Candlelight
Zach held the chair and waited for Becca to sit. The perfectly woven braid of her blond hair laid along her spine atop her linen dress seemed to him a tether to a bygone life. If he were just allowed to touch it maybe that bygone life would be placed right again. Becca sat, and he gently slid the chair under her. He circled to the other side of the table nestled in the alcove and sat opposite her.
They were at the finest restaurant in town, maybe in the whole state, a restaurant specializing in provincial French cuisine with some creative twists borrowed from many traditions—delicately seasoned rich food served in multiple courses of modest portions, all painstakingly prepared and beautifully presented on fine china set gracefully on white linen tablecloths. They were there at Zach’s invitation in recognition of two milestones—the imminent departure of Becca for ten weeks of study and touring in Great Britain, and the recent acceptance of one of Zach’s stories for publication in a national literary journal. It was a clear warm weeknight in early July, the college town was near empty in its summer somnolence, and the restaurant was not busy. They had the alcove off the entry foyer of the converted bungalow all to themselves. It was for them, ever lovers of peaceful, quiet elegance, the perfect table in the perfect restaurant on a perfectly nondescript summer evening.
Two long tapering white candles framed Becca’s face, the flames at their tips almost invisible in the brilliant late sun pouring through the foyer window. Zach slid the bone china bud vase with its single long-stemmed red rose from the center of the table over to the side along the wall to get an unobstructed view of the beautiful woman seated across from him. She never failed to take his breath away if he paused and looked straight at her. Tonight was no different.
Becca gently brushed the crisply ironed tablecloth, lightly touched the perfectly aligned, gleaming silverware. “Same Maison,” she said with a touch of awe. They’d been here together once before, early in their relationship. It’d been an eye-opening experience for Becca. She’d thought she knew good restaurants, had been to her share over the years; but she’d never been to a place where food was elevated to art, and the entire dining experience shaped as a drama engaging all the senses. Following that first visit to La Maison, and largely unconsciously, Becca began to contemplate a career in fine cuisine.
Zach looked around. “Lot less crowded; prettier day.” Their previous date had been in winter, a cold day with snow flurries and a biting wind, early dark, no golden sun pouring through the foyer window.
“Same handsome date.”
Zach felt himself blush and wondered how she could still do that after nine months and all they’d been through. “You all packed?”
Becca laughed. “Are you kidding? I’ve packed and unpacked and repacked I don’t know how many times. My mom keeps getting me new stuff to take, which means I’ve got to take something out to make room. Hardest part is I have no idea what I’ll be wearing. They say prepare for cool and damp. Zach, I can’t fathom cool and damp in July and August. The idea does not compute. I keep putting in shorts and T-shirts, and my mom keeps taking them out.”
“If you do find cool and damp, send me some in a box. I’m already tired of hot and humid.”
“Why don’t you go and I’ll stay.”
“Why don’t you stay and I’ll stay.”
Becca bit the side of her lip lightly. “I miss you already.”
This unexpected claim cut Zach to the quick. They’d seen each other only occasionally in the prior three months and only once since the rowing trip to the lake three weeks earlier. If she were missing him—really missing him—she had an odd way of showing it. But he made a silent decision not to challenge her assertions, not to try again to get to the bottom of her feelings for him. He’d not go down that path this night, in this place, with her departure just two days away. “You’ll be fine, Bec. They’ll swoon over your Southern charms in Merry Olde.”
“Or plow them under.”
“Not possible.”
The waitress came and took their order. They passed on a shared bottle of wine but did order two glasses of champagne. While waiting their first course, they toasted Zach’s story’s acceptance, Becca’s forthcoming trip, and the beautiful evening. By then the sun had set and their alcove was bathed in the salmon-colored glow of twilight. The flames on the candles to either side of Becca’s face were more noticeable in the dimmer light, delicately flickering, the tapers still tall but slowly, imperceptibly shrinking.
The waitress delivered their first course and they dove in with appetites hearty despite the warm day and the emotional occasion. Becca had cold cream of tomato soup with basil oil and crème fraiche, and Zach had a rabbit and multi-colored beet terrine served in thin slices accompanied by crusty French bread. Without perceiving the shift, they settled into their old best selves—joined over fine food, no need for small talk or idle conversation, content in the glow of each other’s presence, in the world but also in their own world, briefly freed of all demands or expectations, embraced by love.
