Chapter three: A tryst...? Is he playing with fire? Will he get burnt?
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.”
"Memories are made of this." We sing.
One man, one wife. Without thinking, I glance down at my wedding ring.
She must notice my glance because she says, "How long have you been..." The moment between that word and the next is suspended in time. "A widower?"
photo by ldyck
The meeting of minds; the meeting of hearts. He is in trouble.
Chapter five
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."
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