by Darien Gee
“It’s like us,” he used to say. She knows that he has always been attracted to what he refers to as “her natural precision”—her body, her talent, even the way she walks. “You glide,” he would say, his accent thick with desire as he tugged at her clothes, impatiently fingering the buttons on her blouse. Nothing gets Philippe more excited than perfection, or at least the illusion of it.
And now … what? Hannah stares at herself in the antique silver leaf mirror on the wall, one of her favorite finds from a second-hand store in Brooklyn. Philippe never let her put it up in their apartments in New York and Chicago, but was more than pleased to let her hang it in their house in Avalon. At first she had felt a surge of hope that their four-year marriage wasn’t over, that Philippe wanted to include the parts of Hannah that weren’t just about music and beauty. But as soon as Christmas had passed, he was gone again.
She tugs at her straight shoulder-length hair. Boring, her reflection seems to tell her. Other musicians tell her they’re envious of its dark sleekness, of how smooth and perfectly straight her hair seems to be, of how elegant it looks when pulled back in a tight chignon while she’s performing. How easy it must be to have such obedient hair! They chalk it up to her Chinese genes, but Hannah knows better. Her hair actually has a natural wave to it, one with no rhyme or reason that looks terrible if left alone. She used to go to a salon in New Jersey and then found another in Chicago’s Chinatown where she pays to have her hair straightened on the sly. Even Philippe doesn’t know. She always meant to tell him but now it’s too late—it’ll just give him another reason not to love her anymore.
The phone rings. Hannah anxiously waits for the third ring before answering, another Philippe decree.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Hannah.”
At the sound of his voice, she feels her heart clench. She grips the phone tightly with both hands. “Philippe, where are you? Are you at the apartment?”
“It doesn’t matter.” His French accent makes everything sound intelligent and romantic, regardless of what he’s saying. “I’m just calling to tell you that I am sending a truck over for my things. They’ll have a key. You don’t have to be there, in fact it’ll probably be better if you’re not.” He goes on, talking about some list they’ll have indicating exactly what to pack and take, but Hannah’s mind is swimming in shock.
“Philippe, just come home and we can talk,” she begs.
There’s a labored sigh on the other end, as if he’s speaking to a child, as if the whole conversation is too tiresome for words. “There is nothing to talk about, Hannah.”
Nothing to talk about? They’ve been together for seven years, married for four, and there’s nothing to talk about? They used to spend hours in bed doing nothing but talking. Well, making love and talking, and they haven’t done that in a long time, either. Still, Hannah doesn’t know how—or when—everything started to fall apart. Why can’t he tell her and give her a chance to make things better? She knows Philippe, knows that he doesn’t do well on his own. Unlike most men, he likes being a couple. He likes the coziness, the intimacy. He loves being in love, but how can he be in love if he’s not with her?
Because he’s in love with someone else, dummy!
This realization hits her square between the eyes. Of course. Even when they first met in New York he was seeing someone else, a concert pianist whom he dumped to be with Hannah. Hannah had felt bad, but not that bad—after all, how could you control matters of the heart? Plus he told her that things were miserable and about to end anyway. And she believed him, ignoring the pianist’s pained look when they bumped into her at a mutual friend’s birthday party on Park Avenue.
“Is there someone else?” The question sticks in Hannah’s throat.
There is an interminable pause.
Then he says, “Hannah …” and nothing more.
In that single word, her own name, she hears his defensiveness, his irritation, his relieved unspoken confession. But it’s also clear that he’s not going to tell her anything more, and he’s sure as hell not going to apologize.
She buries her face in her hands. How can she have been so clueless? She thinks of her friends who play with Philippe, advising her to keep an eye on him. She had laughed, and then she had panicked, unsure of what to do. So she did nothing.
“Look,” Philippe continues, “just go get a cup of coffee or something. They’ll be quick, in and out. They know what to get, they have a list, they’ll pack everything up. After that’s all done we’ll talk, figure out what to do next.”
Next? Is there a next? There is only one “next” that she knows of.
