Winter in Full Bloom

by Anita Higman

  Mesmerizing? Flickering lights? That was my twin sister? My, my. It didn’t seem like me at all. Apparently Camille was the dancing light in the family, and I was the troll guarding the forest. I almost laughed. Could Marcus be a little bit in love with Camille along with her music? Maybe that’s why he’d latched onto me. It was like being near her and her music. Maybe he wanted to find Camille for his own personal reasons.

  A distant gaze crossed his face, as though he were staring off into a faraway serene and lovely place. A place her music created, perhaps.

  I found myself wanting to go there with him. More than ever I longed to meet this woman Marcus spoke of, and in some ways I wanted to be more like her. “And so do you get lost in her music too?”

  “Hmm?” Marcus seemed to come back to himself. “Of course. No one is immune to her playing.”

  He tilted his head, studying me in a way that made me uncomfortable. Perhaps he misunderstood and thought I was jealous of my sister and her gift. But then maybe I was—a little.

  “Do you have any idea why your sister lives here?” He seemed all business now. “Even the smallest detail of her story could be valuable.”

  The time had come—I would either need to trust Marcus or cut him loose. I had nowhere else to turn. “Okay. Here’s all I know. Camille is my identical twin, and she was taken from my mother when she was one. Now six months ago my mother received a card from her. There wasn’t a return address, but she mentioned that she lived here in Melbourne. Oh, and she attended St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

  “That’s quite a story,” Marcus said.

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Yes.” He crossed his arms. “I know you stopped by the church. Did they have any information on her?”

  “None. I was so disappointed.”

  The waitress stopped by with a loaf of rustic-looking bread on a board with a slab of butter shaped like a kangaroo. How clever.

  I cut off a slice of bread and then passed it to Marcus.

  “So, Joyce and Rowan couldn’t find Camille on the membership rolls there?” he asked.

  “Well, Rowan didn’t have time to check his records, but he did say he would, and he’d call me if anything turned up.” I whacked off the kangaroo’s tail and buttered my bread, heavily for a change, and took a big bite. Guess I was hungrier than I thought.

  “Maybe your sister attends the services but never joined,” Marcus said. “I attend, but haven’t joined yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my church membership is one of the last things I have left from home. Long story. Too long for this evening.” He busied himself trying to smear chunks of butter on his bread.

  Sometime I would ask him about his long story. Perhaps on another evening. “So, you’ve never seen even a glimpse of my sister at your church?”

  Marcus shook his head. “St. Paul’s is a large cathedral, and there are different services. We could easily have missed each other.”

  “Okay. Sure. That sounds reasonable.”

  He caught my gaze. “Do you mind if I ask you something personal?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “Your mother said Camille was taken from her, and yet you said it in a matter-of-fact kind of way. That really is an amazing admission.” Marcus shifted in his chair. “Was your sister abducted? Were the police involved?”

  “No, I don’t think so. That’s such a dramatic scenario my mother would have mentioned it. Well, I’m not sure. You see, my mother and I aren’t close. The information I gave you is all she would give me. I begged for more, but she wouldn’t say any more about it.”

  “Really? Nothing?”

  “Trust me, when her wall goes up, it’s over.”

  Marcus gazed out toward the river. “I do understand … more than you know.”

  Something in his expression told me he really did know what I meant, which made me wonder about his past, his family. Could it be similar to mine—a secret room with the key thrown away forever? “When I say my story out loud to you, it seems so shrouded in mystery. My daughter, Julie, thought so too. We went back and forth with ideas on what could have happened all those years ago, but until my mother decides to give me more information, I’ll just have to work with the meager clues I have.” I dusted off some of the bread crumbs from the table. How could eating bread cause such a mess? In seconds two little sparrows—which looked like a set of salt and pepper shakers—gobbled up the crumbs.

  Marcus took a sip of his water. “I’m surprised you haven’t hired a private investigator.”

  “I don’t have the money for one, at least not if the search went on for months. My daughter is in college, so some of my savings is going for that right now. My mother does have plenty of money, but she isn’t as interested in Camille as I am.” At least I don’t think so.

  “Not interested in her own daughter?” Marcus’s brow furrowed then, almost to the point of anger, which was an expression that seemed as awkward on his face as spots on a kangaroo. “That’s so sad.”

  “It is. Tragically sad. I agree. But then that was the kind of mother I had growing up.” I’d better not elaborate too much. No need to unload all my dirty laundry on him in one evening. He’d surely suffocate.

  “You turned out well in spite of a difficult childhood.”

  “Thank you. I hope so.”

  A gust swept through, churning our tiny world. I pulled out a scrunchie and tied back my long hair, but Marcus left his spikey windblown mop the way it was, which looked amusing as well as surprisingly attractive.

