Aster's Husband Ch 4 by Leanne Dyck

 Chapter three: A tryst...? Is he playing with fire? Will he get burned?

photo by ldyck

Chapter four

I’m sitting on a log, digging my bare feet into the sand and scanning the ocean. The ferry schedule worked in my favour and I'm here on Mayne Island first. Of course, I can't help singing--Cliff Richard's Summer Holiday. Lately, I can’t stop singing. The cause of this joy is out in that ocean, somewhere. And I don’t even know what she looks like or anything about her, really—just what she has told me. She sounds honest, innocent. But these days...

A ferry cuts through the water heading to the dock. I reclaim my beach shoes and make my way to lane 10, where others wait. They let the footies off first, and I scan the crowd looking for a likely candidate. Yet again, I find myself spinning my wedding ring around on my finger. On the ferry, I pulled it off—that required effort—considered tossing it overboard, but ultimately put it back on. Other women haven’t cared. Hopefully, Darlene won’t either. Dar—.

“I don’t know how I knew it was you. I just knew. I just do. It is you, right?”

I jump. A woman who glows with youth, with beauty, is standing right in front of me, laughing.

“Darlene McDonald, I presume.”

“You look like a movie star from the 1950s—like Marlon Brando. No, not Brando. Paul Newman. Warm eyes. Kind, gentle face."

I deposit a—friendly...fatherly kiss... Oh, who am I kidding? She’s just so darn cute. On her hand. “The best gift you can give yourself is the gift of possibility.” My Newman impression is passable—I’ve even had requests at parties.

She giggles. I grin.

“I’m starving,” she informs me.

"The Springwater?"

"It's closed."

"Where--?"

"Give Pizza a Chance. It's under the tree by the Root Seller." 

I drive through the potholes on Village Bay Road. I brace myself for Aster's roars of protest. KJ, drive more carefully! But I am delighted to hear Darlene giggle. I look over and she's smiling. 

I park in front of the library and walk over to--. "I guess it closed too."

"No, there it is," Darlene tells me. "Beside the Trading Post."

"The Trading Post harkens back to Mayne Island's storied past as a supply depot for miners on route to the Cariboo gold rush in the late 1850s." Why can't I just--.

"I didn't know that. Where was the Cariboo Gold Rush?"

"In the Cariboo mountains." And before I can stop myself, I say, "I'll take you to Barkerville one of those days."

"I'd love to go," she tells me.

I catch wasps of... What smells like perogies and cabbage rolls coming from a nearby food vendor. Yeah, Icelandic-Canadians know Ukrainian food. My Afi (grandfather) told me that it was the new Ukrainian Canadians who introduced vegetables to the new Icelandic Canadians. Few vegetables grow in Iceland. The thought of smoothing perogies with butter makes my mouth water. I follow my nose, but Darlene loops her arm around mine, pulls me close, and I feel her hot breath in my ear. "Pizza." 

Give Pizza a Chance is decorated with old 45 records. I survey the menu and find "Ozzy", "The Hip," and "Ravi."

"Oh, The Living is Easy sounds good," Darlene says. 

"But, please hold the garlic," I say when I place our order.

"Let's take the pizza to Lighthouse Park," Darlene suggests, and so we do.

Our picnic table offers us a view of the calm sea. In the distance, the sharp-angled silhouettes of buildings create the skyline of Vancouver. And over there, like a cloud in the sky, is Mount Baker.

In response to Darlene's request to learn more about Iceland, I share all I know. “Strange and unusual land formations—high peaks and lava rocks. Natural gas bleches out of the ground." Like me when I eat glaric, I think but don't say. "Icelanders put fish on their pizza. The last time I travelled there was shortly after the volcanoes erupted in November 2024. But I was born in Canada.”I adopt a professor's tone. “And, you know, my dear, there’s a marked difference between Icelandic and Icelandic-Canadian culture.” I achieve my goal—Darlene laughs.

“What language do they speak?” A grape tomato falls from her slice of pizza to rest between her breasts. My eyes linger on her cleavage.

