,” he tells himself. After that, there is still their friendship, but then in that context, there will always be this haunting secret. She can keep it from Pierre, but not from Charles . . . and he wishes that Donna could know that he knows. That is the crux of the dilemma . . . knowing the truth of her secret past, and now, more than ever, he wonders what ever to do with this knowledge. The notes are actually photocopies of some old personal advertisements, ones placed in the classified section of a Montreal newspaper, some fourteen years ago. They give a glimpse of Donna’s personal research project, self-conducted upon the advice of her mentor, the one where she took it upon herself to learn more about the upscale escort services in the city. The first ad seems fairly innocent now. It is dated June 3, 1998 and it sounds like a legitimate request for participation in a research project:

Graduate student in psychology, looking for research candidates concerning escorts and prostitution. This study involves personal interviews and confidentiality is fully guaranteed. Please contact Dawn Belcourt for more information. Box 2438.

Charles found out that this advertisement ran three times a week for a month. He also found out that the ad continued for another month, though it was revised:

Graduate student in psychology wishes to meet professional gentlemen who support escort services. The study involves personal interviews and confidentiality is fully guaranteed. This information is for research purposes only. Please contact Dawn for more information. Box 2438.

The final ad ran two times a week, beginning in August of that year and from what he could surmise, stopped around the end of September:

Stunning graduate student, charming and adventurous, seeking to meet generous, successful gentlemen for ongoing and mutual exploration in all aspects of intimacy. Only serious inquiries will be considered. Please apply to Box 2438.

This was all the information Charles needed, much more than he ever wanted, and not what he went looking for when he started the process. He used his contacts in Montreal shortly after meeting Donna, around the time when she told him about her counselling services. He spotted her act right away. In his position of wealth, sooner or later it becomes second nature, always on the lookout for the con. For him the most logical starting point had to be a name change, and by pulling a few strings it was quite easy to trace Donna Belauche back to Dawn Belcourt. The troubling part, the “why” of it all, is something that he just couldn’t address with her. The bigger issue though, and he can see this more clearly than ever tonight, is what effect this would have on her, personally, and on them, as friends. This is the risk he has never taken – the confrontation – one he was about to take when he and Pierre took up the wine. At that time he had seriously thought about revealing this knowledge of her past. Now he knows that risk must never be taken. He was never really concerned about being conned by her. He was just curious more than anything, wondering what she was hiding. Now, for the second time tonight, he knows regret more than he ever wanted to, the regret of too much curiosity – something so simple, but now somehow so tragic as well. A few minutes more pass by and he's still not sure whether to go up and check on the pair upstairs. Finally he decides it is time to go see how they are doing. He almost gets to the top of the stairs when he hears two soft voices coming from the atrium. He turns around and does his best to return to the kitchen without making any sound. Charles decides to clean up a bit. He once again takes the piece of paper from his pocket, the only copy he has of this newspaper material, the ads. Then he removes the wet coffee grounds, the ones still sitting in the coffee maker, and dumps them on top of the paper. After a little scrubbing, he holds up the stained, wet sheet, sees that it is completely illegible, rips it into small pieces, and throws it into the garbage. Then he dumps the wet grounds on top of that. He wishes he could dispose of some of his own history just as easily. This record of Donna’s transition from researcher to subject, in a manner of speaking, now has him reflecting on his own attempt to find love . . . the attempt to find it by first trying to rent it.

* * *

It happened about twenty years ago, a couple of years after he came into most of what is his current wealth. Dating and relationships had never been his forte, though he had his fair share of dates . . . proper ones that always fell short of dream-worthy. Back then he never bothered to look at his attempts at love from the lady’s perspective, at least not in the same way as he could now, perhaps. As he realizes how his story is so less than unique, Charles doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It is merely a variation on Cinderella, or today more like the movie, Pretty Woman. In logical terms it makes so much sense, to rent first − no one loses. In the happy endings two people find each other, find some kind of love, and the issues of money and wealth magically evaporate. He knows of some instances where this may have actually worked. It didn’t for him. He has no regrets about the efforts though, just the outcomes. He tried three times before finally realizing something is wrong with the process, but still, to this day, he cannot understand why . . . that damned and obstinate “why”. All three ladies that he rented were so wonderful, each in very different ways. There was no rush about any of it. Each time there was a dating phase, though at an hourly rate. This progressed to overnight times, and then weekends. He was even completely honest through the whole thing – these days he wonders whether that was a mistake. He had told each one of these ladies that this was his way of searching for a life partner, or a wife, or a significant other . . . someone to love. They appreciated his perspective, especially how he just couldn’t do “the dating thing” any more. He tried to explain that while he didn’t want to come across as desperate, it seems that perhaps he is. Of course all three ladies told him there was nothing wrong in any of this. One of them even told him something similar, when they first met. She confessed to this being her motivation for “entering the game” in the first place. It seemed to make sense to her too, as long as she was in control. Because of her “package” as she called it, because of her looks, intelligence, interests and charm, she felt she could easily have her choice of successful men. The issue of ‘time’ was never discussed. When she explained all this to him, he only had one question. How would she keep all these secrets from her family, especially after she and the “successful man” became a normal couple. She was too smart to have not thought about that. She was also smart enough to throw it back at him. So Charles told her that he has been so far removed from his family, and for so long. Therefore, the issues surrounding courtship and “how they met” could be easily fabricated . . . if everything else fell into place, it seemed like such a small issue, given what was at stake. She basically told him that she felt the same, and that her closest family was actually half a world away. He became so very fond of her. Their sex was really good. He probably would have thought it amazing, but then he didn’t really have much of a frame of reference. For him though, it was so much more than about the sex, and she fully knew that, and agreed. They seemed so good together. He spent almost all of his free time with her over a period of six or seven months. Money constantly changed hands, but more in the form of an allowance. She did not mind making their arrangement exclusive, so in this way they kept some sort of vows to each other. Everything was going according to his plan, the plan that was becoming a dream come true. More and more they felt like a couple. She gradually got to know and spend time with some of his friends. These friends were all carefully arranged since boarding school, and they were from many different parts of the world. However, aside from their wealth and schooling, the only thing he had in common with them was his skin colour. It was very difficult to make new friends outside of this circle. It seemed to get harder as the years moved along. After six months he was ready for the big step, the most awkward one in such arranged relationships, the step where one tries to remove the financial aspect and let love alone take its course. What made it right was how he saw his future . . . the thought of living his life without her seemed not only sad, but absurd. So one night, with the traditional bouquet in hand, he knocked on her apartment door, unannounced. There was no immediate answer. After the third attempt she eventually answered. It was immediately obvious that he had made a mistake, actually a few of them. All he had to do was to look at her and he realized she had a lover, and that he was in the apartment. Few words were necessary. They looked each other in the eyes, and then she did her best to apologize. To this day he does not know how sincere or insincere it was, this apology. He does know that a year later his best friend became divorced. Within a year after that, the lady who was to receive his proposal accepted the divorced man’s offer of marriage. To this day, as far as he knows, she is still married to what was once his best friend. They have three children, and that is all he knows, or cares to know. Since that knock on the door he gave up on that way of finding love. Through it all he did gain an appreciation for how some ladies play the game, the one without rules, but still a game, and one he would rather now watch than play. Less than a year after the knock, when he left Europe for some travels, he fell in love with Vancouver Island. He gradually lost touch with all his old friends. He’s never missed any of them. Without family interruption, he found a way to pursue art in his own way, and for him 317 Browning Road is as close to Camelot as one can get, except for the absence of a Guinevere. He also learned a valuable lesson from that previous life, and that is the lesson of labels. In this lesson he became very appreciative of how every one has their own story, their own unique set of circumstances. This applies to each multimillionaire, as it does to each homeless person, and to each lady or man that looks for love, regardless of how or where or even “why”.

