* * *
Eugenia convulsed violently, in the process tossing the covers to the floor.
"Mother Adams? Can you hear me?" Fanny's cold, bony hands shook Eugenia's shoulders.
Eugenia gasped in agony, her eyes tightly closed in a futile attempt to ignore the present, the excruciating jostling of her body that threatened to keep her alive yet one more day.
"Hey! Mother Adams? Are you okay?" Fanny asked in a voice laden with syrupy concern.
Eugenia realized the growing darkness helped her to cope better with Fanny. She would need more time if she was ever to actually love Fanny, but time now proved to be as elusive to hold on to as handfuls of water.
With the last of her strength Eugenia willed her eyes open, even though it meant having to look into her daughter-in-law's stone cold gaze one more time. She saw the look of disgust on Fanny's face but chose to ignore it. Time had become something too precious to be wasted on lost causes. Instead, Eugenia yearned to say goodbye. "Martin? Where is Martin?"
Fanny's voice took on a sharp edge and her speech slowed, as if she were addressing a small child who was hard of hearing and somewhat slow. "I told you earlier, Mother Adams. Marty went out to get you some groceries. All right? Now, why don't you take another one of these little white pills and we'll see if you can't get back to sleep."
Fanny had already tapped a morphine pill out the plastic bottle when Eugenia's world darkened, the world disappearing in a black fog. Fanny's squealing suddenly mutated into Ethel's voice.
"Eugenia? It's time now for us to be going."
"Ethel...?" whispered Eugenia.
"No, Mother Adams. There's no Ethel here. All right? Now listen to me. This is Fanny. Do you hear me, Mother Adams? It's me, Fanny!"
Eugenia felt Fanny's claws dig into her shoulders and her head rolled limply from side to side when Fanny shook her.
In a panicked voice, Fanny shouted, "Mother Adams? Do you need a doctor? Do you want me to phone Dr. Frennette?"
"Ethel?" Eugenia said. "Tell Martin that I love him very much, will you?" Eugenia mouthed the words silently, her breath feathering Fanny's cheek.
"What are you saying, Mother Adams? Mother Adams? What is it that you want me to tell Martin?"
Fanny's voice drifted away again, drowned out by the canned laughter pouring out of the black and white Philco. Fred, still warning Ethel that if she knew what was best for her she would return that fur coat. Lucy, with her hair-brained scheme, would mix everything up and Eugenia and Zachary, who were now rocking side by side in matching pine rockers, would get a big laugh out of the ensuing chaos.
"Zachary." Eugenia stretched out a hand to touch her husband's shoulder.
Zachary turned to his wife. "Yes, sweetheart?"
"It's good to see you again, Zachary. I've missed you for so long." Eugenia couldn't help dabbing at her eyes with the blue handkerchief.
"And I've missed you, too, Eugenia," he replied.
"Can we stay together, now?"
"We will be together forever, sweetheart. I promise."
Eugenia closed her eyes and sighed, combining the past and the future in a single last breath.
THE END
The Betrothal
(an art-themed contemporary-historical romance novella)
By JT Therrien
The handsome man sitting across the table from me disappeared when I closed my eyes in a swoon, my senses overwhelmed by a mouthful of silky custard. Mmm . . . . This had to be what Heaven tasted like.
"So, how do you like our anniversary celebration so far?" Benjamin reclaimed his spoon, carefully sliding the silverware out of my mouth.
I wanted to bite down, but I played nice, released the spoon, and slowly reopened my eyes. I swallowed, licked my lips to savor every drop before answering.
"Amazing! And I still can't believe we're eating at Calabash. You better pace yourself, Benjamin. There's a reason people celebrate yearly anniversaries instead of mensiversaries."
"What's that?"
"Monthly celebrations, sweetie." I gloated, finding a use for an arcane piece of knowledge gleaned during my graduate studies.
"Bah!" he grinned. "It's a risk I'm willing to take, Sarah. Especially if it means I get to see your beautiful new haircut in candlelight." He reached across the table to slide a brown tress off my shoulder.
"Thanks. I'm surprised you noticed!" I wasn't, really. Benjamin tended to notice the little things about me, which was one reason why I adored him.
He squinted, examining my hair more closely. "Did you change the color?"
"Just a bit. I ran some henna through it. You like?" I kept my tone light; At only thirty-two years of age, Benjamin had thinning hair, which made the current topic very touchy.
"Hmm . . . ." he smiled.
His thinning hair didn't bother me. We were a study in opposites, or, as my Lit-Crit professor would say: dialectical poles. Four years older than me, the love of my life carried a bit of extra weight but still maintained his excellent physical condition; he stood almost six feet tall to my five-nothing in heels; and no rug rats from previous relationships played with any skeletons in his closet. In my eyes, he was perfect. Single. Handsome. And all mine.
I reached across the table, navigating around the crystal goblets of ice water and honey-colored Chablis to give his arm an affectionate squeeze.
He shrugged muscular shoulders. "And what do you think of the crème brûlée?"
"It reminds me of you, you big lug. Hard shell, soft and gooey in the middle." I laughed.
"Hey, I run five miles every day! I am not soft and gooey anywhere, especially not in the middle." Unaware of the saucier meaning of his words, he spooned more of the creamy dessert into my mouth as I tried hard not to say anything that would ruin my scholarly boyfriend's serious mood.