“Icelanders speak Icelandic.” I pull my gaze down to the grass. I hear Aster so clearly. Oh, KJ, you go on and on, but nobody cares. No one. “A pretty young woman like you can’t possibly be interested in the dry ramblings of this stale pedagogue.”

“I don’t know what a peggy... a peggy-goo-goo is.”

I have to grin; she grins back.

“But I love to listen to you talk—especially about something you feel passionate about. Iceland is part of who you are. Of course I’m interested.” Our eyes meet, and it feels so intimate. “Do you speak Icelandic?”

“Only a few words.”

“What are they? I want to hear them.”

“It’s been so long.” My entire married life.

“How would I know if you said them right? I’ve never heard Icelandic before. You can tell me anything, and wrap it with a bow in an accent, I'd buy it.”

“Excellent, that’s encouraging.” I smile. “Okay, so in my made-up Icelandic, Morgunn is morning. Nott is night. Nei is no. Ja is yes. Mjog gott is very good. Taka is take. Takk fyrir is thank you. Kaffi is coffee—the beverage of choice for all Icelanders. And then there’s the name I shall give you—elskan.”

She glows. “El—?”

“Elskan—dear one.”

photo by ldyck

The meeting of minds; the meeting of hearts. He is in trouble.

Chapter five

Sunday, August 3

4:40 (ish) pm PST

photo by ldyck

I know I'm having too much fun doing what I do every day. Because at any minute, I expect to hear, "Leanne, it's time to put your toys away."

This blog reached 2 million page views on Friday, July 25, at 12:23 PM.

Excuse me, Reporters...

Aster's Husband Ch 3 by Leanne Dyck

 Chapter Two: Second phone call, slightly less innocent than the first. Is a friendship blooming, or...?

photo by ldyck

Chapter three

I start to hum as I follow the path to the humanities building. A bunny hops out of a bush. Usually I’d mutter, but today I smile. I notice things: flowers, the smell of fresh cut grass. The world is so beautiful. Up the steps to the door, humming becomes song--Dean Martin's Standing on the Corner.

I enter the student lounge and they’re everywhere—munching muffins, studying for finals, chatting, flirting, gossiping. I’ll give them something to talk about. I belt out the song, I do a tap shoe routine—tap, brush, tap, tap. They stop eating, studying, talking. A girl—maybe one of mine—starts to giggle. I continue to sing and offer her a hand, pull her into my arms and uncoil her like a yo-yo to applause and catcalls.

“Alright, Professor Walburn.”

“Go, man. Go.”

“Strut that stuff.”

Released, she rejoins her friends with a huge smile on her face.

I shuffle and glide down the hall, passing door after door until I see ‘KJ Walburn’ on the door. Behind the closed door, hidden from young eyes, this old man collapses into my padded chair. The morning sun bathes my south-facing office in a warm amber glow. I scroll through my email inbox. Many names demand attention, but one name sings out above the rest—Darlene McDonald. I imagine hearing her angelic voice as I read, “I thought of you yesterday as I drove to work. You were there when I sang Kaede to sleep and when Ben took his first steps. You’re in my heart, you’re in my soul—every breath I take, every move I make, I dream of you. And I wonder, do you think of me?”

I type, “Oh, my dear, how can I not?” and press send.

Her reply is immediate. “We have to meet” is the subject line. The email contains one word. Where?

She lives on Vancouver Island. I live on the mainland. I type Mayne Island, but before I can press send, she sends me another message. “I know this cute little island between the mainland and Vancouver Island. Mayne Island is one of the Southern Gulf Islands. Maybe the oldest, or that might be just how it feels. I spend summers there. I have a house on Cherry Tree Lane. It’s old, but it means a lot, at least to me. I’d love to show it to you.”

photo by ldyck

A tryst...? Is he playing with fire? Will he get burned?

Chapter four 

Books on Mayne Island...