* * * He has thought of Donna many times in this context. To him she seems trapped, someone whose locked-up secrets have imprisoned her. He's been watching her, wilting in her unique form of solitary confinement. He has known all along that there was never any real chance of Donna becoming his “dream fulfilled”. However, from what he knows of Pierre’s life story, there could be no more poetic happy ending than the two of them . . . Pierre and Donna, finally knowing love through each other . . . no guarantees, yet still a wonderful opportunity for a happy future. Still waiting for the pair to come downstairs, his thoughts turn to the other pressing issue – the project, and how to terminate it. That issue concerns something that is still unknown to Pierre, which is the significance of those tulips. He hopes it hasn’t come up in any discussion upstairs – he now wants to tell Pierre about it himself, and away from Donna, but with her full consent. He wants to take full and sole responsibility for the whole tulip aspect. With each of them, Donna and Pierre, he will persist until they agree that Charles is ultimately responsible in the matter of these flowers. He takes a notepad and a pencil from one of the kitchen drawers and begins to put some fresh notes on paper. It is a plan of sorts, but not a strategic one, though just the thought of formal planning reminds him of a discussion with Donna. It was one they had when he finally agreed to go ahead with the tulip aspect of their project. Back then he told her that there is something odd and disturbing about her strategic planning model. She asked what that was, and so he posed his concern in the form of a question, “In this model of yours, there doesn’t seem to be any room for the matter of right and wrong, at least none that I can see. So it appears to me that it leaves out something we call a ‘moral conscience’. Well, how can I put this? I mean, are one’s concerns over right and wrong a constraint . . . or a resource? It seems to me that in your model these concerns can be either, or neither, and somehow that just seems wrong . . . what do you think?” The issue was never conclusively discussed, but the statements and that question have remained deeply ingrained − for each of them. In the making of these fresh notes, Charles loses awareness of his immediate environment. As such, he did not hear Donna’s soft voice say “Goodnight Charles.” She said it five minutes ago, just before midnight. Neither did he hear the purr of the BMW, with Pierre roaming off, and with Donna as his passenger. After a few minutes, he tucked the notepad back in the kitchen drawer and went upstairs to say goodnight to the pair, and to tell them they are welcome to take any guestroom of their choice. When he got to the atrium, the room was almost dark. The pictures were no longer lit up, but there was one spotlight still dimly lit and hovering its light over a napkin, on the little round table. He could see that the napkin was hiding something, so he lifted it up and to his surprise there were three tulips: a violet one, an apricot one, and one Rembrandt - and voila - one clump of garlic! Chapter 24

We Can Still Dance

As Ben and the two ladies leave 317 Browning Road, Andrea instinctively takes the seat in the back. Sunni sits up front with Ben. The drive is silent, at least for a few minutes. Ben wants to talk to Andrea, but at the moment he has no idea what to say. Andrea feels the same about Ben. Sunni just wants to talk, but keeps quiet in respect of the silence. She looks at Ben and he seems so lost, perplexed. Then it dawns on her that he still doesn’t know how she and Andrea know each other. To break the silence, she tells Ben that Andrea is the friend and roommate that she told him about, that night at his place. For Ben, at least one thing makes sense now. Smiling, he suggests, “Is anyone hungry? I know a great little all-night diner about five minutes from here − great food.” From the back comes a timid voice, “Yeah, sure . . . I’m actually pretty hungry.” Sunni replies, “Sounds great − how are the fries?” She looks back, and to Andrea she quips, “And when aren’t you hungry?” With a teasing giggle, Andrea answers to the both of them, “After Chinese food . . . and a bunch of grapes!” Ben blushes, swerving slightly as he drives. Sunni smiles, thinking, “Andrea, you little bugger!” The silence returns and they quickly arrive at the diner. The lights are on, and by the empty parking lot and the view through the window, it appears they will be the only customers. When they enter this is confirmed. There is a row of booths along the windows, but Ben leads the way to a round table instead. There are four chairs around this table, so he moves one away, then spaces the three others evenly around the table. As soon as they sit down the waitress comes to take their order. Ben tells her they want to share a large order of fries, and some gravy on the side. The ladies order some coke and glasses of water as well. Ben opts for coffee. “These are the best fries on the island, by far . . . sorry Andrea, it looks there aren’t any grapes on the menu.” Andrea now takes her turn at blushing. Unfortunately she does not have the benefit of hiding it in the darkness. Sunni laughs at the sight, but it’s a gentle laugh, and she sees that it puts Andrea more at ease. Then she looks at Ben, but addresses both of them. “You two sure have some strange friends! . . . At least Pierre is normal, whatever that is . . . by the way Ben, your art is gorgeous.” “Well thank you Sunni. I’m really glad you like it. I wonder what Charles will do with it? . . . Andrea, are you okay? I’m sorry . . . I really don’t know what to say to you. I feel so awkward . . . strange, huh?” Andrea replies, “Not at all . . . that’s okay . . . we don’t need to say much at all.” She really wants to thank him for all the kind words about their experience, but somehow just can’t, so instead she says, “If you want to hear something delicious, you should hear all about Sunni’s afternoon!” “You bugger!” Sunni blurts, now taking her turn at blushing, “I was going to tell him . . . damn . . . I guess now’s as good a time as any.” Just then the waitress places a small mountain of french fries in the center of the table, gives the trio a curious and warm look, and asks if there is anything else she can do. Ben wants to say something smart, but decides not to, mostly because he wants to hear Sunni’s story. So he tells the waitress that everything is fine, and when she leaves the table Sunni is ready to start her story − she has no choice now, with these two pairs of eyes staring at her. The stares remain while she gazes at the size of this mound of steaming fries, wishing she could eat first. “Sorry, you two are just going to have to wait a minute. There’s no way in hell that I’m going let these puppies get cold!” She fills half of her small dinner plate with some hot fries and scoops up a tablespoon of gravy, dripping it over the fries, and then she adds another spoonful. The other two do the same, and as they savour the first mouthful, Andrea and Sunaria make some moaning sounds in their approval, surprised at just how good they taste. Andrea goes so far as to ask Ben what they put in these fries. Sunni answers instead of Ben, “Whatever it is, it sounds like it must the same stuff they put in that tea . . . eh, Ben?” Now he blushes, slightly, “Not even close! Okay Sunni, milady . . . story time.” Before she can say a word, there is a large bang coming from outside, then another and then a third, sounding like explosions. Startled, they instinctively look outside, out the wall of windows, and they can see the fireworks, part of the long weekend festivities, in honour of Canada’s birthday. Sunni laughs, “Fireworks! Now that’s what you call a lead-in! Should we go outside?” Before they can answer, Sunni is already on her way out. The other two get up and follow her. Ben nods over to the waitress and she understands what they are doing, smiling in approval. They have their jackets on, as it is cool now, but at least the rain has stopped. The have a splendid view of the fireworks display. Ben leads them up a little hill for an even better look. Sunni stands on one side of him and Andrea on the other. After a few minutes, Andrea puts one of her hands in Ben’s hand and her warmth is greeted by a gentle squeeze. A few seconds later, Sunni puts one of her hands in Ben’s other hand, and her warmth is greeted by a gentle squeeze. It doesn’t take long for the show to climax. There is a rapid burst of all kinds of color, ending with a large, floating, heart-shaped image in the sky, and with that there are four hands simultaneously squeezing a little harder. For Ben it just doesn’t get any better than this, and thoughts of Donna are nowhere to be found. Now that the fireworks display is over they go back in, and much to their surprise, as soon as they sit down, the waitress appears with a new plate of steamy hot fries and gravy and takes the cold plates away, saying nothing in the process. Again they fill their respective plates, and once again they stare at Sunni, waiting for her to start her story. Once more she takes two tablespoons of gravy, taking her time though . . . enjoying her friends’ anticipation. She seems to savour this form of teasing. Sunni pretends to enjoy making this gravy drip so very slowly onto her french fries . . . challenging their patience all the way. After a little verbal taunting from her friends, and before her second mouthful of fries, Sunni starts her story. She begins by telling Ben that yesterday her and Andrea spent the day together. She explains how eventually Sunni asked Andrea about her mysterious Sunday evening disappearances. Then she tells Ben that until yesterday, she had no idea that such an art project even existed. Ben looks lost in thought, as he remembers the incident where he stopped Sunni from looking at some of his sketches, ones that were related to the art project. “Oh Ben, you don’t know, do you? . . . I’m sorry I didn’t give you my number that weekend . . . it never really came up . . . I guess we both just assumed we’d see each other at the bakery . . . that Helen . . . some tart, eh? Anyways, with Andrea’s help, I got on at Maison des Papillons, as a waitress.” One more piece of the puzzle falls into place for Ben, though he’s not sure what the restaurant has to do with Sunni’s story. He smiles, nods his head in approval, and then Sunni goes on. “Andrea, do you mind if I tell him everything?” “You can tell him anything you want. I’m fine with that . . . besides, I’m getting tired of all the secrets.” “Okay, well here we go. Well, how can I put this? Ben, you should know Andrea and I are really close, getting closer all the time. It’s funny you know, we’ve become closer since she told me about the art and the dancing . . . what happens after . . . I can’t really explain that – our closeness. She told me a little about what happened a few weeks ago, about the night you described at the house. She told me how she really, really, wanted to meet the artist even though she had no idea who that is. She told me that when Donna called her to talk about the anniversary idea, she jumped at the idea . . . you should have seen her the next day!” Andrea pipes in, a little embarrassed now, “Okay Sunni, that’s enough!” Sunni pauses there to eat a few more fries and take a gulp of coke. Ben wants to jump in and ask a question or two, but Sunni stops him. “Hang on, I’m almost finished. Okay, well, to make a long story short, it seems I got Andrea’s story all mixed up. You see, when she told me all of it – there was so much – well, I was sure that Pierre was the secret artist!” She starts to laugh. “I thought that was the big surprise for Andrea that night . . . duh! So here’s the funny part . . . it’s pretty embarrassing . . . I’m still getting to know Pierre. Anyways, earlier today I went to the restaurant to pick up something that I left there, and then I accidentally wound up at Pierre’s home − it’s across the hall from the change room at Papillon. Well, one thing led to another . . . and I was so sure he was this artist, and I so much wanted to have what she had . . . that kind of ‘treatment’ . . . is that the right term? Anyways, well, I kind of threw myself at Pierre.” She’s laughing harder now, “I mean I really threw myself at him . . . poor Pierre!” Ben appears puzzled again, and as for “poor Pierre”, poor is not how he pictured that part of her story . . . he fights off a sudden tinge of envy . . . his mind is juggling a number of questions at once. Sunni doesn’t seem to sense this, but Andrea does . . . this doesn’t stop her from giggling at the sight of what appears to be a lost boy . . . she is amused to hear about Sunni’s confusion for the second time. Andrea knows the full details of Sunni’s attempts to seduce Pierre. She hopes Sunni will spare him that level of detail. “Slow down Sunni. Can’t you see? . . . No, you can’t . . . Ben has no idea about the Maison des Papillons, he only just met Pierre. I’m guessing he really only knows Charles . . . is that right, Ben?” “Pretty much . . . and Donna. Charles was actually trying to explain some of it earlier tonight, but then I found out Donna was involved . . . I’ve had my heart set on her for a long time . . . it’s been quite a night, what can I say?” Sunni jumps in, “Forget about her. That’s not for you.” Ben is alarmed by her sudden and dead-serious warning. It doesn’t bother him now though. He realizes how much truth and caring there is in her words . . . and so simply put. He thinks he should tell them about how he and Donna know each other, but doesn’t get a chance, as Sunni begins to speak again. “Okay, so here I am at Pierre’s place. At this point, the poor man has no idea that Andrea has told me everything . . . he really is such a gentleman. Here I was, basically ready to give myself to him, but he wouldn’t have it. Well, son of a bitch, I was so upset by his rejection – I felt so humiliated – he didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he did his best to comfort me, first with a nice warm blanket . . . I was pretty wet by then.” She looks at Ben who seems hurt by this comment, so she adds, “Not bathtub wet, Ben . . . wet from the rain . . . I couldn’t resist sticking my head out the window and just letting the rain soak in . . . it felt so good!” Just then the waitress comes over and tops up Ben's coffee. Given Sunni’s exuberance – her raised voice when excited this way – they are sure that the waitress has pretty much heard it all. They didn't mind. “When I settled down and warmed up a bit, I told Pierre everything I knew about the project, as Andrea called it. He couldn’t stop laughing when he told me that he isn’t the artist that I was looking for – boy, talk about embarrassing! I just wanted to crawl up and disappear – but he was so sweet about it all. He told me how he’d been thinking about approaching me to model, but was really having second thoughts about it. Then he told me that he and his partners were all having concerns about the whole thing. He insisted that he take me home, and that we pick up Andrea. He wanted to take us over to Mr. Lartimer’s place and talk about everything . . . that’s why we showed up there . . . he seemed pretty sure the whole project would be ending that night.” At that comment Ben jumps in, “Well he got that right!” Then Andrea puts a hand over one of Ben’s hands, which is resting on the table, “It’s okay Ben . . . you know, it’s all just okay . . . there’s nothing wrong about anything you or I or any of us did . . . I don’t regret a single moment of it . . . and I’m sure none of the others do either.” “And now that’s it’s over? Any regrets about the future?” he asks her. She pauses, suddenly realizing that it really is over, the project. Confidently and with warm enthusiasm, she answers, “No . . . none at all . . . no regrets about the past and no worries for the future.” She pauses, then looks fondly over to Sunaria, “Sunni, I really hope you agree with me here . . . yeah, sure the project’s over . . . but you know what, who needs it?” She stops momentarily to take a slow and gentle glance at each of them, her face glows softly with excitement, perhaps because of a newly discovered freedom, “The project may be over, but for me the dancing has just begun.” Chapter 25