By the time they finished this course and looked beyond each other, the twilight had turned to dusk and the room beyond their candle-lit table receded in grainy gray light. Zach felt a shiver of fear at the discovery of this new sudden dark. He focused on Becca’s face for reassurance and comfort and found her smiling fully at him, even more beautiful than before in the flickering glow of the candles. Despite her beauty, maybe because of it, he felt uneasy to see her so sharply etched against the new gray background—a blond angel withheld from him, devoid of history or promise, a stark and overwhelming and transitory celestial messenger.
The waitress brought their main courses. Becca had poached salmon over tarragon and chanterelle rice, and julienned carrots in a Pernod and butter reduction. Zach had thin sliced beef tenderloin with a caper cream sauce, crispy potatoes provencale, and asparagus spears tossed in lemon oil and ground salt. The food was delicious, and both ate eagerly.
But something had changed in the new dark. Their private alcove suddenly felt very lonely to Zach. He felt isolated, estranged not only from the world but also from the woman seated across from him in the candlelight, an arm’s reach away.
“What’s the matter, Zach?” Becca’d finished her salmon and slid the plate aside and leaned forward. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
He looked at that beautiful face, those bottomless dark eyes, the candles’ flames just inches from her golden hair, the perfect gentle arc of her temple, the flames’ sparkling reflection like a living thing inside those dark eyes, her whole being intent and loving and caring, this face, this person who was and would always be his definition of perfection, of Heaven, of life fulfilled—she would never be his, never be what he needed her to be, never be what God had placed her before him to be.
He set his fork down, reached across, brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, even his knuckles—so deprived of nerve endings—feeling fully the painful softness of her skin, her beauty. “Nothing, Becca. A raven’s wing brush of fear in the night, gone now.”
She watched him closely, still leaning toward him.
He smiled. “Got any room for dessert?”
She leaned back finally. “No, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have any.”
They both could laugh.
Set back from the candlelight, her face appeared safe again, donned once more a hint of hope, a whisper of promise.
The waitress came around the corner to clear their plates. “Boy, got dark in a hurry,” she said, and turned on the wall sconces. The room jumped forth in light that was briefly blinding before settling into a warm glow. The candles’ flames faded to their normal role as flickering accents in the diversely lit room.
The waitress cleared their dinnerware and brought them dessert menus. Becca ordered Amaretto-mousse cake and hot tea, Zach ordered Normand apple-calvados tart and espresso.
While they awaited their dessert, they sat and simply gazed at each other. Gone was the desperate longing that
had characterized their joined gaze in the early days—the hunger, the need to express their feelings, release them to the other. Replacing this hunger was a comfort and trust born of all they’d shared in a short time—all the chances ventured, rewards garnered, risks survived: love and care intact. This gaze said they’d always honor this love, whatever their futures.
From her side, Becca felt deep gratitude for the love this man had bestowed on her without condition or constraint. That love had reshaped how she saw herself, given her confidence she didn’t know she had, helped her build the courage to undertake this long trip overseas, so far from home. She sometimes wondered if she’d have been able to attempt the trip without the strength he’d given her; she was glad she wouldn’t have to try. She’d take him with her wherever she went, now forward. She slid her hand across the table and into his. “I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I already know.”
She nodded. “Then you know how grateful I am.”
“I know.”
The waitress brought their desserts. Atop the full meal and the full day turned to night, in the flickering light of waning candles and in the dancing long shadow of all they’d shared, the desserts, while delicious, seemed anticlimactic. Maybe this was a good thing—who could’ve borne more of the same?
Later that night, Zach sat at his desk and typed a five-line poem he’d send to Becca by first mail the next morning. The poem culminated in a two-word plea, a plea he knew in his heart to be hopeless. Still, he typed the words. He said them aloud, then said them again.
Parting Prayer
Go then with me,
With my best wishes, blessing,
Endless thoughts.
Go, Kindest.
But return, please.
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