+1+
2015
After two years in London I could have done my morning routine with my eyes closed.
I’d drag myself out of bed at 5:00 am, by the time I pulled myself into my bathroom, unpinned my curls and made myself look decent Rose would be sitting quietly in the living room of my two bedroom apartment ready to go. The pink iPod shuffle I bought her for her 6th birthday would be clipped to her skirt. I'd loaded hours of classical music on it and she liked to sit quietly and listen whenever she had to wait for me.
At just six years old , Rose had become a morning person. She woke up before me to make sure her penny loafers were perfectly shined and paired with a dress she'd picked out the night before. Her little leather messenger bag was filled with her school workbooks and notebooks.
Then we would rush to make it to the cafe around the block for iced coffee (with a shot of espresso, two on a Monday) and I’d try to remember where I parked my giant American SUV last night, where there was a 150 percent chance there would be a ticket on it probably out of Euro-spite.
During our commute I liked to start off with some peaceful Yiruma. Rose would promptly go to sleep leaving me alone with a long one hour drive ahead of me. I’d watch the scenery change from my residential brick and cobblestone street, to the modern shiny city center to the green outskirts of London and into the English countryside where there was nothing but dirt roads, tall grass and small villages.
At exactly 7:15 am I'd arrive in Maidstone a cute rural village in Kent County. I made this trip to Maidstone 5 days a week after Mr. Fierro moved into Ashford Cottage. The house he’d bought for himself when we first moved to London. He'd lived in the house during renovations despite the fact it lacked electricity and basic heating. My apartment lacked none of those things, but he still refused the offer to stay with me.
Ashford Cottage was at some point in history the most sought after estate in England. It was a cottage built to fit three generations and touted a 3 expansive mid-sized floors and 7 bedrooms. In the 40’s the owners had sheltered children and Jewish immigrants from all across Europe.
When the owners died in the 60's no heirs could be found. For years it sat alone on the other side of a slopping hill. Unable to auction it off, it had been a thorn in the government’s side ever since. It was too outdated and isolated, not worth the trouble for a lot of people.
Normal people anyway, not Mr. Fierro.
Rumor had it the property was also haunted. I think the rumor alone was why he bought it. Just one more thing to keep people away.The old house was a charming with rustic white gates and climbing pink rosebuds on the outer walls. Its distant locale and quiet demeanor served to intimidate all who thought to come near.
Behind the house was his ½ acre glass house where the roses for Le Marché Fleur where cultivated. The winding aisles of thorny plants could be beautiful land easy to get lost in. I thought the house was cute and fairytale like, it seemed liked the ideal childhood home for Rose to grow up in. A place she could feel safe. A place she could call home.
When I drove up to the long driveway I would gently wake Rose in the backseat. She always jumped out the second the car stopped and made her way up the slopping path to the backdoor.
If I was really tired I would follow Rose inside and find Mrs. Hexell, the housekeeper that lasted the longest, with a pot of coffee made in the electric coffeemaker I brought her. I’d assured her it would make her morning easier if she poured it in a carafe Mr. Fierro would be none the wiser that his precious French press went unused.
Occasionally I’d peek in the dining room and watch Rose setting up her school books. She was smart and seemed to like to learn, I always regretted how little time she spent with children of her own age, there just never seemed to be any time in the day.
Sometimes Mr. Fierro and I would exchange good mornings in the drive way but those words, were all there was to our supposed friendship anymore. With a few withstanding commitments anyway.
After two years in England our differences just fell into place. I worked and lived in the city, he didn't like to leave the countryside. I wanted to make friends and even went on a few dates and he just wanted to stay home and make up lost time with his daughter. He even invited a local pastor to his house every Sunday, while I went to Mass at St. Francis. And that was just scraping the surface.
I get kind of scared and shaky when I imagine what might of happened if we'd continued like that. If things hadn’t taken a turn for the worse, that might have been all there would have been maybe less.
+++
Withstanding Commitments
With Emile as Mr. Fierro’s business partner and Emile as my only real friend it was always inevitable we’d occasionally end up in social situations outside of driving Rose back and forth. Not that he ever did any of the driving.