Arleen Pare's book reading

Aster's Husband Ch 2 by Leanne Dyck

Chapter One: One innocent phone call, that's all or...

photo by ldyck

 Chapter two

I wake in a good mood—I mean, really good. My wife is still asleep. I move closer and kiss the nape of her neck.

And she says, “I have to review today’s lesson plan,” or some other lame excuse and climbs out of bed.

I don’t say anything, just let her go. I dream of the voice on the phone. Silly schoolboy stuff, but it’s all I’ve got.

The car engine wakes me, as usual.

After showering, I search the closet for my favourite blue shirt. I know it’s got to be here. I hung it up myself. Growing frustrated, I shoved her skirts. The empty hangers chime as they collide together. One jumps off the rod and falls to the floor. I stoop to pick it up. A blue pile in the back of the closet catches my eye. She knocked it off the hanger and didn’t even bother to pick it up. Typical! I hold the shirt up to the morning light that’s pouring through the window. It’s wrinkled beyond hope. I crumble the shirt into a ball and toss it back into the closet.

Downstairs, dressed in the plaid shirt my wife hates, I pour a mug of coffee and take a sip and frown. It needs sugar and a little milk. I open the fridge. The carton feels light in my hand. When I turn it upside down, all that comes out is a few drops. Every single bloody time. Her face, that’s what I see when I drive the heel of my foot into the milk carton. I hide evidence of her imagined demise in the recycling bin. Then I feel guilty. It’s not really her fault. She’s too obsessed with her job, her students. They’ve become her entire life. I’ve tried to help her see that she needs more, that she still needs me. But she just won’t listen.

I put my mug in the sink and stare at the phone, willing it to ring. I want, so badly, to hear her voice.

There’s a note beside the phone: ‘Kenneth James, I have organized a teacher/parent conference. You have my permission to dine alone.’

Gee, thanks.

Br-r-r-ring.

I pick up the receiver and...

“Good morning,” she sings. “I hope you don’t mind. This isn’t a mistake. I mean, I didn’t dial the wrong number. I mean, it may sound odd. I mean, I don’t even know you, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I had to dial your number. I couldn’t... But if you want me to hang up, I will. Just say the word and I’ll never bother you again. I promise, I won’t.”

It’s not like the other times. This is innocent. We’re just friends talking. “I’m glad you phoned,” I assure her.

I let her steer the conversation. She shares details of her life so willingly.

Her name: Darlene McDonald

Her favourite colour: emerald green—the same as mine.

Her favourite song: Your Nobody Til Somebody Loves You—an oldie by Dean Martin, I didn’t think anyone remembered but me.

“Both sides of my family tree have deep roots in Canada,” Darlene tells me.

“Dig up those roots and go back farther,” I encourage. “I like history.”

“Really? Me too. Okay, so, they’re a hodgepodge of things, but mostly Scottish. You probably guessed that by my last name—McDonald, eh? Grandma told me that we’ve lived in BC for four or five generations. I can’t remember what part of Scotland we came from, even though she has told me. She’s told me so many times that I can’t ask her again without making her upset. She’s got this fierce temper—you’ve got to be careful around her or you’ll pay. She says it’s passed down in our family, but I don’t have it. I’m mellow—that’s me. Why get mad? It doesn’t get you anywhere. She’s my dad’s mom. My other grandparents live down in the States. Although if you ask them, they still say they’re Canadian. I don’t understand how that works. Most people think I look like my mom, but I’m definitely a daddy’s girl.”

Oh, that could be good news for this old man. “How do you make a living?”

“I change diapers and blow noses. Glamour all the way for me. Officially, I’m an Early Childhood Educator, but I like to think of myself as a play facilitator. I work in the infant room—enriching the environment so the children in my care will be challenged, entertained and inspired. I love my job. The children are alive to the magic that surrounds us every day. They’ve taught me to be the same. The Daycare is across from a school, so most of the parents are teachers. The parents get summers off—and so we do too. I fill the time pursuing my other passions. Like history. I’m a tour guide at Craigdarroch Castle. Which, of course, doesn’t pay anything. I’m a volunteer. I do that—volunteer. And work in daycare. And that’s about it. Oh, yeah and I...” She goes on and on about her full, rich life. “I’m into life. Well, enough about me. It’s your turn.”