Sunni’s Happy Daze

In hindsight it would seem that nothing much really happened on that long weekend of coincidences, now five weeks in the past. However, because of the impetus of all that did happen then, much has changed in the lives of the younger trio, and perhaps more so for the three musketeers. That was at the end of June and now it is the first Monday in August, Monday of another long weekend, the celebration of heritage in Canada. In the course of this past month or so, it didn’t take long for Charles Lartimer to take matters into his own hands in terms of the art project, culminating with its termination on July 13th. He took the simplest approach, and literally stood over Donna’s shoulder that day, while she implemented his shut-down plan. After all, Donna controlled the database of their patrons – their customers. At Charles’s insistence, Pierre watched over Donna’s other shoulder. Donna would have it no other way. Both men were at first surprised to discover that each one of the almost five hundred patrons were actually women, but soon that made a lot of sense. Charles was even more surprised, and very dismayed, that Donna had turned the elegance of the tulips into an online auction of sorts – a form of gambling – of course he forgave her. Pierre had forgiven her earlier – the night she told him all about it – the night they left the tulips and the garlic in the atrium. Her hook was quite simple, yet apparently very powerful. Unknown to the men, she was secretly taping the special treatments that occurred after the painting. However, she only recorded a portion of it, the audio part of the climactic conclusions . . . there was never any video account of any 45 minute session. The patrons of the site never witnessed anything live . . . they wouldn’t have the patience for that. The two-hour modelling session was video recorded and the 45-minute session was audio recorded. This was all done more or less automatically and fed into Donna’s computer at home. She had acquired the technical skills a few years ago, in some night classes, which at the time was more of a new hobby. Within a week after any event, she had all the editing done, and the highlights of the event were condensed into a half hour show. That’s what the patrons saw, and that’s what their basic $10 viewing charge covered. They seemed to love it, as about 80% tuned in show after show. Donna also added some scrolling text for variety, as well as some music. This included the occasional short story, something written by Donna for each event – tastefully describing various forms of eroticism – adaptations and depictions of her travel adventures. . . and her training. Through these stories the patrons came to have a richer understanding of what was behind the audio portion . . . the sounds of ecstasy, the essence of which could never be faked or imitated. They loved it and they wanted it so badly for themselves . . . yearning to be part of such an experience. At Donna’s insistence, the two men listened to a small part of one of these audio recordings. She told them that most of the recordings went on for about five minutes. They were speechless, and they could see how this could become almost addictive – that’s just in regards to the listening of it. However, there was much more, there was the tulip aspect, which became inseparable from these recordings. After the exquisite sounds subsided, the silence returned. Donna explained what happens then – online patrons would have two minutes to bid on the type of tulip that would soon appear on their screen – there was a timer on the screen doing a countdown. After the two minutes, the men watched the model come back to the studio, then place a tulip on the silver platter, under the spotlight that soon shone upon this tulip. While Charles knew of the significance, Pierre did not, so she paused the show and explained it to him. She told him that each tulip indicates something different about the model . . . the lady who received that evening’s special treatment . . . the lady who was the source of the evening’s exquisite sound. The apricot tulip indicated that this lady would like to be on the “giving” end of the treatment . . . that's for the next time she participated in one of these events. If a violet tulip was placed on the platter, that meant that the lady prefers to once again be on the “receiving” end. The Rembrandt tulip meant that for the lady of the night, it made no difference – that she would be fine either way – content with “the giving or the receiving”. On the surface it was all so elegant. Over time, it worked out to be pretty much an equal distribution among the selection of the three tulips. Still, the gambling component seemed at the very least greedy . . . “No wonder the business was blooming,” Charles quipped, trying to ease some of the tension during the termination process. The way Donna had it set up, patrons could bid as much money as they wanted on any of the three options − the three tulips. This bidding happened during that two-minute period, which began as soon as the audio tape was over. If they successfully anticipated the right color of flower – if they guessed right – then they would earn points, one point for every dollar wagered, or bid, depending on how you looked at it. However, if the patron guessed wrong, then their point total would go down by the wagered amount. The points were recorded on a cumulative basis and patrons could see where they ranked among the overall membership. There were no cash payouts or anything like that. Instead, there was the promise . . . patrons were told that three of them would have a chance to participate in one of these events. The top point-getter would be one of the three, while there would be a draw for the other two participants . . . one from the top 100 and the other from the balance. This draw would occur at the end of the year. The lucky winners would enjoy a four-night, three-day vacation at a secret location – all expenses paid – some time in the new year. The deadline for the competition was to be end of the current year. There was no mention of any art in these prizes – only the treatments. This business model was working phenomenally well. When Donna first devised the scheme, bidding peaked with a few $100 bids. Within a few months the $100 bids were on the low end and there were always a few bids now around the $500 mark. Because the odds were more or less equal, and the tulips remained unpredictable – the top point- getters were only in the 1,500 range – there was no runaway leader – there were many patrons with negative values. One way or another, the house couldn’t lose . . . Charles was no longer comfortable in the legality department. By the time Donna finished explaining the whole thing, Charles felt a bit of a chill run down his spine . . . it all seemed so cold now . . . the tulip aspect. He no longer saw the elegance of it. Nor did Donna. As she talked it through, it became obvious that Donna was still really sad about the monster she had created – one that almost drove her to a complete breakdown on that night in the atrium. She survived, and now, explaining the whole thing to them, it was just something she had to do, for a final time. The men understood that – there was no need for any more discussion on the matter. After this final disclosure, it seemed that each of them better understood Pierre’s long-time concern . . . the issue of violating a sacred trust. Donna did her best to apologize, including a short personal note to each of her partners, accompanied by a bouquet of tulips, none of which were violet or apricot or Rembrandts. In the postscript of the note cards, she reminded each of them, “Tulips are known as flowers of love . . . I’m so very sorry . . . and I love you both.” Even in this toughest time, Donna was able to muster some humour, as she added a second postscript, “Please have some impatiens with me!” She was so glad she did that. The day after the cards were couriered, she received a surprise delivery to her home. It was a potted plant, a mass of bright impatiens, and a note that said, “We are still companions!” Then she noticed something tucked in the soil, under the note. Surprised and then not surprised, she found two small clumps of garlic. By July 13th Charles had devised a simple exit strategy, which was to simply tell the truth. Together they drafted an email that was sent to each patron. The email explained how the owners of the site had a change of heart, explaining how there would no more web coverage of any of these events, and that there would in fact be no more such events. The patrons were offered a full refund of all their money, including their initial membership fee. The refunds were quickly processed online. Almost instantly, email reactions flowed in, with many being extremely upset, some almost threatening. Charles handled the most threatening emails himself, insisting to Donna that all responses be forwarded directly to one of his email accounts, for her protection. The vast majority of the patrons sent no response at all, except for a mandatory acknowledgement of receiving their refund. However, many others thanked them for their actions, agreeing that it was all very enjoyable, yet somehow it just felt a little not quite right. Within a week, all refunds had been acknowledged and just like that the site was permanently shut down. By July 19th the project was something of the past, and now it was time for a celebration. That was scheduled to happen the Monday of the August long weekend – today – and it's a glorious and sunny afternoon.