Oh God. She’s shaking as Philippe calls her name, impatient. “Hannah, are you listening? The moving company is on the other line and I need to confirm this.” He says something about the day after tomorrow.
Hannah is numb. The phone drops out of her hand and the plastic cracks when it hits the hardwood floor. She walks back to the music room, where she finally opens up the package that’s been delivered. Tucked amid all the foam packaging is her bow case.
She opens the case and pulls out her bow, rehaired and ready to go. She turns the tension screw slightly, pulling the hairs taut. She picks up a small cake of rosin lying nearby and runs it across the full length of her bow in short circular motions, feeling her breath return to her, the familiarity of this simple act restoring her.
The day after tomorrow. Not if she can help it.
She settles into the chair, then draws her legs apart as she slips the cello between her knees. She takes a deep breath then slowly draws the bow over the strings. Instantly the room is filled with a deep, rich resonance that sends shivers up her spine. She closes her eyes. The music lifts her, carrying her out of her own body until she expands like smoke from a chimney, pouring into an open sky. Her thoughts are moved to silence as she feels herself dissipating into everything and nothing.
Hannah has never quite understood this, but she accepts it graciously and thankfully, even beckoning it. She doesn’t have to ask it to take away the pain because the pain is no longer there. It’s only the music that remains. The music, and nothing else.
The day after tomorrow comes. At daybreak, Hannah wakes up feeling achy and terrible. Then she remembers that the movers will be here at 10:00 A.M. She only has a few hours left.
She works steadily, building up a decent sweat, her dark hair pulled away from her face with a bandanna. Her mind is admittedly blank, unable to process anything more than it already has, but fortunately her body is trained to work even when her mind cannot.
At 9:45 A.M., Hannah pulls the bandanna from her head and takes a deep breath. She grabs her purse and slings it across her body, then walks outside, closing the front door behind her. She takes out her new key and inserts it into the new lock she had installed yesterday. Then she gingerly steps over Philippe’s things, packed neatly in boxes, and makes her way down the walkway.
CHAPTER 4
Madeline Davis doesn’t know what it is that draws her to the small town of Avalon. After all these years it’s apparent that Chicago is too cold for her old bones, and not the temperature so much as the people. She never considered herself a Chicagoan anyway, and once Steven was gone, Madeline suddenly felt like the transplant she really was.
She hadn’t meant to come here originally—that wasn’t the plan. But when she saw the sign welcoming her to Avalon and the canopy of dogwood and buckeye trees shading the wide streets, she thought, I could live here. The next thing she knew, she was signing papers.
Madeline arranges some lemon scones on a porcelain cake stand then covers it with the fitted glass dome. Steven loved her scones, especially the ones made with chocolate chips. It’s been over twenty years, but she still misses him terribly.
She wipes her hands on her apron then looks around her empty tea salon with longing, wishing she had more customers, more traffic. Madeline’s Tea Salon. That was certainly ambitious. She didn’t have a business plan, h
adn’t really a clue as to what she was doing. The whole business had been born more from what she was given, a six-bedroom, yellow-and-white stick-style Victorian that had been built in 1886 by a wealthy egg merchant. In its last incarnation it had been a bed-and-breakfast. The grounds were well-maintained and the previous owners avid gardeners. There was a vegetable patch; several rows of basil, rosemary, thyme, and mint; and lots of colorful flowers and shady trees.
Madeline loves the spacious rooms, each with its own sweet name and personality, the generous kitchen and sunroom, the full basement and large living and dining area. There were a few surprises, too—a china closet and a root cellar out back—making the home a bit too eclectic for the average buyer but perfect for someone like Madeline. It was more house, more yard, more everything than she could possibly ever need, but it was so full of possibilities that Madeline used what was left of her savings and bought it.
Now it’s been six months, with only a trickle of business from tourists who happen to drive by. The locals regard her with guarded suspicion, holding tight to their wallets with the national economy in the pits. Despite her best efforts, she’s still an outsider in this small town. Who is she kidding? Why would a small town like Avalon need a tea salon?
