The Sweater Curse Ch 9 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Eight: The message ended with directions to a cafe in Kitsilano, The Starving Artist

photo by ldyck

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Nine

My friend Cleo and I sat at a table in our restaurant, the chic Pablo’s Bistro. She wore a printed linen spring dress with matching wrap, her dark brunette hair swept up and away from her ageless face. Cleo had climbed the ladder of success upon the back of one husband after another. I’d met her in my teens when she and her husband had moved into our neighbourhood; she was one of the younger wives. Her husband was a fragile, old millionaire.

As we chatted in the bistro, handsome, attentive, white-apron-clad servers circled around us.

Cleo took a sip of her cocktail and… “When will I meet Romeo?”

“This Saturday at seven. I’m throwing a dinner party for fifteen of my closest and dearest friends.”

    Her iPhone sat on the table inches away from her glass. A quick scroll and… “Well, la-de-da. Of course, I’ll be there, darling. Tell me more about him. All I know is his name. Jay, Jay, Jay, I scream it out on those special nights—when I'm feeling amorous.” When I laughed, she said, "Of course, he’s gorgeous, or why would you bother? You're so shallow. More details.” 

    “He lives and works in Kitsilano.”

    “Um.” She sniffed. “Kits is nice. What does he do—beside you? Lawyer, banker, corporate executive? What, darling, what?”

    I knew better than to tell her the complete truth. “He manages a café.”

    “Oh, baby, no. Manages? Doesn’t own? I’ve heard Matthew is still interested. I could arrange a—.”

    “No, thank you.” My conversation with Cleo should have clued me in to the disaster to follow, but no. Foolishly, I followed through with my plan.

    Precisely at seven, my guests began arriving at my stylish apartment in West Vancouver. They grouped together and immediately began to whisper.

    “Look at how he’s dressed.”

    “Who cuts his hair?”

    “It really isn’t like her to date white trash.”

“Is he the writer who read at Ronald’s party? No, he can’t be.”

My caterer served the entrée as my friends spoke of lavish vacations. Jay didn’t utter a word.

    Between mouthfuls of New York cheesecake, my friend Alester inquired. “What type of car do you drive? Lexus, Audi, BMW, Ferrari, Porsche?” He owned a luxury car dealership.

“I don’t own a car,” Jay told him. My friends looked at him blankly. “I use public transit.”

They nearly gagged.

“Well, I guess you’ll be able to use Gwen’s Audi now,” Alester said.

It was a loaded comment, but Jay simply replied, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Over cocktails, one of my friends commented, “So, Gwen tells us you manage a café.”

“Oh, yes, I do, The Starving Artist. It’s a collectively owned and operated café in Kitsilano.”

“Collective?”

“For emerging and established artists and artisans,” he innocently informed them.

“You’re an artist?” The room fell deathly quiet.

“Yes, I’m an author.”

“With which publishing house?” Victoria inquired. She had recently divorced the executive editor at Fitzgerald and Fraser.

“Oh, no, self-published.”

I heard gasps and saw shocked faces. The minute he left for the bathroom, they started yapping at me like a pack of Pomeranians.

“You’re letting him use your car?” and “He’s a gold digger. When he finds out you have no money, he’ll dump you." and “He’s not good enough for you.” and “He’s not rich enough.” and “He’s just a dreamer.” and “You can do so much better.”

I meet this attack face-on. “I’m in love. You’re my friends. I thought you would be happy.” My voice was measured, controlled.

“Are you planning to tell Finn about Jay? Or juggle them both?” Alester sneered. Finn owned the apartment I lived in rent-free. He lived half of the year in Ireland and the other half in Vancouver with me.

“Friends? Honestly, Gwen, how did you pick us?” I should have known Cleo would defend me. “This is none of our business. There’s no ring on her finger. She’s free to do what, and whoever, she wants.”

“And besides, I’m planning to move out,” I said bluntly, hoping to silence them.

    “Really? You’re jobless, penniless. Where are you going to go?”

    Before I could answer Alester’s question, Jay walked back into the room.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Ten

  In a one-bedroom apartment in Kitsilano, Jay led an austere lifestyle.

Write now...

The Sweater Curse Ch 8 by Leanne Dyck

 WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Seven: Artists were invited to our parties

photo by ldyck

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Eight

For our first date, we had planned to go to a movie at a theatre not far from my apartment. These plans changed with a text message. In brief, it read, "I’ve been called in to work. Please meet me there." The message ended with directions to a café in Kitsilano, The Starving Artist.