* * *

Today’s champagne, as well as all the catered food, came at Donna’s expense. She appreciated the opportunity. She even offered to prepare the food herself, if Charles would let her use his kitchen. He agreed to her suggestion under one condition . . . she first had to make him a Spanish omelette . . . and then with some toast to follow. Donna’s reply was predictable, “You bugger! – Yeah, I get it – I’ll call a caterer!” Charles had covered the costs of all the refunds and any other costs related to the project termination. Because of this Donna had no worries about her finances. She still felt bad about what she had done, wanting to do something special with her profits from the project. Charles had refused to take back the money she had saved up, no matter how much she insisted. Pierre had some ideas that might alleviate much of her anguish about this money. She loved the ideas and couldn’t wait to put them into action. As the party begins, Donna is having a hard time containing her excitement – in a few hours she can fully implement Pierre’s wonderful plan – but today’s celebration is about much more than just terminating the site. At Pierre’s request, Charles agreed to host today’s garden party. Pierre invited his entire staff and their significant others. By 2:00 all the guests had arrived. About an hour later, Pierre and Philippe made a joint announcement. Standing in front of Charles’ roses, with everyone gathered around, and with Donna at his side, Pierre Allarde announced that he was leaving Papillon . . . he would be passing la Maison on to Philippe . . . over the next few months. He told everyone that he would gradually phase himself out of the business and then Philippe would be the new owner. The staff were shocked at the news. There were some tears, but they were accompanied by smiles of congratulations, plenty of questions, and most of all, a collective sigh of relief that Pierre would not be completely leaving the scene, not for the foreseeable future. To the surprise of everyone, including Philippe, his girlfriend, Carmella, made an impromptu speech, telling everyone not to worry . . . in Pierre’s absence, she will keep the monster Philippe “in tow”. Immediately Sunni blurted out, “Make sure you ‘soak those toes’ first!” She was standing very close to Philippe, and she stuck her tongue out at him after saying that. Then she slipped her shoes off, pulled her long skirt above her knees, and raised one foot up, wiggling her toes in his direction, “You are not worthy of toes such as these!” Impulsively, Philippe left his position between Pierre and Carmella and started to chase Sunni. Pierre whispered in Donna’s ear, “You see what I mean . . . plenty of dancing left!” He was referring to the way Sunni zigged and zagged all over the place. She couldn’t run very fast in this dress. Neither could Philippe, mostly because of his dress shoes – after four or five zigs of his own, poor Philippe slipped on the damp grass. He appeared to be having a hard time getting up – Sunni came over to him – but not too close. He started growling at her, claiming that he is hurt, and blaming her. She laughed, “Ha! I’ve heard that one before!” She leans towards him and meows like a pussycat and then runs away again. Pierre comes to the aid of Philippe, helping him get up, laughing hysterically . . . even more when Philippe stands up, grinning, and whispers to Pierre, “Qu'est-ce que c'est – she caught me in the act!” After that, the party was completely lighthearted. The other seven servers all gave Sunni high-fives and the kitchen staff did too, but only when they were sure Philippe wasn’t looking. Carmella came up to her and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. Eventually so did Philippe before they left the party. When the guests slowly started to leave, Ben and the three musketeers kept their eyes open for the eight ladies involved in the art project. To make sure that they each left separately, Charles had made arrangements for them to be picked up that way, separately, which facilitated similar departures. As each came to say goodbye to Pierre, Donna would jump in and tell the young lady that she and Pierre and have something for her. She walks them around to the front entrance of the house. In the meantime, Pierre and Charles quietly take a side entrance and go up to the atrium. When they enter the house, Donna leads the young lady upstairs, where they meet up with Pierre just outside the atrium, where the doors are shut. Charles and Ben are already inside the atrium, where they have been making all the necessary arrangements. When they are ready, Charles opens the doors and invites the papillon inside, along with Pierre and Donna. In the meantime, Ben quietly leaves the room and goes back outside to keep an eye on the other young ladies – les papillons. Once inside the atrium, Charles would then hold the young lady’s hand, and guide her around some pictures, her pictures, the ones that Ben painted and for which she had posed. Without exception the reactions were shock and overwhelmingly joyful. Each one of les papillon got to see herself in somewhere between three and five pictures. Then Charles told the lady that she could take one or two of them home . . . her choice . . . and he helped her in making the selection. There were a few tears, and many startled smiles, as each model found themselves in the happy children portrayed in each of these pictures. The most emotional participant in the event was Donna, but not so much because of the art. After each lady made her art selections, Donna presented her with a cheque – Donna explained that it was being presented jointly – a bonus for their involvement in the art project, as well as for all their hard work at the restaurant. Donna had set it up so that all of her profits from the tulip aspect were divided among les papillons, equally, regardless of the lady’s individual level of participation in the project. Even though she knew the money couldn't undo anything, it was all she could really do. She was happier than any of them, handing out $9,500 seven times over . . . this was the closure that Donna needed. This cheque-giving, along with the gift of the pictures, was the idea that Donna was so excited about . . . Pierre’s wonderful idea. While it was all very emotional, curiosity also slipped into the proceedings, as more than one of the young ladies asked Donna whether she and Pierre were now a couple. They stood there together in the atrium, like newlyweds, Pierre and Donna. The first time it was asked, the question caught Donna off-guard. It was Pierre who interjected with an answer, the only one that made sense for him, “We hope to continue to find love through each other.” The first time she heard his words, Donna felt a lump in her throat – now a very welcome one – his hope is her hope as well. They have been a couple ever since the night they left Charles alone in the kitchen. After that night, and some talking over the next few days that followed, she and Pierre had decided to seek professional help in dealing with their separate pasts, but they sought this jointly. After an initial search, it became painfully obvious that they would not find anyone properly qualified for the job. They almost “had an accident” while laughing over the irony of it all. Pierre insisted that they try to heal each other, telling Donna that he has full confidence that they will succeed, “This is part of our journey,” is how he put it. The ‘our’ of it seemed to melt another bar in that prison of Donna's solitary confinement. Since that eventful night in the atrium, Pierre insisted to see her every day, bringing her meals from the restaurant and talking and listening to her. He taught her something precious that night, when Charles left the two of them alone, surrounded by all that art. After she stopped crying, she told Pierre about the tulips, and in the process she began to tremble again. She wouldn’t let him stop her though, explaining to Pierre that she really needs to get this off her chest, and now, not later. When she finished telling him about the tulips, he excused himself for a minute – she assumed he went to one of the bathrooms – to pee. She assumed wrong. Pierre went out to the hall and quickly returned with a vase full of tulips, one that was resting on a small desk-table in the hallway. He took a Rembrandt tulip from the vase. Then he walked over to the pictures. He walked around the semi-circle of pictures, playfully stroking, teasing, and tickling the art with the tips of the petals. He told her that it was okay, that there will still be many smiles, pointing to the children in the pictures, using the flower as his pointer. Then he said, “They will continue to play, to dance, now and many years from now . . . they will still be dancing . . . like butterflies . . . like dancing with tulips.” She fell in love with him in that moment. They embraced and she knew then that he is the one who could help her triumph over her past. She told him about the life she fell into in Montreal, how she went from studying upscale escorts to becoming one, and how she has been running from this secret for so many years now. In return, Pierre told her about Chantal. She was the only love of his life . . . they were childhood sweethearts but drifted apart when she left for Montreal as a young lady. He told Donna how Chantal fell into the same kind of trap. It was hard for him to talk about how he eventually lost her – how everyone did – as she eventually gave up on her passion for the piano, and then how she gave up on her life. He told Donna that he never wanted to go to a funeral like that again, so she has to promise to stay by him, and they would be okay. One of the first things they did was to make peace with Ben and in the process, they began an extended friendship, not just with him, but with Sunni and Andrea as well. In this way, Ben’s wish for an extended circle was starting to come to life. It didn’t take long for Ben to see how good it is that Pierre and Donna are together . . . “destiny” is how he put it to them. Donna laughed when he told them that, but it was a playful laugh, and she called him “such a dreamer” and then she thanked him for being just that. More importantly, for Ben, since that eventful night he and Sunaria and Andrea have become closer and closer, day by day. The three of them have become a trio in the sense of the word “couple”. This trio – and the three musketeers – have since spent a few evenings together, usually at Pierre’s loft, where Ben and Pierre constantly find new amusement in the picture of the couple and the open umbrellas. As for today, this special day of celebrations, Ben did not want to be involved in the presentation ceremony – the presenting of the art to each lady. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to continue the anonymity. He told Charles that he had no emotional attachment to the pictures, only to the process, so for him the pictures were in a way already gone. Charles now understood the process better than ever before. He was still worried, and Ben knew why. The mentor's anxiety evaporated when Ben told him that he was just beginning, that he’s itching to start a new project . . . this time something completely different. So the pictures went away as they should, with seven of the models not knowing the artist . . . they went away unsigned . . . and they never asked about the artist. Ben did make one exception. Andrea and Sunaria had come to the party with him. Sunni had helped Ben and Charles make all the final arrangements with the pictures – this was one secret she had no problem keeping from Andrea. Then it was Andrea’s turn . . . she was the last of the models to accept her surprise gift, and Ben wanted to be there for this occasion. He insisted on Sunni being there as well. Andrea’s reaction was the most passionate of all, to the surprise of no one. While Charles tried so very hard to help her make her choices, Andrea seemed completely at a loss . . . she claimed to see a little of Ben in each one, a comment that almost got the best of the artist . . . now he too had his surprise of the day. Finally she looked over to Sunni for some help. Sunni walked over to her, from her position near the entrance. She took Andrea’s hand and together they surveyed all eight pictures. Without having the skills to evaluate the art, or the desire to do so, she very easily made the decision. Looking at Charles for some chronological direction, she asked which picture was the first one. He looked and nodded at one – Sunni pointed to it – and Andrea chose it. Sunni asked about the last one painted, and Andrea chose that one as well. At that the others in the room clapped cheerfully and spontaneously, especially Ben . . . the poetry of it all. There is just the six of them left. Philippe and his girlfriend were the last of the others to leave. So it seems that the party is over now. The joy in the room is almost overwhelming, the one exception being Sunaria. She is the most quiet, hiding her dismay from the others, still secretly wishing that she had been part of the project, but now simply for the art. Suddenly Ben asks to have everyone's attention, saying that he has one more presentation to make. Most of the others exchange surprised glances. He looks at his watch. The timing is excellent, and for once he is on schedule . . . it’s just before 6:00 in the evening and he needs to make a call. He tells everyone to be patient, that he needs them to wait here . . . he’ll be back in less than five minutes. Donna makes the comment, “Such drama!” They all laugh and start chatting, while Ben leaves the room, shutting the doors behind him. As he makes his way down the stairs, he’s talking to someone on his cell phone. Ben goes outside and waits for her. In a few minutes Chika shows up with a surprise guest. He asks her to join them upstairs but she respectfully declines, knowing that this is not really her party, wishing silently that it was, but still she is very appreciative for her small part in all of it. When the two of them get upstairs, Ben tells the surprise guest to wait here, outside the closed French doors, hidden in the corner. When he enters the atrium, the room quickly quietens down. Then he tells everyone that he has something that he wants to give Sunni. He asks her to come over by the window, at the apex of the room, next to one of the now-empty easels. “You know, I can no longer imagine what life would be like without her – without Sunni – without this remarkable woman in it. We all know how precious she is, and I’m sure we all feel the same.” He looks at Sunni, “I’m so sorry I don’t have a picture for you, but you know, I’ve only just begun, so please be patient, okay?” Sunni looks at him and smiles sheepishly, “Okay.” He tells Sunni to close her eyes. Then he looks over at Donna for a second, giving her a subtle glance of gratitude. Donna nods at him, but has no idea what he is up to . . . Ben reaches behind the easel and pulls off an envelope that he had taped there awhile earlier, when no one was looking. “I want you to have this Sunni – I really don’t know what to do with it. Someone special gave it to me awhile ago – and it is very special – so I want you to have it. You have so much to say . . . I mean in terms of your writing future . . . so you will need this.” He tells her to open her eyes as he places an envelope in her hands. She opens it, and pulls out a piece of paper. It is a certified cheque for $10,000 written out to Ben, but signed over to Sunaria. She glances over to Donna, who can now see what it is. Sunni reaches over to Ben, giving him a loving hug. Then she walks over to Donna and hugs her the same way, thanking her, and apologizing, not even knowing why. “There’s more Sunaria, so please come back here,” Ben says, with a bit of a grin on his face now. “This next present is actually more from Pierre than from me. As we’ve gotten to know each other, it turns out that Pierre and I have something else in common, something about art. I especially like that picture of his, the one with the umbrellas . . . you know the one . . .it looks more sunny than rainy. I told him about how I once had a really nice umbrella, but I gave it away. The handle was homemade, very distinctive . . . used to belong to my grandfather . . . well, as we talked, one thing led to another . . . anyways, enough with the drama!” He pauses, grins at Donna, then says to Sunni, “Once again you need to close your eyes.” Ben slowly and quietly proceeds out the doors. With an index finger next to his lips, he signals for everyone to be quiet. He goes into the hall and guides the surprise guest inside. The guest looks straight ahead, looking only at Sunni. He nervously hangs a picture on the easel, very quietly. Then he steps back from it, to the right of the picture, next to Pierre and about six feet away from Sunni. She is standing just to the left of the picture, and Ben stands somewhere between Sunni and the guest, so the three are standing in a little half-circle. Then Ben gently guides her to face the picture, “Okay Sunni, you can open your eyes now.” When she opens her eyes she looks at the picture, but her attention is immediately drawn over to the man who placed it on the easel. He looks familiar, but she’s not sure why . . . she takes a step closer to him . . . now his eyes look so familiar. She looks back to the picture, then back to him. Her eyes begin to well, and so do those of the surprise guest. Neither can say anything . . . in her daze, she now knows who he is. Pierre moves closer to the center of the room and says to everyone, “We found Mr. Graves awhile ago. It really helped when Ben told me about the engraved umbrella, and the rainy day he gave it to Mr. Graves.” He pauses there. Sunni and Mr. Graves are standing behind him. He can hear her sobbing now, as she rushes over to the surprise guest. She wraps her arms around him, still sobbing as she whispers in his ear, “I thought you was dead.” Pierre continues speaking while Sunni embraces Mr. Graves, “As it turns out – as Ben discovered when we finally found Mr. Graves – our surprise guest likes to draw, ever since he was a kid. At first he didn’t want any of our help, but when I explained how I was a friend of Sunni’s, and told him about Sunni’s concern for him, he agreed to let us help him. Then Ben asked if he would do him a favour . . . do a sketch for him . . . for Sunaria . . . of Sunaria, and this is it. So Mr. Graves did the drawing, and then Ben added the water colouring . . . Sunni, I really hope you like it.” With her tears subsided, Sunaria looks at the picture more closely. It is a picture of herself, smiling and playing in a water park with her little sister. Sunni has her upper body stretched out, leaning into the spray of water coming from the highest sprinkler, letting the water thoroughly soak her, in her tank top and shorts. You can see toes of one foot sticking out of a little puddle. Sunni’s little sister has covered most of that foot with some sand, and the little girl appears to be tickling Sunni's big toe. The sunlight, and even the clouds, are smiling all around them. To the right is a picnic table, with a small cup of coffee on it, a paper bag and a bagel, a bottle of juice, and what appears to be a croissant. In the distance, running in the grass, are a few more children, including a boy carrying an open umbrella, while the others chase him. It appears that there are butterflies around them, maybe five – it’s hard to count them – Sunni begins to cry again. Andrea walks up to her, puts an arm around Sunni, and her head on Sunni’s shoulder, telling her once more that it’s okay. Sunaria nods. Pierre has gone over to Donna, who has tears of her own as she watches Sunni. He gives her a hug, asking what’s wrong. She replies, “Nothing . . . absolutely nothing.” They have all moved back from the picture now, except for Charles, who now enjoys this momentary privacy while he studies this picture, something that he’s never seen before, and he is amazed by what he sees. Ben can see that Mr. Graves appears kind of lost in all of this. He walks over to him, shakes his hand and then gives him a little hug. He gestures over towards the picture and towards Charles, telling Mr. Graves that he wants to introduce him to Mr. Lartimer, who now sees them approaching. Ben says to Charles, “Mr. Lartimer, I think there is someone here you need to meet.” Charles smiles at Ben, politely brushes him aside, looks Mr. Graves in the eyes and simply says, “I think we need to talk.” Chapter26

