That following week Ethan couldn't properly sleep or concentrate on the final chapters of his novel—due in less than a month. His editor kept calling and emailing, nagging and reminding him of his contract. He couldn't forget the amused grin on her lips, the arch of her dark and full eyebrows or the husky and sultry sound of her voice. He would be there early tomorrow morning, with work of his own, simply waiting for her to arrive.
…
Vanessa didn't know if she should laugh or cry at her students' essays. Some were excellent, about thirty percent, but the others made her worry for the future of the academy. Vanessa sighed and leaned back on her chair, her eyes darting to the icon of the Virgin and Child, at the wall at her right. She had bought this during a trip to Istanbul, in a small shop outside of the imposing Hagia Sophia—first the most grandiose of Orthodox churches, then a grand mosque and now, a museum. The eyes of the saintly woman depicted seemed to follow her—a judgmental but nevertheless compassionate gaze boring into her face. Vanessa felt as if she were a child again, under the stern gaze of her mother. In the pit of her stomach she knew the reason, the reason as to why she had abruptly left yesterday. She'd been scared—deeply afraid of the things that could come out of an affair with that cowboy man. Ethan Chandler. Vanessa wasn't the type who engaged in romance. No, for that she had books and a broad collection of French films.
She heard a soft knock on her office door and rolled back her chair to go answer it. An oliveskinned woman stood there in a brightly adorned green sweater and dark slacks, carrying a stack of manila folders and a small carton with two coffees. She smiled brightly back at Vanessa, blackberry eyes shiny even though Vanessa could see the bags under her eyes and the charming signs of age around her eyes and mouth... Vanessa also noticed the thinness of her arms.
"Miriam." She welcomed her colleague inside and the woman set her items on top of Vanessa's desk.
"You look like you've seen a ghost." Her accent was thick, but the most charming Vanessa had ever heard. Miriam Azima was a Persian friend of hers who had grown up in Paris after the revolution. As of three years, Miriam held an important position as head of the Egyptology department. She and Vanessa had consulted with one another for years now and during that time became close friends. Even a bit more than that.
"Well if it helps, the ghost isn't you." Miriam chuckled and took a seat on the leather armchair across from her.
"As you know I'm off to Egypt for the semester—its excavation season and I'll be settled around Alexandria." Vanessa smiled and nodded.
"Your Cleopatra obsession." Miriam laughed and nodded.
"Yes, my Cleopatra obsession. I was wondering if we could go out together, one last time before I leave—I'll be nearly three months away..."
Vanessa sighed, all of the sudden feeling tired and as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Miriam watched her intently and leaned in to gently hold Vanessa's hand. Her hands were warm and soft to the touch. "I worry about you—I worry that something will happen while I'm gone and you'll become your cave-woman self again. Have you been getting enough sleep? You drink too much coffee..."
"Miriam, I'm fine, everything is under control—everything, I promise. Tomorrow is Sunday and I'll be at the café as always, if you are willing we could meet there. And cave-woman? That's preposterous. Since when do you commit these silly anachronisms?" Miriam rolled her eyes, but still she wore a deep and worried frown upon her face. "You should join my team and leave with me to Egypt—there's still time to issue all of the necessary documents. I could need another expert on the field..." Vanessa shook her head.
"Miriam, I'm fine—I am no longer a child. You're dating Malcolm, that doesn't mean you've suddenly become my mother." A look into Miriam's crestfallen face and Vanessa knew she had gone too far. "I still feel it, you know. A thing inside, just waiting for me to yield and allow it to take control—but I promise you, it won't. I am far stronger than that—I have learned a lot."
"From that old witch in the countryside?" Miriam questioned, brows knitted in worry. Vanessa nodded.
"And I have been learning with myself as well—I've been reading old texts a lot—polishing my Latin, my Greek... I want to learn Arabic." Miriam nodded and her lips curved just the slightest, proving to Vanessa that her long-time friend trusted her. "My mind is busy."
For a long few moments they sat there drinking their coffees in one of those rare awkward encounters, the silence becoming awfully uncomfortable for a while. Vanessa knew there was something on her colleague's mind.
"So he hasn't told you yet?" Miriam asked quietly and gravely, breaking the ice. Vanessa's brows furrowed in confusion and her blue eyes fell at the corners a bit, in anticipation. "Malcolm and I have parted ways. A few weeks ago... a petty fight. It's killing me because I love him, but it doesn't hurt as much as it did when we were together—surprisingly. He just never understood..."
