Chapter 7
It was about 8 A.M. when the aroma of fresh coffee drifted its way into Roger Smith's dreams. He yawned, stretched sleepily, not quite ready for the day. Rolling onto his back, eyes still closed, it occurred to him on some subconscious level that something was different.
The bed was too comfortable, for one thing. The silky sheets felt wonderful against his nude body...and that let to the second oddity. Where were his pajamas?
Roger's eyes snapped open. His first impression was that he was under an impossibly clear open sky. Then he realized the ceiling was painted to look like that, a perfectly azure summer day, complete with puffy clouds.
The electric memory of the night before flooded back; smiling he remembered where he was. Roger sat up. He could hear Rowan in the kitchen preparing breakfast. She'd left a note on the nightstand by the bed, stating there was a new toothbrush and shaving supplies in the bathroom. It was signed with a lipsticked kiss.
On a chair by the bed was a thick bathrobe and fresh towels. She had already washed his clothes from the day before, his clean socks and underwear at the foot of the bed, his trousers and shirt ironed and hung.
Impressed, but secretly convinced he was still dreaming (stuff like this never happened in the real world) Roger decided to quickly shower and dress. After washing he realized that the only thing Rowan had neglected for his groomimg was hair gel. Despite his best efforts, his thick hair insisted on falling into his face.
Finally shrugging in defeat at his reflection, Roger dressed and padded out to the kitchen. Rowan, dressed in close-fitting jeans and a snug black tee shirt, her hair french-braided down her back, was busy at the stove. Roger came over, put his arms around her slender waist and hugged her close, kissing the back of her neck. Rowan shivered, turned her smiling face to kiss him on the lips.
"I'm glad to see you're up...did I have everything you needed?" Roger decided to ignore the potential double entendre of her question. Instead, he pointed to his unruly hair. "Well, almost," he said.
"Oh," said Ro. She ran one hand through the fluffy black mop, messing it up even more. He's SO beautiful, she thought. "Sorry. I don't use that stuff, but I may be able to find something in my lab for you." She smiled mischievously. "You know, it is awfully sexy like that, Roger..." dismay flickered across his handsome face "...but then again, I'd probably have to beat all the other females off with a stick." Daestar combed her fingers through his hair again, smoothing it a bit. "I'll take care of it after we eat."
She set a steaming pot of coffee on the kitchen table. The roses Roger had given her were there too, surrounded by a plate of rolls and toast, various condiments, a bowl of fresh fruit and a pitcher of orange liquid.
"How do you like your eggs?" she asked. "Scrambled is fine," said Roger, sitting down at one of the place settings. He poured himself some coffee, then tapped the pitcher. "Is this that awful powdered stuff?" He grimaced just at the thought of it.
"No," said Ro, flipping scrambled eggs onto both their plates, "it's orange juice." She went back to the stove to get some well-drained bacon.
"I can see its color," said Roger, "but what is it?"
"You've never had real orange juice?" Rowan's face registered her surprise. Roger shook his head no. "Well try it." She filled the juice glass in front of him.
Roger sniffed it suspiciously. It didn't have the sickeningly sweet ketone odor of the detestible orange powder - that was a good sign. He took a tentative sip. As he tasted the cold mixture of acidity and sweetness, a flash of memory leaped through him. The smiling image of a woman, a few years older than Rowan, with short dark hair and dark eyes like his, stood before him - his mother?
He dropped the glass on the table, the crashing sound pulling him back to the present. Rowan was kneeling on the floor beside his chair, her hands on his face, a frightened expression on hers.
"Roger, Roger, are you alright? You look like you saw a ghost!" The young man put his strong hands over hers, kissed her palms, held her hands in his lap. Roger leaned back in the chair, feeling the blood returning to his face. My god, he thought, what happened?
"I'm alright, really," he reassured the anxious Daestar. "I think I had a flashback from my childhood. It happens sometimes." He looked at the shambles on the table. "Sorry for the mess...I'll clean this up." He grabbed some paper towels and started mopping up the juice. Fortunately the heavy glass hadn't broken.
He kept talking, as much to calm his own nerves as Rowan's. "I guess I had this juice as a kid. The taste just triggered the memory." The young woman watched him, her face puzzled...what had he remembered to have such an extreme effect? "Roger, what did you see?"
He paused. "My mother. We were in a kitchen having breakfast. She'd just given me some orange juice..." his voice trailed off. It sounded so ridiculous.
"I don't understand," said Rowan. "I have lots of memories of my parents and I don't get zoned out. It doesn't sound like a traumatic memory. Why would you be so affected?"