Getting the Giggles

Now that all the festivities are over, there was the seven of them – the four men and the three ladies. Charles took Mr. Graves outside for a walk around his rose garden. The other two men stayed in the atrium with the ladies. The visit in the garden only lasted a few minutes. Charles did not inquire about how Mr. Graves came to be homeless – he was more interested in the man’s artistic talent, at least in these moments. Mr. Graves took no offence to this – he found the art to be a more refreshing topic. Eventually Charles asked where he was staying. Mr. Graves told him that Ben’s friend, Chika, had a good-sized storage room at her school . . . she and Ben converted it to a bedroom . . . he refused to stay with Ben. Then Mr. Lartimer insisted that Mr. Graves call him Charles. In turn, Mr. Graves told Charles that he may call him Mr. Graves. After a pause, he laughed and said, “My first name is Bernard.” Charles asked, “Do your friends call you Bernie?” “Friends? Oh . . . yeah, yes . . . they used to . . . and you can call me Bernie . . . pretty funny, huh – Bernie Graves – I guess my parents must have figured sooner or later I’d need a sense of humour!” Charles laughed, “Well just be thankful they didn’t name you Dustin!” Bernie laughed back, “Actually that’s my twin brother . . . just kidding!” Mr. Graves asked Charles a technical question about his David Austin roses. Mr. Lartimer was very impressed, and now wondered even more about his new friend’s past. Bernie told him that’s too long a story . . . perhaps another time. Then he tried to excuse himself, saying that he should make his way back to Chika’s, and he asked Charles if he could borrow his phone. Charles could tell the man felt uncomfortable in these surroundings and refused him the phone, “Nonsense, the evening is just beginning . . . you just got here . . . besides, we haven’t eaten yet.” Then he remembered what he hoped would part of the evening, some billiards on his regulation-size table in the basement of 317 Browning Road. “You any good at pool?” “You mean the game or the con?” Charles laughed, “Never mind . . . you’re definitely my partner . . . now let’s go kick that Frenchman’s butt . . . you know he thinks I should plant garlic around those roses?” Bernie replied, “Well that sounds like a great idea . . . I’d go for the Spanish garlic . . . it’s spicy hot, I think they call it Morada Red . . . your Jane Austens look like they could use a little zip!” Charles shook his head in amazement at the man’s knowledge of horticulture, more curious than ever about him, but for now he is mostly curious about how they will humiliate Pierre and Ben in the basement. He led Mr. Graves back to the house, telling him about the supper plans. To Bernie they are deceptively simple . . . make sure that the older lady, Ms. Donna Belauche, stays out of his kitchen . . . at least until there are dishes to be done. He then had one more question for Bernard, “Can you make a decent pot of coffee? . . . Watch out for Donna’s!” By the time they got inside it was too late. Five frolicking friends had already invaded the Lartimer kitchen. At least the coffee had been spared. The champagne didn’t seem to mind, as it was fully in play. Pierre appeared to be keeping a distance from the entire situation. Charles quickly noted that tonight’s meal preparation will be a show – performed by Sunaria Ellice and her sidekick Andrea Ledoux, and directed by one Donna Belauche. For Charles it became painfully obvious that this show is doomed to be a tragedy . . . in the leading role, Donna appears to be a master chef . . . at least next to the younger ladies. Charles immediately scurries toward his chef’s apron, the one hanging in the corner. Donna saw that he meant to intervene, so she blocked him in his path, “Uh-uh Charles . . . this is our kitchen tonight . . . ‘ladies’ night in’ . . . perhaps you better have some champagne?” She didn’t ask Mr. Graves – she didn’t need to – Ben was already pouring him a glass. Donna led Charles over to the kitchen table and sat him across from Pierre, who was leisurely finishing the newspaper’s crossword puzzle, the one Charles had been saving for tomorrow morning. While handing Mr. Graves his drink, Ben suggested it might be best if they got out of there, which they did, retreating back upstairs to take one more look at their collaboration. Ben assured Bernie that in a few short minutes, what looked like chaos in the kitchen would be transformed into an orderly process. He also told him that more importantly, soon Charles’s pre-planned supper would rule the day. Charles gave the ladies about 60 seconds, as he sat there, observing their painfully comedic efforts. After that horribly long minute he could no longer keep silent, “So Andrea, are we having fish tonight?” “No . . . why do you ask?” she said, stopping her search for who-knows-what. Charles replied, “Because you look like you are floundering . . . sorry, we’re all out of flounder.” Donna looked at him with disdain, “No comments from the peanut gallery!” Charles said to her, “Right now peanuts are looking pretty good . . . and Sunni, why ever are you boiling that big pot of water?” “I’m thinking we could have egg salad sandwiches, so I’m just getting the water ready . . . have any eggs?” “Yes. I think there are three left.” Sunni replied, “Ah, shit! I have such a craving for egg salad!” Charles then told her, “Well if you’ll settle for potato salad, there’s a big bowl of that in a container . . . check the bottom of the fridge, just beside the eggs!” Andrea looks at Donna, “Great idea on the eggs Donna – not! . . . now I guess we don’t have to keep searching for those buns!” Pierre kept his head down, pretending not to hear any of this and trying his best to hide his laughter. The only thing he had to say is what he said to Charles, but in a whisper, “Please tell them about the roast I brought . . . the one Philippe cooked last night . . . do you want me to start warming it up?” Charles pretended not to hear Pierre, “So Donna, do you have any ideas for some meat to go with this?” “Nice try . . . you don’t need meat with egg salad . . . Ohhh, hmm . . . potato salad . . . let me check.” She went to the fridge and asked, “What’s this thing covered in tin foil?” “Why don’t you take it out and have a look . . . Andrea, you can shut that water off now . . . do you know how to turn the oven on?” Andrea replied, “Of course I do . . . which knob should I use?” Charles stood up and set the oven. Donna was no longer protesting – she took him up on his suggestion of cutting up some strawberries – she ignored him when he asked about her knowledge of applying whipped cream. That got Pierre’s attention most of all – both Sunni and Andrea caught him looking up from his newspaper and winking at Donna. The two young ladies laughed, and in an instant Donna’s face turned the colour of strawberries in season. Within forty minutes the seven of them were seated for a fine meal of roast beef, potato salad, some tomatoes, and Pierre’s surprise . . . fresh asparagus, served in a delicious sauce of butter and garlic and seasonings. The wine flowed as easily as the conversation. When it was done, even after Donna’s dessert, there was no talk of dishes. Eventually there was a lull in the conversation. That’s when Charles announced that the ladies would have to entertain themselves for awhile– he told them he’s taking the men-folk downstairs for some friendly billiards. The three women each took a turn at commenting on the machismo of it all . . . the issues of balls dropping in pockets, ends of sticks resting in palms, and fingers resting gently on velvet . . . this was too much for the four gentlemen. They left in a hurry, with Ben being the last, as he desperately searched for that jug of Drambuie. The ladies just laughed at him as he rushed away, especially when he got startled while walking past Sunni – she pinched his bum as tried to escape, telling him, “Go get ‘em, big boy!” The women decided to do the dishes right away, trying to restore a little of their female pride in the kitchen, though no words were said on the subject. When they were done, Andrea asked if anyone wanted some tea. The other two nodded in agreement, though none knew where to find it, so after a couple of minutes they opted for another bottle of wine . . . Donna knew exactly where to find that! She led Andrea and Sunni to the entertainment room, where her and Charles and Pierre sometimes watch some movies. Donna tells them to make themselves comfortable on the couch, while she puts on some music, a George Benson classic . . . Breezin’. Once she gets settled in a sofa chair, Donna glances at Andrea, then looks at Sunni and says, “You two make such an adorable couple . . . it really is nice to see you're so close.” Sunni and Andrea look at Donna and both thank her at the same time. Donna is surprised at this, blushing slightly in embarrassment, “I’m sorry – you can see I’m embarrassed – Sunni, I just thought you and Ben are an item – you know, this is the first time just the three of us have actually sat down and talked . . . just us ladies.” Sunni looks at Andrea for an approving smile. When it comes, Sunni replies to Donna, “That’s okay . . . actually I suppose we are a couple . . . and it is really nice.” Donna looks a little confused and asks, “You mean you and Ben, or is it you and Andrea?” The other two ladies smile warmly, then Andrea says, “No . . . she means the three of us are really close . . . intimate . . . understand?” “Well I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.” The silence is pleasant but a tinge awkward, Donna can sense it, so she is careful as she continues, “Now that you mention it, the three of you have been walking on air lately.” She pauses, then adds, “But I have to say, there is something in the way you two are . . . it's like you're also skating on thin ice!” Her smile and tone are of affection and concern and it is felt. Finally, she poses, “Doesn't it get a little complicated?” Andrea says, “Not really, it’s all great.” At the same time Sunni says, “Yeah, sort of.” Donna’s head is spinning now, not from the wine but from about a dozen questions she wants to ask. Have they thought of their future? What about kids? Do they know they may be breaking about a hundred laws, either now or down the road . . . and what about their parents? But she doesn’t want to dampen their obvious joy, in whatever it is they have going on, so all she says is, “You aren’t planning to move to Idaho, are you?” Sunni laughs, “No . . . why did you ask that?” “I don’t know . . . isn’t that where polygamy is legal?” The other two exchange another glance, then Andrea says, “You know, we’re just really happy the way things are . . . it’s all really new to all of us . . . we haven’t thought it all out . . . but that all seems so far down the road . . . still . . .” “Still?” “Well the other day we got to talking, the three of us, and Ben was really excited about something . . . he thinks his renters might be moving out in a few months, so . . .” “So the two of you are thinking of moving in with him?” Then Sunni replies, “Maybe. I mean, in a way it’s not fair . . . the way it is now – it’s too confusing, with the two of us living together – not really fair to Ben.” “Too confusing?” Donna can’t contain her playful laughter at the comment. Sunni continues, “Well, if we make the move then we’ll each have our own space, but under one roof, so it’s more fair that way . . . don’t you think?” Donna replies, “Fair? Honey, you’re in a relationship now,” she pauses to do some math. “Actually, you’re in two of them, and you too Andrea . . . and so is Ben . . . wait a sec, aren’t each of you really in three relationships . . . I need some more wine!” While Sunni and Andrea are trying to do the same math in their heads, Donna adds, “Three people – three couples under one roof – each with their own home . . . yeah, there's nothing confusing about that!” Andrea looks a little hurt, lost for words, but Sunni enjoys Donna’s humorous take on it all, “Yeah, when you put it that way, it does sound a little complicated . . . but the truth is, for us it’s all been so wonderfully simple!” “Oh Sunni, I sure hope so . . . and here I thought Montreal was crazy!” Then Andrea jumps in, “Speaking of which, we’ve been wondering . . . why did you ever leave Montreal . . . and for Victoria?” “Wow . . . now that’s a long story . . . I don’t mean to be evasive, but that’s so very personal.” Donna can see the look of hurt and disappointment in the other ladies’ faces, so she adds, “Look you two . . . I adore the both of you . . . you just need to be patient, okay . . . just give me some time.” They seem to understand now, respecting her privacy, so Andrea tries to change the subject, “You know, not that long ago Sunni asked me a really big question . . . I was a little sheepish about it . . . she asked me, ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ . . . you know what I mean. Then I got thinking about it a little, and ever since then I’ve been wondering the same thing . . . Donna, where ever did you learn to do all that?” Once again Donna is caught off guard, and asks if they can hang on, telling them she has to pee. When she hears this, Sunni says, “Me too!” Off they go, while Andrea calls out to the both of them, “Birds of a feather pee together!” Out of respect for the elder, Sunni insists that Donna go first, while she waits in the hall. When she is done, Donna returns to the entertainment room. Not waiting for Sunni to return, she asks Andrea, “So how are you enjoying your maitre d’ training?” “It’s wonderful – really exciting – but kind of weird at the same time . . . it’s like I’m no longer one of the girls.” “Well it’s a big career break for you . . . give it time . . . and do you think you’ll accept Pierre and Philippe’s offer . . . become kind of a manager? That would mean a lot to both of them – I don’t think any of you really want Carmella in there too much – and I think it will be good for me and Pierre too.” Andrea replies, “Yes. Yes, I’m definitely excited about that . . . so many big changes for me – the work – Ben, Sunni – it’s all happening so fast!” “Ahhh, but you’re so young. You’ll be just fine. And you have Pierre to help you all the way along . . . he really is a wonderful man.” “You and Pierre . . . talk about changes! I never would have thought . . . but then now that I think about it . . . well, I’ve never seen him happier . . . and you?” Sunni returns and resumes her position on the couch. She heard this last remark and Andrea's question – she waits quietly for the answer. “To be honest, I’m scared shitless . . . I don’t know how Pierre does it . . . is he really that brave, or is he blind, or just crazy? As for me, in some ways I feel so much