"Mmm . . . . This is so good!"
He beamed. "I thought you might enjoy it. I can't believe there's anyone left on Earth who hasn't eaten this dessert."
I wiped my mouth on a swath of white linen napkin from which I could've made a whole dress. With all the wine, food, and sweet dessert, I found it too much work to make up a joke about losing my crème brûlée . . . innocence.
"Don't you want any?" I asked.
"Yes, but my blood sugar's been high all day. I'm happy with the taste I had."
I pouted and he laughed.
When Benjamin grinned he looked like Anderson Cooper, especially with those blue eyes that pierced my soul whenever they targeted me. And I was the only thing he'd been looking at tonight.
"Besides, I'm having a great time just sitting here feeding you," he added, loading another spoonful with decadent sweetness.
We enjoyed the comfortable silence as I struggled to finish the dessert by myself.
I swallowed another proffered bite, drank some wine and then asked, "So, what's next? A moonlit stroll? Cheek-to-cheek dancing at a fancy nightclub to burn away these extra calories?"
I extended my leg from beneath the tablecloth to give Benjamin a better look at toned muscles enshrouded in dark hosiery, bought for this special evening. The pump's spiked heel seemed to gather all the subdued candlelight in the restaurant and reflect it back wetly.
"Mmm . . . nice." Benjamin stroked my calf, his warm hand stopping at my knee, just before I could voice my warning.
"No, there won't be any dancing tonight," he said with finality.
"Why not? It's not that late. We still have loads of time."
"Nope. There's still one more thing I want to share with you."
Benjamin adjusted his black tie, then fiddled with the collar of his shirt. I'd have to stop him from getting any more salmon-colored shirts. They didn't do his ruddy complexion any favors. And for some reason, he tended to blush quite a bit when he was around me.
"I'm listening . . . ." I whispered, reclaiming my leg as I leaned forward, hoping to change my boyfriend's aversion to a night of dancing. I'd worn my special, lavender push-up bra just for such
a situation. Plan ahead, that's my motto. With his attention divided between my eyes, my legs, and everything else in between, I helped direct Benjamin's spoon to my mouth. I took extra care in cleaning the silver utensil.
His cheeks had reddened even more by the time I finished, leaned back in the plush chair and winked.
After retrieving the spotless spoon and placing it on the table, Benjamin reached into his blazer pocket.
When he returned his hand to the table, I noticed two tickets in that bear paw of his.
A look of triumphant mischief played in his eyes as he slid the ducats toward me.
My heart almost stopped beating. My mind raced: U2 is playing at Wembley this week! I'm gonna see Bono! Live!
"Oh. My. Goodness!" My hand shook as I reached for the tickets.
Benjamin's grin widened. "I know, right? The Gallery is holding special tours tonight: Romantic Paintings Through the Ages."
The Gallery? What a joker! I flipped the tickets over so he could have his laugh, and then we could talk about U2 and Bono. I read the printing on the glossy cardstock. The event title confirmed what Benjamin had just said: Romantic Paintings Through the Ages. Today's date.
"So, working fifty hours a week in that mausoleum isn't enough for you? Can't you take one night off?" I dropped the tickets back onto the table.
His smile faltered; apparently, my disappointment showed clearly on my face. Not that I was trying to hide anything.
"Well, yes," he said, "but this isn't work. It'll be full of romantic fun, don't you think?"
Maybe fun for an art historian . . . .
Benjamin looked crestfallen, and I felt sorry for him. He tried so hard to be perfect, and he succeeded, most of the time. Other times, he acted as if he were an alien from the outer reaches of the galaxy, trying to fit in and learn our customs, and not quite getting it right. Case in point: thinking that a night at an art gallery was romantic.
I tried to think through my wine-buzz. I didn't necessarily mind the gallery tour. The place housed some of the most famous masterpieces from around the world. I'd spent plenty of hours there in the last four months of my life, looking at some beautiful—and some weird—works of art while waiting for Benjamin either to get out of meetings or to clean up some last-second business. But compared to seeing U2 live in concert . . . . Of course, Benjamin hadn't mentioned U2. I had. Okay, I conceded, I could work this unexpected side trip to the National Gallery into my own evening plans.
Benjamin looked around uneasily. He seemed to be visibly aging as the seconds ticked away. If I didn't say something soon, he would pass from thirty-two to forty to sixty before we got the check. He coughed, as if trying to dislodge the chunk of disappointment I'd cruelly jammed down his throat. "So, what do you say? Romantic Art tour?"
He looked so sweet, pleading, fidgeting uncomfortably. How could I say no and ruin our special night?
"Of course, sweetheart. Thank you for the tickets. But tell me honestly, don't you find that paintings are kinda like film images that have suddenly stopped moving?"
Benjamin grimaced theatrically as he pulled an imaginary dagger from his heart. The tension lifted. I reached over the gallery tickets, still untouched on the tablecloth, and gave his hand a squeeze.
I wiped my mouth. "Well, unless you want to order us another crème brûlée, I'm done here."
He looked astonished. "You'd really eat another one? Where would you put it?"
"Benjamin!" I laughed.
* * *
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