Anyway, Mr. Fierro made it a habit to avoid social situations. He felt the current day was beyond him. It never quite fit right with him and I for the most part understood that. So, it was only the rare occasion that Emile could convince Fierro to come out to his parties. When he did come out, Emile was always close by Mr. Fierro’s side to compliment any subtle nuances or awkward situation.
Le Marché Fleur was becoming popular among a certain set in London, Mr. Fierro didn’t like telling people who he was or what he did for a living, but everyone knew Emile’s connection with Le Marché Fleur and Emile handled many of the in-person meetings and obligations.
Sometimes Mr. Fierro’s assistant took on the role, he was supposedly from America but his dark hair, eyes and strange accent made me question his country of origin. Mr. Fierro let it slip that he’d hired him because he had his own secrets to keep and could turn a blind eye to anything unusual.
Anyway, Emile simply billed Mr. Fierro as elusive, rich and eccentric. . . . Which Fierro hated.
When he did show up Mr. Fierro was always polite, courteous, and intelligent. Clean cut and handsome in a way that made him slightly rememberable but just enough for a few days. Sometimes if we were headed to the same party, he would pick me up, but I don’t think anyone noticed we arrived together, unless they were really paying attention. If there was dancing he’d dance with me and generally anyone else who asked.
And they did ask. Mostly Professors, Emile's neighbors and career housewives. They were always over 40 and took notice of his bare ring finger. He was by all appearance the youngest man there but he had old fashioned mannerism they loved. He never cursed, never drank, a little reserved maybe even shy plus interesting on the eyes.
However at this one particular party there was no dancing, it was just a small and intimate party held in Emile’s townhouse.
It was Robert’s birthday . . . or Emile’s. I think. Either way they’d decided to have a small “potluck style champagne party” in their backyard, where everyone brought a bottle of champagne.
I’d bought a mid-priced sparkling wine, which literally seemed to pale in-comparison to the Boërl & Kroff Mr. Fierro had arrived with.I stood on the edge of the small backyard as one of the guest brandished an impressive looking saber, pointing at the bottle of Boërl & Kroff.
Everyone was laughing, Emile had been rivaling Gatsby that night. I couldn't blame him. It was summertime in London, Emile was in love, he was successful. . . he was happy. I watched from the back of the yard, turning my head casually as someone started taking pictures. I'd grown my hair out past my shoulders but the last I was told, it made me look younger instead of older.
On the others side of the backyard Mr. Fierro was sitting, watching as the man with a saber attack his thousand dollar champagne. Mr. Fierro’s eyes flickered to mine and lingered. I smiled at him. If I had been in a position to voice opinion I would have said that I was glad he was here. That if he wasn't careful he could regress back into his old life.
"Did you hear about the neighbor ?"
I turned to see Emile was standing next to me
"Is that a set up for a joke ?"
He shook his head
"I meant Fierro's neighbor, I hear she's nice.", he raised his eyebrows, Rose told me she plays with her grandchildren or something . . . plus she is widow"
"Emile, Stop", I whispered, "He doesn't leave his home that often, I expect him to be friends with his neighbors"
"Clara, I'm just saying--"
"What are you saying Emile ? Are you forgetting who we are talking about ?"
"No, but it's nice to know it bothers you."
"It doesn't Emile.", I tried to reign in the blushing.
"Look Clara, I'm not like you. . . I'm getting old--"
"Emile. . ."
"I'm just saying I've learned to take life as a an adventure. No regrets for me. Not anymore. There are so many things I want to see before I go.. The Pyramids, Rose go to college and you and Fierro get mar-"
"Don't you say it Emile", I teased, "I'm not doing anything to help you with your bucket list."
"Well, if I'm on my deathbead", he joked, "Just. . .fake it if you have to."
I tried not to laugh and Emile was pulled into another direction.
Mr. Fierro's eyes moved to me again, I think he heard my laugh. I wondered if Emile made the same deathbed deal with him ? Probably not. To much humor involved.