younger, at least in spirit, but I worry . . . will all this last? I mean, for me, well it just has to . . .” Sunni and Andrea appreciate the tenderness that Donna is expressing, and they begin to sense their new friend's vulnerability – they no longer see someone who always has this air of control about her. They both try to reassure her that she has no worries about Pierre, ever. “It’s not just Pierre I’m worried about . . . it’s me too.” Once again the other two exchange glances, both puzzled by Donna’s comment. Donna sees this, and feels a need to explain further. “Oh boy . . . I don’t know where to begin with you two . . . you know, I’m really going to miss those times, Andrea. They were really special to me, more than I can explain . . . I haven’t really gotten into that yet with Pierre . . . some, but not all . . . that worries me.” Andrea says, “That’s okay Donna . . . I think we understand . . . well, at least I think I do. In a way I think I'll miss them too, but then since that time with Ben, and now being with Sunni, well it almost feels like it would be crazy to want more . . . and the nice thing is that I’m so very content right now . . . and I really don’t think much about it anymore.” Sunni just listens. Donna looks at her and asks, “Do you remember when we first met? I’m not sure if you noticed – when I first laid eyes on you I had such a hunger – it just happens with me – do you think you really missed out on something by us stopping the project?” There is silence now, while the other two wait for Sunni to say something. “I don’t know Donna . . . I kind of feel like Andrea for the most part . . . still . . . I mean, what they had . . . the way Ben described it, the way I’ve seen Andrea, and how she’s told me about it . . . tried to tell me about . . . I mean, what can I say, what can anyone say?” Donna sighs, looks down to the floor, then slowly raises her head and begins speaking in a soft voice, “Andrea, I’m still very sorry the way I reacted to Ben that night. I was hurt, but for reasons that are hard to explain . . . you asked me how I know what I know, so I’m going to tell you a story, okay?” Andrea nods. “Sunni, this is for you as well. I want to start by telling you that from what Ben described, I knew this was no ordinary experience for either of you . . . but especially for you Andrea. And I could see that even more – when the two of you bowed so graciously to each other – and yet you were almost strangers. It’s so very beautiful you know, and for what it’s worth, I’ve yet to truly experience what you’ve come to know – I’m not sure I ever will – so very few do.” Andrea is puzzled, “What do mean . . . what I’ve come to know?” “My dear, dear girl . . . it’s what some cultures call ‘Nirvana’ . . . in a sense you were perhaps gone from this world . . . . in a way. It’s pure and beautiful and it's beyond words . . . it seems that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Without really knowing what happened, you and Ben acknowledged that . . . just like in his art . . . even though the two of you had incredibly intimate contact, it was all so innocent, so very child-like. People in western cultures don’t like to think of it that way, yet there’s something so very natural in all of it . . . something to truly cherish . . . always.” Sunni wants to say something, but not sure what, and finally she just says, “You know, now that you put it that way, yes, that’s the kind of experience I want . . . I guess I just thought it was automatic, guaranteed . . . something you manage to make happen in those sessions – after the art.” “Sunni, you raise an excellent point . . . No, it doesn’t always happen like that, though the pleasure attained in there was always way beyond the norm. By the sounds of it, this was different though . . . on a completely different level . . . this remarkable and inexpiable state. I guess I should tell you – my days in Montreal – how I came to know something of all of this. Sunni, do you remember anything from our first conversation . . . anything I said about Montreal?” “Do you mean about your thesis, the one you first called Upscale Escort Services - Sex For Money or Addiction to Drama? or something like that. . . is that what you mean?” Donna lets out an unexpected laugh, “Yeah . . . you remember all right!” Andrea asks, “How can that have anything to do with that night . . . with what happened?” “Patience Andrea . . . my story is just beginning, but I certainly won’t tell you all of it . . . there’s just too much, at least for tonight. So let me start by telling you that I really had no idea what would happen when I started my research . . . it was all supposed to be so scientific, though I was struggling with that right from the start . . . I wasn’t as smart as our Sunni here.” She smiles warmly at Sunni, who is beaming with pride, fully understanding what Donna is referring to – those issues of measurement – Andrea still looks lost. Donna continues her story. “I was told that if I wanted to pursue this topic then I better to get to know something about it, stuff that’s not in any of the textbooks . . . so I did. I placed some ads in a paper and it didn’t take long to get to know some people . . . all kinds of people.” She pauses there, suddenly and once more, disturbed by some emotions. She second- guesses herself about telling these ladies anything, but she knows that now it's too late to turn back. She sighs and takes a deep breath before going on. By now Sunni and Andrea are completely silent, glued to the story. “Well, the more I found out, the more questions I had . . . so many questions . . . and then there was my ‘package’ . . . my looks, my background, my personality . . . everything it seems . . . and some of these people . . . some very wealthy and eccentric. Well I was seduced in a way . . . but I have no one to blame but myself . . . I think . . . it’s all very confusing. So part of this seduction included being whisked away to different parts of the world. Only it really wasn’t just for lovers’ weekends or anything like that. After it was all over, I realized that I was being groomed . . . used in a very different way. I wound up in I don’t know how many different places. For example, there was some kind of resort, perhaps somewhere in India . . . don’t ask me exactly where . . . and I learned so much . . . and part of that learning included all kinds of techniques . . . so many ways to treat the body, and for different reasons, if reasons is the right word. And I heard so many different stories . . . it was all so fascinating, and so many nice people along the way . . . so I didn’t mind any of that. I must have been pretty naive, or maybe just caught up in all these incredible eye-opening experiences? It was all so different than here. Eventually I found out that these people – I thought they were my friends – those eccentric, rich friends – they weren’t really friends at all . . . I was kind of like a toy to them, but even more than that. It was like I was supposed to be more than a courtesan . . . I know this is going to sound a little strange . . . it was like these people felt they had this big ‘investment’ in me. They seemed to think that somehow I could attain some kind of stature – a ‘modern-day sex-goddess’ – the demands became too much! I’ll spare you the ugly details . . . eventually I ran away . . . escaped? . . . I’m still not sure which. By the way, my real name is Dawn Belcourt . . . Pierre and Charles know my story . . . and now so do you two, but not Ben.” Donna stands up, needing to move around. She walks over toward the fireplace, now with her back to the other two ladies. Andrea and Sunni are in mild shock, completely lost for words, wanting to do something, to say something. Finally Sunni goes up to Donna and puts a hand on her shoulder, and just rubs it in consolation, telling her that’s it’s okay. Then, impulsively, she suggests to Donna that they should put on some coffee and take a little break. Donna nods and mutters, “I'll make it.” The other two accept, and silently they each pray for a java miracle of sorts. Soon the brew is ready and the ladies return to the entertainment room with mugs full of something steamy, but far from miraculous. They get settled on the couch, with Donna seated comfortably between the two younger ladies. She asks them if they mind if she continues her story. Andrea nods in agreement, while Sunni playfully says, “Sure . . . please do . . . and now I can see how you and Pierre can get along so well . . . you can tell each other stories all night long!” Donna giggles, once more caught off-guard by her adorable friend, Sunaria, “Oh, Sunni . . . but we do . . . and it's wonderful, the way he talks with his hands!” Andrea abruptly interrupts, “Stop that Sunni! Donna, please go on. It seems like you’re trying to tell us something that really isn’t about sex . . . something you learned along the way . . . is that what you were doing?” “Bingo! Yes, thank you Andrea . . . very perceptive . . . that’s exactly it. You see, with all this technique, well how can I say this . . . you just can’t manufacture this state . . . this Nirvana . . . it just doesn’t work that way. At least that what I’ve finally come to know, and from you Andrea – finally, after all this time – thank you. And think about it, I mean if you could manage it, well that would be like putting something like pure joy . . . pure love? . . . in a bottle, or in a machine? And Andrea, once again, thank you . . . you’ve taught me how insane that would be. I mean, through all these sessions, I think I’ve been trying to do that . . . to make that something special happen . . . but now I know it doesn't work like that . . . when it happens, it just happens!” She pauses briefly to sip her coffee, “You just can’t manufacture such an event.” She looks at Andrea, “Like you and Ben . . . you broke the rules . . . the way that night unfolded, that’s not at all the way it was planned . . . you didn’t know what would happen, and poor Ben had no idea at all . . . ‘without intent’ is a term Charles uses – in terms of art, and of genius – and it seems that’s so true of these precious, unexpected surprises . . . and now – finally – I can see that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be!” Andrea seems on the verge of tears now – unsure why, and for no reason at all. It feels like what she came to know that night is returning, mildly revisiting her, and she wonders “why me”? Suddenly she blurts out, “But I want it all the time! I want that wonderful feeling. I want my Nirvana back!” Startled, Donna immediately replies, “Wow Andrea! Of course you do my dear.” She pauses, breathes deeply, and continues, “But I need to ask you something, it's personal and it's about Ben. Is that okay?” Andrea approves with a nod from a head that is slightly bowed, as if in shame. “Okay, so how can I put this? You and Ben were essentially strangers when this magic happened. Now you spend much more time with him. Is it safe to say that deep down you want him to take you to that sacred place every time, or close to that?” Andrea is silent for a few moments, then looks at Donna and says, “Damn, that's it, isn't it? I mean I know it doesn't work that way, not every time, but still, now that Ben and I know each other, shouldn't we expect that once in awhile?” “Logically speaking that does make sense. And yet you had this experience with a stranger. So then also through logic, the experience may have something that's more about you than the other person. That's kind of scary when you think about. Then again, one of the mysteries of being a woman?” Sunni pipes in, with a giggle, “Yeah, a mystery even us women don't understand!” “Exactly”, snorts Andrea. Donna puts her coffee mug on the table and then just smiles warmly as she stretches her arms out, one resting around the shoulder of Andrea and the other around Sunni. They snuggle in around her, and then Donna goes on, “You know Sunni, you are a remarkable woman. You have this gift. I've seen it in my travels . . . young women with incredible passion and curiosity, so full of love to give.” She pauses, then finishes with, “but it will take time for you to learn, especially what it is that you really want.” Sunni replies, “That's just it, what I want . . . I really don't know. But fuck, I want what she had! That I know, fuck yeah. Will you help me get there?” Donna laughs. She tugs them a little closer, enjoying the warmth of their bodies, and suddenly she feels an inner warmth as well. More smiles now. It's not just because of the tenderness of the moment. It's also because those haunting words have returned – the uninvited ones that try to hurt her – but this time they are powerless in their taunting. She's smiling in her triumph. Those words, bound and impatient, she can say goodbye to them now. She can no longer make sense of them, no longer feels any need to. They are meaningless here, in her new peace . . . and the warmth of this time only deepens. As if the silence wants an interlude, calmly Donna tells the other two, “You know ladies, this has been one incredible day. I can't imagine ever forgetting it. And I can't thank the two of you enough. You've taught me so much, and here I thought I'd be your teacher . . . and you're both so mature in many ways . . . yet for some reason I still see you as little girls. I just had this odd feeling that maybe much of what I've gone through was preparation for this? For being your mentor? I'd love to do that. And Sunni, if you heard a word I said, there are absolutely no guarantees. But you know what ladies, it's so fucking worth the effort anyway!” She chuckles mildly at that, as do Andrea and Sunni. Knowing she has more to say, they remain silent for the moment, and so Donna continues, “Maybe I'm just getting old, I don't know . . . I thought I knew it all, yet it seems I don't know much of anything . . . but that doesn't bother me anymore, certainly not today, and not tonight. It's funny how it all works. How someone as screwed up as me, even with my wild past, can be still be forgiven . . . one more chance at love? Who would've ever thought? Whatever it is, this mysterious force, it sure seems more forgiving than we are of ourselves . . . certainly true in my case!” Suddenly serious, she pensively looks towards the fireplace. Startled to see Pierre there, she immediately wonders how much he heard. This is on her mind as she finds herself gliding toward him. Once she can see his smile and his eyes, all concerns evaporate. She is overcome with the warmth and comfort that happens to a child's heart. Without hesitation they embrace and melt into yet another kiss. When they finally release, Dawn whispers into the ear of Pierre, “Love is a verb and now I'm putting mine into motion . . . move over, I love you.”