"I told you, didn't I, that he would never deliberately divorce Gladys. He certainly didn't for my mother and they were at it for decades—but you know that story." Miriam nodded, her lips beginning to tremble and tears pooling in her dark eyes.
"Don't ever let this happen to you, my friend, a man dominate your heart and soul in such a way that you become empty once he's tired of you. Men age beautifully but it is less so for us." Vanessa held Miriam's hand in hers and caressed them with her thumbs. "Love is an utterly humiliating thing." Vanessa's eyes locked with hers. "Whatever you do, Vanessa, don't fall in love." Vanessa walked towards Miriam and held her in her arms, offering the other woman a shoulder and support.
Miriam had been with her through thick and thin.
…
He wandered the streets in the evening, not yet knowing the Chelsea neighborhood enough to entertain himself with something, anything. He caught sight of a luminous sign from up and across the street. It looked to Ethan as if it were one of those dimly lit jazz clubs with good booze and pseudo-intellectual singletons.
He crossed and entered the establishment. The interior reminded him of the Bourbon street night clubs and pubs in New Orleans—the types of places he would go to meet eager young women, have a nice few drinks and give himself away to meaningless sexual pursuits. The types of things his married and goody-two-shoes brother thought were the best things in life. How opposites he and Michael were. Michael had done everything right—he'd gone to business school, opened up shop in a touristic part of New Orleans; he'd married a great girl— a doctor—and had two perfectly beautiful, blonde-headed children and a golden retriever.
And what had he planned that had gone right?
Ethan had never planned on being a writer—he was too lucky for his own good, that's what it was. He lived his nights playing his saxophone on the run-down terrace of his third-floor apartment. Women were in and out of his place and the refrigerator was never stocked. For a long time as he dealt with his alcohol problem, Michael had been the one to pay his bills and his rent... Looking back, Michael was a saint.
Ethan had been lucky that during a mad frenzy, when for a week he couldn't sleep because his body begged for liquor and his brother had locked him inside without a key, his fingers had typed non-stop on the desktop computer and when on a Monday afternoon Michael had come to check on him—he was passed out on the floor from withdrawal and dehydration—but having birthed his greatest masterpiece yet. It had also been Michael the one to take copies of the manuscript and send them off to several publishing companies. And after that first book, an instant best-seller, another four had followed—and all at once Ethan had his pockets overflowing with money, his debts to his brother all paid and he was hitchhiking from Ecuador, all the way to Patagonia, outlining South America.
And here he was now, a year after Patagonia, sitting in a bar nursing his first glass of whiskey in five years—imagining her face on that of each and every woman who walked inside.
…
Ethan walked home that night, taking his time and trying to etch into his memory each shop front, each street name, each tree, each and every one of those clichéd red telephone booths and each lamp post. Cars and buses passed by rapidly, he hadn't yet summoned the courage to drive a car here. Not only because of the opposite driver's side, but mainly because this was a city too beautiful to be seen from behind a wheel. It could be that he was simply biased— London had been his boyhood dream.
Once he arrived at the stone townhouse with a lovely green front door, he pulled out the small ring with only two keys from his pocket. Once there he climbed a flight of stairs, passing in front of the landlord's black-painted door and stopping in front of apartment 2-B. He shut the door behind him and immediately kicked off his shoes and pulled off his sweater. He crossed the small living room—empty aside from the essentials—and it took only eight steps to enter the single bedroom. He pulled off his trousers and entered the adjacent bathroom—straight for the shower. He closed his eyes in pleasure as the hot water hit his skin.
Her image continued to plague his thoughts. Ethan hadn't been able to properly sleep that night—entirely due to anticipation. He desperately wanted to be the first customer at the Olympia Café tomorrow and he was prepared to be the last if it meant he'd see her, his mystery lady in red. He sat up in his bed, laptop in front of him, the bright white screen of his writing software staring back at him, blank. Ethan took a couple of deep breaths and tried to think of his characters—how this should be the turning point of the story—and then he jumped, having imagined her raspy voice speak seductively against his ear. She wasn't there—obviously—but like an ethereal faerie, mischievous twinkle in her eyes, she haunted him until dawn.
Morning had finally come.
Thank you MusketeerAdventure for your heart-warming review (keep them coming!) and all of you who took the time to follow or favorite this story.
Reviews are far more than welcome (the muse thanks you in advance).
-Theda