Madeline shakes her head as she wipes down the teacups for the umpteenth time. Why can’t she be like other people her age who seem content to kick back and play bridge or watch daytime television? The more active ones volunteer or lunch or take in a show, talking endlessly about grandkids, which Madeline doesn’t have. It seems, in fact, that she has no one. It isn’t entirely true, but feels that way nevertheless. And it’s been that way for a long, long time.
She tries not to look surprised when the little bell above the door tinkles and a woman with curly strawberry-blond hair walks in carrying a large tote bag.
“Do you serve food here?” the woman asks.
Madeline nods, remembering the portobello-mushroom-and-spinach quiche that will be ready any minute. She should push the lunch special. Then again, it’s not quite eleven, so maybe talking up a mid-morning snack would be more appropriate. She’s been meaning to put up a sign for tea and crumpets. It’s a great deal at $5.99—a fresh pot of tea, two small crumpets, one scone, and a side of homemade raspberry preserves and lavender butter. She has such a fabulous selection of herbal teas, black teas, green teas, white teas, fruit teas …
There’s an awkward pause as Madeline realizes that the woman is staring at her. She’s done it again, her mind wandering off into la-la-land. She wishes she could say old age is to blame but it’s not—it’s just part of who Madeline is. She gives the woman a bright smile. “I’m sorry, I got lost there for a minute. Would you like a table?”
The woman shakes her head. “I just wanted to get something to go.” Her eyes scan the buffet of baked goods hungrily. “Maybe a scone or muffin.”
“Or both,” Madeline says. It’s a bold suggestion, but it does the trick. The woman lets out a small laugh, as if she’s been holding it in.
“Or both,” she agrees.
The bell over the door tinkles again. Two in one day? Madeline looks over and sees a slender young Asian woman walking in uncertainly. She’s wearing a work shirt and dungarees. There’s a refined elegance about her, the way her hand flutters to her neck nervously. “Are you open?” Her voice is soft, a hint of sophistication.
“I certainly am. Come on in.” Madeline watches the young woman choose a table by one of the large picture windows.
The woman with the strawberry-blond hair is hovering between the pecan sticky buns and toffee chip bars. She suddenly seems anxious to leave, her eyes darting to the door as if she’s afraid someone else might come in. “I’m not sure what to get …”
Madeline gives her a reassuring pat on the arm. “Take your time.” The oven timer dings. “That’ll be my quiche.” She’s about to head into the kitchen when she adds, “Portobello mushroom and spinach. Side salad of organic greens with sliced strawberries, walnuts, and shaved Parmesan, tossed in a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. Eight dollars and ninety-nine cents. Comes with your choice of tea afterward.” She hurries off, hoping she hasn’t scared anyone away with her impromptu sales pitch.
When Madeline returns, quiche in hand, she’s surprised to see that the woman with the tote bag is still there, standing by an empty table. “You’re welcome to sit if you’d like to get off your feet,” Madeline offers.
“What? Oh no, I’m just …” She eyes the quiche in Madeline’s hands, fragrant with herbs, the caramelized mushrooms gently browned, the spinach a dark, delicious green. “That smells wonderful.” Her voice is hesitant.
“It tastes wonderful,” Madeline says. She isn’t boasting. Madeline knows she’s an excellent cook and she’s not afraid to own it. She begins to cut the quiche, six fat wedges instead of eight.
The woman looks at her, blinking, then to Madeline’s delight she drops her bag onto a chair and sits down. “Okay,” she says. Her voice is agreeable but cautious. “I’ll try the special.”
“Me, too.” The young woman is staring out the window at a moving van making its way down the street. She turns to look at Madeline, a mix of uncertainty and determination on her face. “Do you by chance have anything chocolaty for dessert?”
The smell of quiche catches Julia by surprise. Even though it’s only 10:30 A.M., she’s starving.
