Lavender and Parsley

by Lisa K Nakamura

  “Wait? You know Peter Darcy?” I ask incredulously.

  “Oh, yes, Pete and I go a long way back. Did you know his mother was quite the budding opera soprano before she met her husband? Yup, she was the toast of Boston. She had high hopes to take the international stage by storm, in spite of her parents’ disapproval and active discouragement. She abandoned her career when she met Pete’s dad and married him. Pete and I were neighbors as kids, and his mom taught me how to sing.

  “Have you met Emily, Pete’s sister? Yes? Is she still a stuck-up spoiled brat? No? You know, she was also trained to be an opera singer. She was really quite good.”

  “What happened with Emily?” I ask, curious to hear what Emily has never told me. I want to know about her brush with singing opera, and so I listed avidly to George’s nattering.

  “She tried to live her mother’s dream of being a soprano. But then she met a guy, eloped with him, and gave up her training and her promising start. He died young, and she’s been struggling with depression ever since. I don’t mean to gossip, but I think poor mental health runs in that family. Last I heard, she’s a permanent student at Seattle University.”

  I wonder if this is the deep dark secret that Emily has never told me about, the stupid mistake she thinks scuttled her singing career. I feel sorry for Emily, and incensed at her brother’s inability to assuage her guilt. How she must have suffered under his judging authoritative ways!

  “Good old Pete was jealous of the time and attention I got from his mom and dad, because both of them were encouraging me to pursue opera professionally. His father even went so far as to leave me a little bit of money, to give me the opportunity to study in Europe after he died.

  “After Pete’s his dad died, Pete refused to give me what his father had promised me. He said it wasn’t written into the will, and therefore I had no legal standing. He gave me a paltry three thousand dollars. My dreams of living and working in Europe came to a crashing halt. Now, I am lowly folk singer, trading my voice for a few coins and a place to sleep.”

  I am indignant to hear about Mr. Darcy’s treatment of his friend. At first, I have half a mind to call him up and tell him exactly what I think of him. My good opinion of him, already on tenuous ground, evaporates in the blaze of my ire. I resolve to never speak to Mr. Darcy again. It's all so confusing, these conflicting sides of this complex man.

  I tell Tio Eddi what George has told me, and he sighs. “Listen, mi hija, you don’t know what really happened, eh? Maybe you should wait to hear all sides of the story before you get all enojada, angry, with poor Mr. Darcy.”

  I pause, thinking about what my Uncle Eddie told me, about angry people not always being the wisest. I’m a little troubled George Wickham would feel so comfortable telling me, a stranger he’s just met, so many details about the Darcys. I start to question why he would mention all those shitty things about Mr. Darcy and Emily. Something doesn’t feel right. I decide to ask Richard about George when he returns from Lisbon.

  George Wickham continues to seek me out, making me the object of dark looks from the female servers. We spend our break times and off days together. We make up silly names for the hundreds of turtles in the pond at Atocha Station. We spend hours at the Prado, composing a comical song set to Hieronymus Bosch’s dark painting. We toss money to sidewalk buskers, and one day, George delights the crowd with an impromptu duet with a guitarist on the Playa Major. George is charming and flirtatious. He apologizes for bringing up Mr. Darcy, but with his next sentence, continues to disparage him.

  Three weeks fly by, and George Wickham and his band have fulfilled their contract at the restaurant. Tomorrow, they will move on to Valencia. I go to my room after finishing service and find the light on. I walk in and see George Wickham standing there.

  He smiles at me, but this time, I feel uncomfortable. He reaches and pulls me close, but I push him away.

  “Come now, Elizabeth, surely you know how beautiful you are. Are you really going to let me leave you without something to remember you by?”

  My hackles are up. I’ve faced this situation before, as many women have. We think we’re just being friendly, but our intentions are misconstrued. In the end, we are too often reduced to being another notch on some guy’s bragging pole.

  I push George away, roughly this time. “I’m not interested.” I state flatly.