  “You know, I’m sure you’ve thought of all these angles, but since you said your maiden name was Gray and your sister’s last name is Daniels, there are only a few possible scenarios. Camille was married or adopted … or she changed her name legally for some other reason.”

  “Adopted? I just assumed she’d married at some point. My mother said Camille was taken from her when she was one, so that doesn’t sound like she gave her up for adoption. And why would she? My mother is a harsh woman, but it’s hard to imagine that she could be that heartless. I mean, keep one identical twin and give the other one away.” In spite of the strangeness of the thought I jotted down a note about the possibility of adoption.

  “So, do you have any memories of your sister?” he asked. “Guess it’s unlikely at one year old.”

  “I’ve tried to remember, but I’m pretty sure it’s just wishful thinking.” I doodled on the pad of paper.

  “So, do you play an instrument like your sister?” Marcus tore off a piece of his bread.

  “I play the piano, but I haven’t practiced in years.”

  “What made you give it up?”

  “I don’t know that I have given it up forever, but my husband, Richard, who passed away, used to say I was banging and not playing. I think it made him edgy, so I stopped.”

  “Pity.”

  “A pity to please my husband?” I asked.

  “No, a pity your husband saw your music that way.”

  “Oh.” I looked down at my random scribbles, which to my sad surprise were little hearts with angry lines marking through them.

  “So, you’re a widow.”

  “Yes. I am. But I have the one daughter that I mentioned … Julie. She’s in college, so now I have an empty nest. I love her dearly, but she’s gone, at least from my daily life. That’s my saga.” Well, not all of it.

  Marcus stroked his whiskers. “That can’t be all there is to Lily.”

  “My life has been distilled into a handful of facts. But now it includes a desperate search for my sister.” I took a sip of my water. “I can’t tell you how much I want this performer to be her. I’m scared to get my hopes up, though. I mean isn’t there a chance this woman you keep talking about is just someone who looks a little like me? I have such a generic face.”

  “Are you kidding?” He gave me a tsk-tsk. “You don’t have a generic face, and once someone gazes into those smoky gray eyes of yours, we
ll, they’re decimated.”

  I laughed. Spreading it on a bit thick, Marcus.

  “How is it you’ve learned to give yourself no credit? To see yourself in such a negative light?”

  I sighed. “My mother always said that thinking highly of oneself was a sure sign of foolhardiness.”

  “Hmm.” Marcus ran his finger along the rim of his glass, making a musical sound. “Even though I don’t see you as fake in any way, one could make the same argument about false modesty.”

  “Is there another Marcus-ite in there somewhere?”

  “No more of those. Fresh out.”

  “Well, you’re right. I’m not guilty of false modesty,” I said. “When I run myself down I do it with my whole heart.”

  Marcus chuckled, and it rose merrily like bubbles on the breeze.

  I laughed along with him, since his chuckles were contagious. “You’re awfully pleased with yourself.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be pleased?” Marcus asked. “I found an opening in a garden wall.”

  “And what do you see on the other side?” I smoothed a wrinkle from the tablecloth, not knowing for sure if I wanted to hear what he would say.

  “I see a lovely garden … with flowers yet to bloom.” He gave his head a shake of certainty.

  “Humph.”

  “Well, that’s not a very inspiring sound. I’ll bet you’ll never hear that word sung from a hymnal.”

  I grinned. “Don’t mind me. I think it’s just the jet lag talking. By the way, I wonder where the food is.”

  “The service seems slow compared to American standards, because meals aren’t rushed here, they’re relished.”

  “Another Marcus-ite?”

  “No. But I’m sorry you’re hungry. Do you want the last slice of bread?”

  “I’d better not.”

  “It’ll spoil your dinner?” Marcus asked.

  I rested back in my chair and looked at him. “I see how this is going between us. It’s so obvious. You’re like this… I don’t know… this sports jacket, and I’m the itchy black wool sweater buttoned up to my neck so tightly that I can barely breathe. You’re the man who can enjoy life, relish things … make water glasses sing to your touch. While I’m the woman who will always be the flower that’s never quite ready to bloom.”

  “You’re twisting my words.” Marcus shook his finger at me. “But I will say this … except for those marshmallows I saw you eating earlier today, you seem to hesitate to do anything that might bring you pleasure. Why is that?”

  “Because my husband was unfaithful.” The words slipped out as a murmur before I’d had a chance to censor myself. Lily, what have you done? I jerked up, nearly knocking over my chair. “Maybe I should go. I’m sorry. I just—”

  “But why?” He reached over the table and placed his fingers over mine.

  “Because what I said to you just now about my husband … I’ve never said those words to another living soul. Because I’m mortified. You’ve got me hypnotized or something. I wouldn’t normally say anything like that.” Especially not to a stranger.