The woman behind the counter introduces herself as Madeline, which Julia should have figured out seeing how the place is called Madeline’s Tea Salon. Madeline looks to be in her seventies, friendly and vibrant, wearing a clean apron over her slacks. She’s clearly a masterful baker given the delectable spread of baked goods on the antique buffet. Scones, cookies, cakes. Shelves are filled with teapots, tea cups, tea saucers, tea cozies. And then there’s the vast selection of every tea imaginable, loose and bagged, tin after tin after tin.
“This used to be a B and B,” Julia says, more to herself than anyone, but Madeline overhears her and smiles. “The Belleweather. Frank and Jan Morgan used to own it. But you probably already know that.”
“That’s pretty much all I know, too,” Madeline says. “I stumbled onto this place. I was actually on my way back to Chicago after twenty years in California. Berkley.” She serves the women their quiches then sits down at an empty table with a pot of tea. “I pulled over on the side of the road to take a little break and stretch my legs, and that’s when I saw the FOR SALE sign. The minute I stepped inside I knew I was home.” She stirs some milk into her tea.
“Really?” For Julia Avalon has always been home, even when she went away for school, and that was what kept her grounded when everything fell apart. Change—a new location, a new job, a new life—never held much appeal for Julia the way it had for others, so she’s surprised by an unexpected stab of envy at hearing Madeline’s words. What would it be like to stumble onto your future and recognize it so clearly? Was it really as simple as opening a door and seeing it before you? Then what?
The Asian woman is listening intently, too, her fork poised in midair. “But how did you know?” she asks. Julia has never seen her before, so she’s either new or just passing through. Julia can see that her arms are toned, her posture tall and erect. She’s slender and willowy, but not weak. If she were taller Julia imagines she’d be a ballet dancer.
Madeline shrugs, stirring some milk into her tea. “I just had that feeling of certainty. You know how there’s that moment when you’re sure of something? Even if it makes no sense?” She gives a commanding wave of her teaspoon.
“No.” Julia and the other woman say this simultaneously, then stare at each other for a moment.
“Jinx,” the other woman says, and Julia finds herself grinning. There has to be at least ten years between them, maybe more, but she feels a dangling thread of possibility and reaches for it. “I’m Julia,” she says.
“Hannah.” There’s a pause as the women consider each other politely. “Are you from Avalon?”
Julia nods as she spears a strawberry with her fork. She remembers moments like this, though barely. It hasn’t appealed to her in a long time, this meeting new people or talking about herself. She knows almost everyone in this town, but for the first time in a long time the feeling of claustrophobia, of being under the magnifying glass, is gone. “Yes. I was born and raised here. I went to college at UIC. Went back for graduate school, too.” She doesn’t mention that she never had a chance to finish her master’s degree. She’s always been okay with that decision, because something bigger and better had come up—she was pregnant. “What about you?”
“I moved here with my husband three months ago,” Hannah says. “From New York by way of Chicago.”
“I love New York,” Madeline says with a sigh. Julia wishes she could say the same, but she’s never been. “The shows, the shopping … although, to look at me now, you’d think I do nothing but spend all day in the kitchen. Which I suppose is actually true.” Madeline rubs a spot of flour from her hand.
But Hannah doesn’t respond, her attention taken by something down the street. Unease crosses her face and then gives way to a look Julia recognizes and is unfortunately all too familiar with.
Regret.
This is a mistake.
The table by the window gives Hannah a view of her home, a sweet bungalow with a white porch swing out front. The driver of the truck looks perplexed at seeing Philippe’s possessions already stacked on the porch. His attempts to unlock the front door obviously fail. He looks at his work order again and then gives a shrug as he motions to his crew to start loading up the truck.
After Philippe’s phone call and two hours of playing Prokofiev, Hannah found the reserve of strength she’d been looking for. She changed the locks and packed up his belongings, unwilling to let a bunch of strangers into her house to pick through their things while she was out getting “coffee.” Where did Philippe think she was? Starbucks hadn’t found Avalon yet, and the thought of being in a busy diner or getting something from the grocery store was overwhelming. And then she remembered the tea salon that always seemed empty, an elderly woman behind the counter, always dusting, always moving about in a no-nonsense sort of way.