  Now George approaches menacingly. “Oh, Elizabeth, are you really pining for that stuck up dry piece of sod back home? “ he says as he indicates the bundle of Mr. Darcy’s letters lying on the table, a stack I’ve carefully tied with a red velvet ribbon. “You know, he can only write. He’s not good for anything else, unlike me,” snarls George with a leer.

  “You read my letters?!” I shout at him. I try to move past him to grab them, but instead find myself with my arm twisted behind me. I gasp in pain, and try to grab hold of something, anything to use as a weapon. I come up with only a fistful of air.

  Suddenly I am free, and Tio Eddi is grabbing George by the front of his shirt. He must have heard me shouting at George.

  ”Sal de aqui, get out of here!!” he screams at George as he tosses him out onto the stairwell landing. At the bottom of the stairs, Joachim and two line cooks have gathered and await with arms crossed. They ascend slowly. Joachim picks George up and hurls him down the steps.

  “Mi hija, go see your Tia Ana,” Tio Eddi whispers to me. I nod and flee as quickly as I can. Behind me, I hear the sounds of fists meeting flesh and George screaming. I rush away before I can hear any more.

  The next day, George Wickham and his band board their beat-up van. George, sporting two spectacular shiners, tries to slink away quietly. But the team of cooks line up outside the van, yelling “pinche cabron, fucking bastard” at him along with other obscenities, all while grabbing their crotches. They give him the universal one finger salute of true love as the van speeds off.

  Then, they gather around me, telling me that they will never let such a bastardo ever get away with such merda, shit, with me. I smile as they hoist me up on their shoulders and carry me into the kitchen.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Elizabeth

  Guardian Angel

  As promised, Richard returns from Lisbon in the middle of October, and we are soon back in our favorite flamenco bar enjoying glasses of robust Spanish red wine. Richard goes on about the gorgeous women he met in Lisbon, describing how charming they are. I listen to him and smile, telling him I’m happy the women of Portugal recognize what a terrific guy he is.

  He bumps my shoulder with his, and asks, “Tell me, aren’t you even the tiniest bit jealous?” When I say no, I am not, he shrugs. “Okay, Lizzy, spill. If you’re not jealous of all those gorgeous women who are clamoring for me, why are you so quiet?”

  I look him straight in the eye, and say, “Tell me the truth about George Wickham.”

  Richard scowls. He almost spits out George’s name, and then proceeds to tell me his family’s history with the bastard. “George grew up with Peter. Adam Wickham, George’s dad, was Uncle Thomas’ right hand man. He did everything for Uncle without question. Uncle Thomas made sure to pay Adam Wickham well, very well. When Adam died, my uncle practically adopted George. He paid for George’s schooling and his singing lessons.

  “George couldn’t stand it. He thought it was charity, and that he was being pitied. He hated it. He was jealous of Peter. He thought Peter had everything so easy. He never could see how much pressure and responsibility was placed on my cousin’s shoulder from a very young age.”

  ”So, what did George Wickham do?” I ask. “I mean, did he ever learn to be grateful for all the kindness shown to him?”

  “No, Lizzy, he did not. Things actually became worse as George grew up. He stole Peter’s mail, making Peter almost miss his acceptance letter from Stanford. He catnapped Ginger, Peter’s kitten, let her loose in the city. It took Peter three months to find her. The list of shitty things George has done is long, way too long. />
  “The worse thing he did was to Emily. He befriended her behind Peter’s back, and then managed to hook her on cocaine. When she was eighteen, she was scheduled to audition for an apprentice position with the Metropolitan Opera in New York. The night before her audition, George got her coked up. She was in no condition to sing the next day, which meant she lost the opportunity to pursue her dream.

  “George exploited Emily’s insecurity, convincing her she was never any good. He told her she was nothing without him, until she believed him. They eloped, thinking they could live off her trust fund. When Peter refused to hand it over, George abandoned Emily in a seedy motel room in Florida, leaving her strung out on crack.

  “It took a week for Peter to find her. By then, she was in really bad shape. This was more than six years ago. Since then, she’s been trying to live clean and earn her college degree, but her confidence and self-worth have been severely damaged.”

  I am speechless. To think I trusted that asshole! I tell Richard about how George almost attacked me, and how the cooks beat him within an inch of his life, and then sent him off with two black eyes.