I hopped into my car and drove. My car tires hit potholes and splashed through puddles as I drove on that dull, grey day. I parked in front of a large, colourful abstract mural that decorated the exterior of the café. I stepped inside and was immersed in a vibrant environment full of inspiration, full of colour. Artistically arranged paintings, sculptures, and pottery decorated the interior. The walls and booths were in muted tones meant to accent, not detract from, the art. On a small stage, a harpist played, adding a touch of elegance. .

I found a table and studied the menu. Soup, sandwiches, seafood, burgers, pasta—it was the usual fare. I flipped the menu over and found a black and white photo of the café as seen from the street, and under that was a brief write-up.

“The Kitsilano Artist Collective, established in 1967—” 1967 brought to mind a bunch of long-haired, marijuana-smoking hippies. “—offers established and emerging artists an opportunity to display their work at The Starving Artist. The collectively owned café employs artists both in the kitchen and on the floor. Our future plan is to expand to include a craft boutique/art gallery. We extend an invitation to local artists and artisans to join us.” The current president, Jaron Cardew, signed the write-up. Jaron? Cardew? My Jaron Cardew? Hmm. Wow. Okay. I set the menu on the table and looked around for something else to amuse me. A short, muscular, hairy man strolled slowly, deliberately over to my booth. His bright blue eyes washed over my body. He sat at my booth and slid toward me on the bench, close, tight. He penned me against the wall, and I felt his heart racing.

“Your body.” He kissed his fingertips. “I paint you nude.”

“I’m waiting for Jaron Cardew. Do you know him?”

“Jay?” He acted like I'd just slapped him.

“Yes. We’re—.”

In his haste to vacate, he knocked his knees hard against the table.

A door at the back of the cafe opened. Jay walked out and over to us.

“My friend.” He wrapped Jay in a bear hug.

“Hello, Nilos. I see you’ve met Gwen.”

“Oh, yes, your lovely lady. I must, I must go.” Nilos left quickly.

Jay reached across the table, and I leaned toward him, offering him my hand. “He wants to paint me—nude.”

“I’m not surprised. He has fine taste in women. Would you like to see some of his work?”

I snuggled up close to Jay as he led me from painting to painting. Each captured a young, pretty woman lying on a bearskin rug or draped over a chaise lounge. He wrapped them in rich backgrounds of scarlet red, pastel pinks, and crisp, clear white. After viewing his work, I realized Nilos preferred dark chocolate goddesses. With me, he seemed willing to make an exception.

The Starving Artist held an open mic night each Friday night. For our second-month anniversary, Jay entertained the café with a poem written to honour me.

“My dear, my darling Gwen,

You found me as I found you.

Now our hearts beat as one.

Each second without you is a waste.

I long to touch you.

Hold you,

Kiss you,

I’m yours.”

I was a tad embarrassed but mainly delighted.

Lulu Bell descended upon us as we sipped our espressos. Jay stood to greet her. The flamboyant Amazon wrapped him in a warm embrace.

“How’ve you been, sugar?” She marked his cheek with two bright pink lips. Then she noticed me and held me with her serene eyes. She coiled a handful of lengthy bright pink fingernails and made a clawing motion as she hissed. “Who’s this cupcake?”

“Play nice, Lulu Bell. This is my girlfriend, Gwen.”

I looked closer and noticed Lulu Bell’s Adam’s apple.

“You better treat Jai-nie baby right, or you'll be messing with me, cupcake."

Lulu Bell’s dramatic, vivid geometric paintings graced the café walls. Each sported a hefty price, which admirers were overjoyed to pay, and there were many admirers.

Jay’s friends knew he would always be there for them, night or day. The phone broke the silence of the night, waking him, waking me.

“No, don’t worry. I’ll be right there. Everything will be okay.” He hung up. “Gwen, honey, I have to leave, but I’ll be home soon.” He kissed me before he left.

Where was he going? I speculated. Had Nilos been arrested for stalking? Lulu Bell for indecent exposure? My assumptions were never confirmed or denied.

Though I asked, his only reply was, “Out helping a friend.”

“This is my girlfriend, Gwen. She’s a very talented artist.” Jay told his friends.

Was it a joke? I didn’t deserve the title. Knitting wasn’t an art. I wasn’t an artist. I didn’t belong in their world. They feigned interest. Their questions bit holes in my façade.

“What are you currently working on?”

“From where do you draw your inspiration?”

“Where may I view your collection?”