“There’s not much to tell.” I’m not eager to talk about myself, for obvious reasons. But I could go on listening to her for hours.

“Oh, come on, share.”

“I’m Icelandic-Canadian—broad, round face and fair complexion.”

“Handsome.”

“I like to think so.”

She giggles.

“Many people,” My wife was the first and she insists on it, “call me Kenneth James, but my given name is Kjartan.”

“Kar-teen.” I have to give her credit for trying.

“It’s a tricky name. You can just call me—.”

“No, help me. I can get it.”

“Char-tan,” I say my name more slowly this time.

“Char-tan, see, I told you I could get it.”

“Ja, mjog gott.”

“Char-tan. Oh, I love that. Can I call you Kjartan?”

“Why not? You’re calling me now.”

“Cute. So what do you do when you’re not talking to me?”

“I work at Uvan.”

“Oh, for a moving company.”

So she’s not an academic. I decided to find that refreshing. “The University of Vancouver. I teach history.”

“Oh, I love history. What...?”

She asks some polite questions about my classes. But she can’t really be interested, can she?

I look down at my watch, notice the time and am just about to tell her regrettably I have to go when she says, “Sorry, I’m going to be late for work if we talk much longer. It was nice chatting, Kjartan. Listen, I’ll give you my cell phone number.”

And I give her mine, stressing that it’s the best way to contact me.

Please note that Uvan is a fictional entity created solely for this story.

photo by ldyck

Second phone call, slightly less innocent than the first. Is a friendship blooming, or...?

Chapter three

photo by ldyck

Without a reader

A writer's words mean

Nothing

I enjoyed reading "Blue Box" by Anne Tyler, and you may as well.

Aster's Husband Ch 1 by Leanne Dyck

When KJ feels his marriage crumbling apart, he...

photo by ldyck

You may want to read "Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants a Baby" (this link will lead you to my 26-chapter story) before reading "Aster's Husband," although it's not necessary to read the first one to enjoy the second.

 Chapter one

    A car engine roars, cutting through my sleep. So that’s how she says goodbye—no more kisses, no more parting words. I throw back the covers, shower, dress and make coffee.

    I put the mug in the sink. The clock on the microwave says 8:30 AM. If I leave now, I’ll get there way before any cheery faces do. I pack my laptop and walk to the door. I’m crossing the threshold when...

    B-r-r-ring.

    Who’s phoning the landline? My students only have my cell number.

    B-r-r-ring.

    It’ll go to voicemail.

    I step back into the house.

    B-r-r-ring.

    If it’s important, they’ll try my cell or email me.

    I answer the phone.

    “Good morning.” The voice is like a gentle melody. “You won’t believe it. I got it. I finally bought it.”

    The voice is so infectious, I feel compelled to ask, “It? What it?”

    “You know—the laptop.”

    “Oh, great.” I grin—I still have no idea who this woman is.

    “Yeah, I’m so excited.”

    “Oh, excited is good.”

    “It’s my first one.”

    “Really?”

    “Ye-s. You know... Wait. Who are you?”

     “That depends. Who are you?”

    She laughs, and I want to capture the sound in a bottle.

    “Oh, I’m so sorry. I dialled the wrong number.”

    “Are you sure?” I can be so charming.

    "No. I mean, yes. Oh, I don't know." She laughs again. "Your voice sounds so familiar. Maybe we do know each other."

     “Nah, I couldn’t be that lucky.”

    “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

    “Not at all.”

    “Good-bye.” She’s still there. I can hear her breathing. This wrong number could lead to something so right. We both want it to. But I can’t step out of line again without paying for it. That’s been made clear.

    “Bye.” I hang up.

photo by ldyck

One innocent phone call, that's all or...

Chapter 2

Two proud Canadians: my husband and I

photo by a kind Canadian

Canada Day 2025 Remembrance...