  Richard’s eyes widen with shock, and he tells me he’s so glad I’m safe. “Peter would have my hide if I ever let something bad happen to you.”

  “Wait,” I pause. “Are you saying that you’re here to watch over me, like a guardian angel, because Mr. Darcy asked you do to it?”

  Richard smiles sheepishly. “It’s true. I was planning a trip to Europe when Peter asked me to stop in Madrid and look you up. He wanted me to reassure him that you were alive and well. I should have told you, but sometimes my cousin can be over-protective about those he loves, and instead they feel strangled. I’m so sorry if I mislead you.

  “I will say I’ve enjoyed our time together, and I hope we will continue to be friends. Can we?”

  I sit and think about this. I should be angry Mr. Darcy is so controlling. But instead, I find myself relieved to hear he still cares about me and what I’m doing. I think about what Richard said, about Mr. Darcy being “over-protective about those he loves.” I’m comforted he is watching out for me, even though there’s a continent and an emotional chasm between us.

  Does Mr. Darcy love me? If so, why doesn’t he act like normal guys in love do? Dear God, tell me it’s not one of those sterile platonic loves, because I could not deal with that sort of crap from him!

  Wait, is this what love is supposed to feel like, this easy warm embrace of emotion and caring? I always thought I had to earn it, beg for it, be a nicer person to have it happen. I thought love was payment for being perfect. I assumed I was defective, which therefore meant I would never be rewarded with true love. But Mr. Darcy has never asked me to change, has never placed conditions on me for his affection. He accepts me for who I am and loves me for it.

  I chide myself that I had to run so far away to discover the truth. I berate myself for being so fickle in my opinion about him. I am truly ridiculous sometimes.

  I smile at Richard, and say, “Yes, we’re still friends! Now, let’s toast our Thesaurus Rex, 6,000 miles away!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Elizabeth

  Confessions and Wishes

  November arrives, and it’s time for me to return to Seattle. Jane has emailed me that she and Charlie are engaged. Their wedding will be in April, and Jane wants me to come home and help her plan.

  Charlotte has completed her opera and its opening is scheduled the first week of December. She begs me to come to the premier with Jane and Charlie. How can I say no? I agree, and then let Tio Eddi know it’s time for me to go home.

  Richard and I take the train one last time to explore Toledo, one of our favorite day trips. As we stand on the bluff at the edge of town and look down on the Rio Tajo, I close my eyes and feel the sharp wind buffet me. Richard turns and asks me, “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I take a deep breath. “Richard, I… I have to confess cooking no longer brings me joy. Sure, I’m good at it, but I don’t know if I was ever great at it. I mean, if I was great at it, wouldn’t I be up there on the Best of the Bests lists? I’ve had my successes, but I have paid a high price, my self-worth and my personal life. I think I want out of the kitchen. I really enjoyed working as a barista; it gave me the chance to spend more time on my writing. I think I would like to continue to explore my voice with written words.

  “I miss being a chef, but not as much as I thought I would. I am ready to leave the restaurant world, even if I don’t know what I will do next.”

  Richard takes my hand and tells me he understands. He spent half his life in the Navy, and when he left, he was finished with it.

  “I’m in the prime of my years, Lizzy, and I don’t know what I want to do either. But this much I do know. Everything I’ve done up to now is all training and wisdom for whatever I decide to do next. Flamenco dancing? Car mechanic? Jazz musician? I don’t know. But I do believe life is a mosaic of colors, a picture that’s never done until the day we pass on.

  “Don’t fret about walking away from cooking. You’ll find your way, I know it.”

  I realize I am thinking about Mr. Darcy. This makes me confess, “I think this may sound weird, but I miss Mr. Darcy. I know he and I haven’t spoken in a long time and the last time we did, it was a catastrophe. We also really have an oddly undefined friendship. But right now, I want nothing more than to share my favorite Spanish city with him. How crazy is that?”