“May I read your artist’s statement?” All of their questions were carefully chosen to magnify the bizarre notion that I was an artist. I didn’t belong, and they all knew it. They tolerated me because I was Jay’s girlfriend. How long would our relationship last?

The Sweater Curse

Chapter nine

My conversation with Cleo should have clued me in to the disaster to follow, but no. Foolishly, I followed through with my plan.

photo by ldyck

I was out on a walk with my dog—on Spinnark Drive, Mayne Island—when this striking work of art made me pause. I had to capture it. I had to share it with you.

Sharing my author journey...

Are you inspired by the fading of the year?

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 8)

 Chapter seven: Aster's plan to become pregnant has hit a snag. Is it a small obstacle or a roadblock? Can she use her womanly wiles to get what she wants?

photo by ldyck

Chapter eight

Aster sailed back to Vancouver the next day. She sailed back alone on the first available ferry. She sailed back without seeing Kenneth James’ property. She’d seen enough of those bug-infected woods. She’d seen enough of that i—.

A couple claimed the bench directly across from Aster. They kissed and cuddled, and she found it hard to pull her eyes away.

Her mind filled with Kenneth James holding her and kissing her and—. But their weekend had been cut short; their romantic weekend was ruined because... because... She knew it was because of that island. She just wasn’t cut out for that place. And he knew that. Why had he demanded that she go there with him? Why had he demanded that she change, adjust, try to become someone she wasn’t?

She liked what she liked and there wasn’t anything wrong with that. There was nothing wrong with her. But for him, she had tried to get used to that island. She had tried. He thought she hadn't, but nothing could be further from the truth. She tried and tried and tried. It simply didn’t work. And that wasn’t her fault.

And besides... Their jobs were in Vancouver. They lived in Vancouver. That didn’t need to have anything to do with that island. He could conduct his research somewhere else—somewhere more suitable.

The young couple continued to enjoy each other. It made Aster sick. Honestly acting that way in front of everyone. Didn’t they have any sense of common decency?

***

The following year Kenneth James started building on his Mayne Island property. Every year after that he left for the island in May and returned to Vancouver in August. And Aster always found some reason not to join him. She reminded herself that it was healthy for couples to have separate interests. 

photo by ldyck

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby

Chapter nine

Do you believe that Kenneth James is making unreasonable demands on Aster? Do you think that it's healthy for couples to have separate interests? Do you believe that Aster's marriage is in trouble? And if it is, what do you think should be done to repair it? Do you believe that their marriage is worth repairing? Who's responsible for repairing it?

Is the Reverend Dead? Ch 8 (a mystery inspired by remote island life) by Leanne Dyck

chapter seven: Mrs. Hazelton doesn't receive word that church is cancelled and believes this means that the Reverend is in fact not dead.

"St. Mary Magdalene Church" oil 

by Mayne Island artist Frances Faminow

Is the Reverend Dead?

Chapter Eight

The organist plays. Mr. Blue slouches in his pew. Within minutes, I predict he’ll be sleeping. It’s a typical Sunday. Except, where is young Ms. Matthews? She isn’t in her pew or anywhere else that I can see. She never misses church—not without broadcasting a reason weeks in advance.

The door to the vestry closes with a thud. Young Ms. Matthews walks into the church—back straight, head held high. She places the weathered leather-bound Bible on the pulpit, flips it open, and pulls out some paper. Paper? Is it a sermon? Does she think she can preach to us? Her? She leans into the microphone. “Like Saul on the road to Damascus, God has called me, and I am transformed.”

Who does she think she is? I want to storm down the aisle and shake some sense into her. But that wouldn’t be Christian.

“Blink once,” she continues, “and I no longer sit amongst you but now am ministering to you in this way. I hope I can rely on your support during this hopefully brief period. I had my doubts, but the Reverend insisted. So I stand before you at the pulpit. I hope we can continue to walk this faith journey together.”

“Hallelujah,” Mrs. Blue sings out. “Praise the Lord.” Clearly, Ms. Matthews’ charm has won her over.

The hymns are the same, but the sermon… Oh, the sermon… I find no fault with her delivery. I have no doubt that she has practised for hours, days. No, it’s not how she delivers it. It’s what she says.

“We are all God’s precious children,” she calls us. “Bring all your cares and woes to Him. He will relieve you of your burdens.”

Coddling? The road to Hell is full of warm fuzzies. “Yea, though I walk,” I mumble, “through the valley of the shadow of death...”