### About the Author

I really hope you enjoyed Dawn at Last.

Here are a few of the mundane biographical highlights. First, my real name is Lawrence Grodecki - could such a name possibly be made up? Loosely translated the last name is Castle Builder – on my father's side my ancestors were architects in Poland. On my mother's side, her father also came from Poland. Because of the plague at the time he missed his first boat to North America. He arrived 2 weeks, but it's good he missed that boat . . . it was the Titanic. As for me, I was born in the fall of 1957, in Winnipeg, Manitoba - the eldest son and the third born of six children. We lived like gypsies, moving every year for the longest time . . . I attended seven different schools from grades one through seven. It is safe to say that I've been an eclectic person most of my life. I've always loved the process of art, mathematics, logic and all kinds of learning, and plenty of sports, even played the violin for a time. I've painted many pictures as well as many houses. My coffee is good, but the one thing I can't do is a Spanish omelette! The learning has come from textbooks as well as from nature, and I've come to know that these teachers are not always one and the same. I have a degree in psychology and an MBA – marketing as well as strategic planning. However, for a long time now, I've been immersed in the process of art and writing. As an independent talent, by necessity I continue to be heavily involved in marketing. This means I'm online a lot, and actually more than I care to be . . . truth is I prefer and enjoy my privacy.

Maybe that peaceful solitude is why I enjoy art so much? You can see my original art on my web site, and I'd love to hear your comments there as well. And yes, I'd love to have you find a place in your home for my art . . . there's a wide selection of it available here:

Lawrence Grodecki Fine Art

Finally, please feel free to join me on Facebook or Twitter.

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