  “My cousin may be obtuse in the ways of the modern world, but he is not a foolish man, Lizzy. Rest assured, he wouldn’t let you disappear from his life easily. He knows when someone is worth fighting for. Peter is a most loyal companion. You can trust him. Don’t give up. Your wish still may come true.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Elizabeth

  Homecoming Queen

  My time in Madrid has ended, and I am flying back to the States today. Richard has decided to continue his European wanderings and to sample the gastronomic and feminine charms of France. He promises he’ll see me back in Seattle by Christmas. We hug as good friends and part ways, me to Barajas and he to Atocha.

  An eternity later, my plane lands at SeaTac Airport. I snake through the customs and immigration lines, and as I make my way to baggage claim, I hear my sisters yelling my name.

  “Lizzy!! You’re home!”

  I see Jane, sporting a lustrous diamond the size of a baseball on her left ring finger. Next to her stands Charlie, his arm possessively wrapped around her shoulders. Lydia, Uncle Eddie and Auntie Madeline are also there, holding up “Welcome Home, Lizzy!” signs. We hug each other tightly, as suitcases are ejected onto the baggage carousel behind us.

  Neither Jane nor Charlie mentions Mr. Darcy. I’m too afraid to ask what has happened to him, and instead brace myself to hear he’s dating Charlotte. We tiptoe around the subject. I don’t know how to tell Jane my opinion about Mr. Darcy has changed, how I broke my own heart running away from him with my idiotic injured pride, and how my own prejudices almost blinded me to seeing the good man that he is. I can’t admit to my own sister how colossally dense I’ve been.

  The next day, Jane insists we go shopping for the premier of Charlotte’s opera, and I find myself ensconced in a plush dressing room in a downtown dress shop. I select a red silk dress that sits daringly off one shoulder. It hugs my body before flaring into a dramatic fishtail at my knees. I blink when I see my reflection in the mirror, and them smile. I feel like a fairy tale mermaid, but sigh, because even wearing this gorgeous dress, I still look like a cook. The burn scars up and down my arms are indelible tattoos of my trade.

  The night of the premier arrives. There are photographers waiting at the auditorium’s entrance where a few of them snap our picture as we make our way down the red carpet, but then ignore us, watching for bigger prey. As we make our way to the opera box Charlotte has reserved for us, I muse over how she was able to afford it.

  We settle into our reserved box, and I comment
to Jane how Charlotte must either be doing well or she has some serious pull to claim these seats for us. Jane looks at me, confused, and then says, “Charlotte didn’t get us these seats.”

  Before she can continue, the lights dim and the curtain goes up.

  I am expecting to watch the drama between Bill Gates and Steve Jobs sung to us on stage. Instead, I am greeted by a familiar silhouette of a restuarant. I look more closely, and then see the sign “Ocean Breeze” painted above the set, missing letters and all. I glance down at the program for the first time and discover the title of this opera is “A Life in America in Three Acts”.

  The first singer enters stage left. He’s Asian with a deep rich tenor. He sings about his parents’ dream for him to become a surgeon, to have him break free from the family’s strawberry farm on Bainbridge Island. His strong, full voice gives surprising eloquence to melodies about the destruction of Pearl Harbor and the ugliness of U.S. Executive Order 9066 that followed. He regales us with his tale of life as a child in Manzanar and Minidoka. He is joined by more Asian singers, and together, they tell the story of a Japanese-American immigrant in the States.

  They tell my father’s story.

  They tell the story I never could get out of my father.

  I sit there, mesmerized by the music, the lyrics. The opera is so beautifully done. The powerful truth of the story has the audience transfixed. When it is over, the audience bursts into thunderous applause, offering an ovation that lasts for a good five minutes. They call for Charlotte, and she walks out onto the stage with the cast arrayed behind her.

  Charlotte thanks the audience for its enthusiastic response. She tells them how this opera would not have been possible without the generous grant from the William Endowment.

  “I struggled in vain for years to write something I could be proud of. The stories and music I wrote seemed to fall flat. But one day, Fate helped me. ‘Help’ came to the coffee shop where I was working for my ‘damn fine macchiati’ and to nurse his broken heart. We bonded over espresso, which led to him helping me write this libretto, to put words to the music in my head. He insisted we must share this story with the world.”