“Drive me home ?”, I mouthed to him, putting my full champagne glass down and starting my good-byes.
I don’t even have to turn around to know he had followed me.
+++
“Were you ever going to ask me ?”
I’d talked Mr. Fierro into coming inside my apartment for some coffee before making the long drive all the way back to the country. He admired the new paintings in my living room and watched Rose sleep for a moment while I paid the babysitter who made up flimsy excuses as to why she couldn't watch Rose again. Something about Rose just frightened people away.
I hated asking Mr. Fierro's housekeeper to watch Rose again, she didn't mind because she spent so much time with Rose that she was used to the oddities. Mrs. Hexell had no problem driving out to the city to watch Rose.
I wasn’t entirely sure how we’d ended up on my small terrace at 4 am. Two wrought iron chairs and a side table were squeezed out there. The view of London sprawled out in front of us.
At least once a week I was out here wrapped in a blanket staring at my phone. I went on red alert whenever I saw a Rochester number. Christmas and Birthdays where the only times I called home. I'd decided to keep my communication with my other life, my former life to a minimum. Just simple text once a month, maybe two calls a year, maybe pictures.
I’d kicked off my shoes and wrapped a blanket over my shoulders. We’d just sat there in silence taking in the view all night.
"Were you ever going to ask me ?", I asked. Emile had worked his way in my head.
“Pardon me.”
There was a cold cup of coffee in his hand, he’d taken it when I offered but hadn’t taken a sip. He sets the coffee down and reached into his jacket and takes out a shiny silver e-cigarette
“To be your wife ? I mean before ? I'm just curious.”
“The answer to your question is I don't know. ”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve had so much time to think. I. . . believe. . .marriage is sacred, Ms. DeLune. I don’t know where I stand with my previous marriage...”
I swallowed hard, hating talking about this
“But she’s fine with —“
“I understand that. But. . . she’s never really going to be gone. We aren’t divorced. Our marriage was a serious vow built on years of friendship and love. Built on patience and mutual understanding. So much patience. If it can be simply replicated and moved on to the next woman then what value is there? You've done well on your own Ms. DeLune despite your position, I see that now.”
“Did you love me ?”
He shifted slightly, very slightly when I said that, blowing out a plume of wet white smoke.
“You deserve a chance to live your life not tied down.”
“Oh”, I said,
“It’s not just that.”
“What else”, I asked wishing I had something stronger than coffee
He looked down.
“You’re hers”, he says.
“No I’m not.”
“You are always going to be Luice’s little girl. Her favorite. Her little Clara. The granddaughter she fond over and named. The one she spoke of so endearing as if she were her own daughter. It would be odd.. . don’t you think ? Absurd almost. In the clear light and peace of the days we live in . . .I see that more than ever.”
“Okay”, I said. The kind of okay that means I don’t want to talk about this. We never talked about this
“Imagine it Ms Delune, how you feel if I moved on. After everything we’ve been through”
“I’d understand-“
“Would you? Ms. DeLune how would you feel if I loved another woman. If I gave her more than I had the chance to give you.”
“Addison, please—“
“Clara, I can’t ignore it. I can’t forget her and you look so much like her...”
“I left everything behind in New York to come here”, I fought to control my tone.
“You wanted to leave Rochester, don’t blame that on me--”
“I’ve always respected your privacy, your celibacy, allowed you to make something a business in her name. What else to I have to do ? “
He put the glass down, clearly not expecting my . . . frankness.
“Ms. DeLune you are so young, you are just starting to live your life. I see how happy you are now. Why would you want to change that ?”
“Sometimes I want what you had. What you and Lucie had. A great beautiful love story that defied time. You were happy, genuinely happy when you married her.”
“I doubt you would have recognized me.”
“I would never do what she did”, I said whispering, “If we were happy I would never ever leave you.”
“Never say never, Ms. DeLune.”
+++
Yes, Mr. Fierro is vaping instead of smoking. No more vices ! Also, yes Rose is being home schooled.