Roger shrugged. "I don't know. It just popped up. There weren't even any feelings attached to it...not happy, not sad...she was...just...there." He threw the soaked wad of paper into the trash. "It caught me by surprise, that's all."
Roger sat back down at the table. Rowan sat down too. Her concern was palpable. Smith reached over, took her hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm okay, really."
"Do you want to talk about it? I'm a good listener."
Roger shook his head no. "There's nothing to talk about. It was just a flashback, nothing important. Don't let it ruin breakfast. Anyway, I'm more concerned about solving this problem," he said, running his hand through his disheveled hair.
After they ate, Roger asked if Daestar would show him around the rest of her place. She suspected he just wanted to further distract her from the morning's incident, but agreed to do so anyway.
Although Rowan used the entire top floor, only a relatively small portion was actual living area. She had taken the square space and divided it into a kind of horseshoe, with the innermost section home, the larger outer section work.
One wall of the greenhouse ran the entire length of the living area, making it the fourth wall of her kitchen, bedroom, and livingroom. The back (or top of the horseshoe) was her actual lab and general workplace. This part also had access to a service elevator.
The last third of the horseshoe was her office, which opened onto the alcove via the nameplated door. Numerous doorways, some hidden, allowed Ro quick entrance to any area.
Smith was quite impressed by the time they got to the lab. He really liked the combination of playfulness and no-nonsense practicality displayed throughout the whole place. It was pure Rowan, through and through.
Daestar was rummaging around a shelf of various oils and gels, looking for something suitable to control Roger's hair, when he noticed another door behind a screen. It was locked. "Where does this go?" he asked.
"Hmm?" she was absorbed in her search, finally locating a small pot of colorless jelly in the back of the shelf. She sniffed it...there was no scent. This should do the trick, she thought.
"Ro, where does this go?"
She looked up. "What? Oh. That goes to my 'official' office." Rowan wrinkled her nose at the thought. "Doctor or negotiator, that is where my clients usually see me." She pocketed the gel. "Would you like to see that too?"
Rowan unlocked the door, led Roger through a short passageway lined with full file cabinets and unlocked a second entrance. It opened onto the middle of a small rectangular room. It had rich dark green walls, burnished wood floors scattered with thick rugs, and beautiful antique furniture. It had an aura of both intimacy and power.
On the furthest wall was a floor to ceiling mural of an ancient pine, its twisted graceful limbs floating against a matte gold-leaf background, echoing the outer alcove. Her large wooden desk, starkly simple in design, stood in front of it. There were only two objects on it: an old hourglass (its brass fittings green with age) and a miniature tree.
Roger Smith turned the hourglass, wtching the powdery grains slip to the bottom. He loved the things and had been making them for years. This was an elegent specimen. "You don't use this to time your rich clients, do you?" he asked, smirking.
"Not exactly," she said. "It's more to remind them that time waits for no one, not even them."
Roger nodded thoughtfully, then turned his attention to the tiny tree. Its bark was a soft grey, its thin branches full of dainty white flowers. He had never seen anything like it before.
"That," said Rowan, "is a dwarfed rowan tree."
Roger looked up, surprised. "You named a tree after yourself?" That was out of character for her, he thought.
"No, no." She ran her fingers over the bark. "I was named after the tree. My mother loved them, they were her favorite."
Daestar went to the back of her desk and unlocked a side drawer. Inside was a square silver box and a small pair of silver scissors. Rowan pulled out the box and opened it. It had four compartments, three of which held locks of hair: one black, one blond, one dark brown.
Rowan touched the black, "My mother, Hanae." She touched the blond, "My father, Stephan." She touched the dark brown, "Dan Dastun...when he had hair." She smiled sadly, then looked up at Roger, her expression turning shy. "Would you indulge me?" She held out the tiny scissors. "May I have one of yours?"
"You want to cut my hair?" Roger patted his head nervously.
"Just a little snip - please?" She was so earnest Roger found it hard not to laugh...but he also couldn't find it in himself to refuse her.
Rowan took the black tress and put in the fourth compartment, closed the box and carefully returned it to her desk. As she started to put the scissors away Roger caught her hand.
"Wait. My turn." He took hold of the end of her silken black braid and clipped off a piece. He tucked it into his wallet. Roger kind of liked the idea of always having a part of her with him.
"Now about this..." he pointed to his spiky hair. Rowan took the tiny pot from her pocket and tossed it to him. "You don't need much...you can always add more," she said watching him comb the stuff through.
"Well?" he asked after a few moments of intense grooming. "Is it okay?" Ro bit her lip not to laugh and fought an impulse to muss his hair. She kissed his cheek instead. "You're perfect, Roger Smith. I wouldn't change a thing."