Mr. and Mrs. Blue are still singing the last hymn when I leave the pew. Every Sunday, on the way out of the church, it’s traditional to shake the reverend's hand and thank him for the sermon. But I can’t do that today. I can’t shake Ms. Matthews’ hand and pretend that I’m a member of her flock. I’m no hypocrite. So I slip out of church early.

"St. Mary Magdalene Church" oil 

by Mayne Island artist Frances Faminow

 Chapter Nine

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The Other Side (short fiction) Ch. 8 by Leanne Dyck

 Ch. 7 Owen and Mara move into their new home. Relaxing in the laundry room, Mara hears music. She thinks it's her next-door neighbour. However, later, when she meets her neighbour she discovers it wasn't.

"Vancouver" photo by ldyck

The Other Side

Chapter eight

The next day was overcast and the grey clouds finally released their load, like someone taking a knife to a waterbed. It pounded against our living room window threatening to break the glass. 

I flipped the pages in my paperback--not bothering to read them. I couldn't wait to be home alone--in the laundry room.

Owen stopped to give me a kiss before flying down the stairs, hair still damp and smelling of aftershave. "It's a great night for TV. See you soon," he called up.

Take your time, I wanted to call back.

I heard the front door close.

I skipped down the stairs, ran through Owen's office, flew down the hall, and landed in the laundry room. Cross-legged beside the dryer, I leaned against the concrete wall.

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. A guitar strummed. Clang. Clang. Clang. A cowbell rang out.

"Slow down, you move too fast." I recognized the words--Simon and Garfunkel's Feeling Groovy.

It was heaven--.

Smoke?

I sprang to my feet. 

The dryer was cold. The electrical outlet was fine. 

Burning wood?

I searched the room. No match. No lumber. No firewood. Not even a splinter. 

Still, the smoke kept coming.

Deep breath in; deep breath out. Deep breath--.

The silver smoke turned sky blue, spring green, bright orange, purple. It continued to drift up to the ceiling and slowly began to clear. Blinding rays of sunlight poured out of the hole, where the wall had been. When my eyes adjusted to the bright light I saw a green meadow. 

"Mara." Someone was calling my name.

Far off in the distance, a purple cow munched strawberry red grass. I rubbed my eyes.

A bunny wearing a top hat hopped down an oatmeal cookie path. "Mara," he called. He stopped right in front of me and looked up. "Come on, Mara, we've been waiting for you." He wrapped his paw around my pinkie finger. Something about his touch eased my worry. 

Hand-in-hand, the bunny and I skipped up the path. Lollipop trees stood under candy floss clouds. Birds sang the familiar words, "Feeling groovy."

We climbed a small hill and I saw the musicians--a brown bear with a guitar and an orange cow with a cowbell hanging around her neck. In the middle of the circle of thatch-roofed cottages and lollipop trees, people danced.

The bunny led me over to a woman leaning against a lollipop tree. Her dress of eye-popping colours--orange, yellow, and green swirls--had wide sleeves and a full skirt. Round, steel-framed glasses balanced her nose, and a thin, leather band wrapped around her head. Her sun-bleached, straight hair fell to the middle of her back. She wove daisy after daisy into a long chain.

The bunny danced around singing, "She came. She came."

"Chill, dude. Don't have a cow." Her words swirled around lazily in the air, finally landing on my eardrums. "It's all cool. Everything is groovy."

"She came. She came. This is her. This is Mara."

Finishing the chain, she danced in a flowing spiral over to where I stood. "Far out." She slipped the chain over my head. "Welcome to my side of the wall." And I thought she said, "My name's Wendy.", but when I repeated her name, she corrected me. "No, my name's Windy--with an 'i', dig?"

"Dig? Dig what?" I asked.

Instead of answering me, she joined the party. Everyone had long hair. The women wore dresses like Windy's. The guys' blue jeans were faded and their cotton shirts hung loose.

Windy's arms flew gracefully in the air like wings. Her bracelets sparkled in the sunlight. Her dress floated around her like feathers.

Feeling Groovy ended and Windy rejoined me. "Join the happenin'."

"No, I couldn't. I'm too... I'm too shy to dance."

"Mellow out." She returned to the dancers.

This place seemed so safe that I thought maybe I could try. I closed my eyes and felt the music fill my body. I spread my arms out and floated on each note like I was flying.

I opened my eyes and I was dancing.

photo by ldyck

Chapter nine

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I will continue to publish installments of 

The Other Side

until...

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