It was about 8 A.M. when the aroma of fresh coffee drifted its way into Roger Smith's dreams. He yawned, stretched sleepily, not quite ready for the day. Rolling onto his back, eyes still closed, it occurred to him on some subconscious level that something was different.
The bed was too comfortable, for one thing. The silky sheets felt wonderful against his nude body...and that let to the second oddity. Where were his pajamas?
Roger's eyes snapped open. His first impression was that he was under an impossibly clear open sky. Then he realized the ceiling was painted to look like that, a perfectly azure summer day, complete with puffy clouds.
The electric memory of the night before flooded back; smiling he remembered where he was. Roger sat up. He could hear Rowan in the kitchen preparing breakfast. She'd left a note on the nightstand by the bed, stating there was a new toothbrush and shaving supplies in the bathroom. It was signed with a lipsticked kiss.
On a chair by the bed was a thick bathrobe and fresh towels. She had already washed his clothes from the day before, his clean socks and underwear at the foot of the bed, his trousers and shirt ironed and hung.
Impressed, but secretly convinced he was still dreaming (stuff like this never happened in the real world) Roger decided to quickly shower and dress. After washing he realized that the only thing Rowan had neglected for his groomimg was hair gel. Despite his best efforts, his thick hair insisted on falling into his face.
Finally shrugging in defeat at his reflection, Roger dressed and padded out to the kitchen. Rowan, dressed in close-fitting jeans and a snug black tee shirt, her hair french-braided down her back, was busy at the stove. Roger came over, put his arms around her slender waist and hugged her close, kissing the back of her neck. Rowan shivered, turned her smiling face to kiss him on the lips.
"I'm glad to see you're up...did I have everything you needed?" Roger decided to ignore the potential double entendre of her question. Instead, he pointed to his unruly hair. "Well, almost," he said.
"Oh," said Ro. She ran one hand through the fluffy black mop, messing it up even more. He's SO beautiful, she thought. "Sorry. I don't use that stuff, but I may be able to find something in my lab for you." She smiled mischievously. "You know, it is awfully sexy like that, Roger..." dismay flickered across his handsome face "...but then again, I'd probably have to beat all the other females off with a stick." Daestar combed her fingers through his hair again, smoothing it a bit. "I'll take care of it after we eat."
She set a steaming pot of coffee on the kitchen table. The roses Roger had given her were there too, surrounded by a plate of rolls and toast, various condiments, a bowl of fresh fruit and a pitcher of orange liquid.
"How do you like your eggs?" she asked. "Scrambled is fine," said Roger, sitting down at one of the place settings. He poured himself some coffee, then tapped the pitcher. "Is this that awful powdered stuff?" He grimaced just at the thought of it.
"No," said Ro, flipping scrambled eggs onto both their plates, "it's orange juice." She went back to the stove to get some well-drained bacon.
"I can see its color," said Roger, "but what is it?"
"You've never had real orange juice?" Rowan's face registered her surprise. Roger shook his head no. "Well try it." She filled the juice glass in front of him.
Roger sniffed it suspiciously. It didn't have the sickeningly sweet ketone odor of the detestible orange powder - that was a good sign. He took a tentative sip. As he tasted the cold mixture of acidity and sweetness, a flash of memory leaped through him. The smiling image of a woman, a few years older than Rowan, with short dark hair and dark eyes like his, stood before him - his mother?
He dropped the glass on the table, the crashing sound pulling him back to the present. Rowan was kneeling on the floor beside his chair, her hands on his face, a frightened expression on hers.
"Roger, Roger, are you alright? You look like you saw a ghost!" The young man put his strong hands over hers, kissed her palms, held her hands in his lap. Roger leaned back in the chair, feeling the blood returning to his face. My god, he thought, what happened?
"I'm alright, really," he reassured the anxious Daestar. "I think I had a flashback from my childhood. It happens sometimes." He looked at the shambles on the table. "Sorry for the mess...I'll clean this up." He grabbed some paper towels and started mopping up the juice. Fortunately the heavy glass hadn't broken.
He kept talking, as much to calm his own nerves as Rowan's. "I guess I had this juice as a kid. The taste just triggered the memory." The young woman watched him, her face puzzled...what had he remembered to have such an extreme effect? "Roger, what did you see?"
He paused. "My mother. We were in a kitchen having breakfast. She'd just given me some orange juice..." his voice trailed off. It sounded so ridiculous.
"I don't understand," said Rowan. "I have lots of memories of my parents and I don't get zoned out. It doesn't sound like a traumatic memory. Why would you be so affected?"
Roger shrugged. "I don't know. It just popped up. There weren't even any feelings attached to it...not happy, not sad...she was...just...there." He threw the soaked wad of paper into the trash. "It caught me by surprise, that's all."
Roger sat back down at the table. Rowan sat down too. Her concern was palpable. Smith reached over, took her hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm okay, really."
"Do you want to talk about it? I'm a good listener."
Roger shook his head no. "There's nothing to talk about. It was just a flashback, nothing important. Don't let it ruin breakfast. Anyway, I'm more concerned about solving this problem," he said, running his hand through his disheveled hair.
After they ate, Roger asked if Daestar would show him around the rest of her place. She suspected he just wanted to further distract her from the morning's incident, but agreed to do so anyway.
Although Rowan used the entire top floor, only a relatively small portion was actual living area. She had taken the square space and divided it into a kind of horseshoe, with the innermost section home, the larger outer section work.
One wall of the greenhouse ran the entire length of the living area, making it the fourth wall of her kitchen, bedroom, and livingroom. The back (or top of the horseshoe) was her actual lab and general workplace. This part also had access to a service elevator.
The last third of the horseshoe was her office, which opened onto the alcove via the nameplated door. Numerous doorways, some hidden, allowed Ro quick entrance to any area.
Smith was quite impressed by the time they got to the lab. He really liked the combination of playfulness and no-nonsense practicality displayed throughout the whole place. It was pure Rowan, through and through.
Daestar was rummaging around a shelf of various oils and gels, looking for something suitable to control Roger's hair, when he noticed another door behind a screen. It was locked. "Where does this go?" he asked.
"Hmm?" she was absorbed in her search, finally locating a small pot of colorless jelly in the back of the shelf. She sniffed it...there was no scent. This should do the trick, she thought.
"Ro, where does this go?"
She looked up. "What? Oh. That goes to my 'official' office." Rowan wrinkled her nose at the thought. "Doctor or negotiator, that is where my clients usually see me." She pocketed the gel. "Would you like to see that too?"
Rowan unlocked the door, led Roger through a short passageway lined with full file cabinets and unlocked a second entrance. It opened onto the middle of a small rectangular room. It had rich dark green walls, burnished wood floors scattered with thick rugs, and beautiful antique furniture. It had an aura of both intimacy and power.
On the furthest wall was a floor to ceiling mural of an ancient pine, its twisted graceful limbs floating against a matte gold-leaf background, echoing the outer alcove. Her large wooden desk, starkly simple in design, stood in front of it. There were only two objects on it: an old hourglass (its brass fittings green with age) and a miniature tree.
Roger Smith turned the hourglass, wtching the powdery grains slip to the bottom. He loved the things and had been making them for years. This was an elegent specimen. "You don't use this to time your rich clients, do you?" he asked, smirking.
"Not exactly," she said. "It's more to remind them that time waits for no one, not even them."
Roger nodded thoughtfully, then turned his attention to the tiny tree. Its bark was a soft grey, its thin branches full of dainty white flowers. He had never seen anything like it before.
"That," said Rowan, "is a dwarfed rowan tree."
Roger looked up, surprised. "You named a tree after yourself?" That was out of character for her, he thought.
"No, no." She ran her fingers over the bark. "I was named after the tree. My mother loved them, they were her favorite."
Daestar went to the back of her desk and unlocked a side drawer. Inside was a square silver box and a small pair of silver scissors. Rowan pulled out the box and opened it. It had four compartments, three of which held locks of hair: one black, one blond, one dark brown.
Rowan touched the black, "My mother, Hanae." She touched the blond, "My father, Stephan." She touched the dark brown, "Dan Dastun...when he had hair." She smiled sadly, then looked up at Roger, her expression turning shy. "Would you indulge me?" She held out the tiny scissors. "May I have one of yours?"
"You want to cut my hair?" Roger patted his head nervously.
"Just a little snip - please?" She was so earnest Roger found it hard not to laugh...but he also couldn't find it in himself to refuse her.
Rowan took the black tress and put in the fourth compartment, closed the box and carefully returned it to her desk. As she started to put the scissors away Roger caught her hand.
"Wait. My turn." He took hold of the end of her silken black braid and clipped off a piece. He tucked it into his wallet. Roger kind of liked the idea of always having a part of her with him.
"Now about this..." he pointed to his spiky hair. Rowan took the tiny pot from her pocket and tossed it to him. "You don't need much...you can always add more," she said watching him comb the stuff through.
"Well?" he asked after a few moments of intense grooming. "Is it okay?" Ro bit her lip not to laugh and fought an impulse to muss his hair. She kissed his cheek instead. "You're perfect, Roger Smith. I wouldn't change a thing."