  “I wish I could hypnotize you. I’d make you stay.” He let go of my hand, and the warmth drained away. “But as it is, I’ll just have to ask you nicely. Please Lily, please don’t go. You shouldn’t need to feel embarrassed by what you said. It was just an honest moment between two new friends.”

  Marcus’s words were just above a whisper, and his eyes, well, I had yet to see him that serious. There didn’t appear to be any signs of mischief left in him. I eased back down in my chair. “I still think you’ve got some power over me that I don’t understand yet.”

  “I can’t imagine how. I’m not nearly as exotic as you seem to think I am, and I assure you the only true authority I have over this life is what I order for breakfast.”

  I grinned. Marcus did have a way of putting me at ease. Maybe that was his sway over me—a disarming earnestness.

  Marcus played with various items on the table, lining them up like toy soldiers. “This is when I go quiet and let you talk. If you want to talk about your husband, I want to hear you out.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up, but …” I fiddled with my napkin, roping it around my little finger like a noose. “There is a relief in saying it out loud, telling someone.”

  “That makes sense.”

  I waited for Marcus to say more, but he went quiet again. Maybe life would feel lighter to talk about it. “I think I have forgiven Richard, but it’s difficult to forget. That kind of disloyalty taints everything like black dye on white linen.”

  The water in my glass shimmied when I picked it up to take a quick sip. “Richard … I always thought it was such a gallant name. He was supposed to be my prince, the one who would rescue me, protect me from harm, but what he did was far from noble. When he gave away his heart and body to another woman after he’d promised to be faithful, well, my hero became a villain.” I held the water glass so tightly I thought it might shatter in my hands. “It still makes me feel awkward to unload all this baggage on you. I barely know you.”

  “How is it any different than telling a counselor you’ve just met? Except that I won’t charge you anything.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” But how would it feel to say all the words out loud? Would it lessen the pain or rub it raw again like sandpaper on a wound not yet healed? I had no idea. “Well, the woman Richard had an affair with was from his office.” Succumbing to my stress mode I hid my hands under the table and began picking at my fingers. “I found out about the affair from a note hidden in his desk at home, and then I decided to confront him. But before I could ask him the whys surrounding the affair … well, Richard died of a heart attack.”

  “That must have been a difficult time.”

  “It was. All of this happened a little over a year ago, but the pain hasn’t gone away. I guess it’s because I was grieving over his death, but I felt angry too, for what he did. Angry at the woman. Maybe even angry at God, since I couldn’t understand why I’d been left with grief as well as so many questions about our marriage. It made me wonder if what Richard and I had all those years was real. Had he loved me, or was he waiting for the right moment to escape? Had he planned on leaving me to marry this other woman? I knew Richard and I didn’t live a fairy-tale life, but it seemed like a good marriage. I thought so anyway. I just wish we’d had a chance to talk, so I could have asked the question all women want to know in my position … the big why.”

  I glanced down at my dark clothes. Maybe the reason I wore funeral-type outfits was that even after I’d said my goodbyes to Richard, something still felt unresolved. Something felt unburied. Too many questions still lingered in the air.

  Amazingly, Marcus was still listening as intently as before. “It does help for someone to hear my story. It wasn’t easy holding it in all those months.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  Before either one of us could say any more, the waitress arrived with two plates of lamb chops and potatoes.

  After my troubling disclosures, my stomach seemed in a quandary whether it should churn or cheer over the food.

  Marcus said grace, a lovely prayer, in fact, which included me and my quest to find my sister. Nothing was said about Richard. We turned our attention to the food as I tried to forget that this man across from me now knew my most painful secret.

  The lamb did a savory melting thing in my mouth, and I closed my eyes for a moment. In some small way I came a little closer to Melbourne in that bite. The noise around us sounded more like laughter. The breeze felt more refreshing than chilling. And my spirit embraced the moment. “I’ve never eaten lamb before.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I like it. Not at all like chicken.”

  I thought Marcus would chuckle but instead he stopped his eating and looked at me. “Since you told me something very private, I’m going to give you something in return. I’ll tell you why I left Dallas and moved to Australia.”
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  “Yes, I’d love to know.” I speared a bite of potato, glad to be using my ears instead of my mouth.

  “Well, the truth is … my family has disowned me.” Marcus set his knife and fork down but didn’t quite look me in the eye. “You see, my younger sister died a year ago, and I’m the one who killed her.”

  That tasty morsel of potato stuck in my throat like a pebble. A big one. I stifled the urge to run. “Oh? That’s pretty heavy, Marcus.” I managed to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Maybe you’d better explain.”

  “I’m not a murderer, traditionally speaking. I know it’s what you’re thinking, and yet what else do you call it when the passenger in your car dies, and the accident was your fault?”

  I calmed myself and swallowed. “While deeply tragic, I’d still call that an accident.”

  “Well, it’s not what my family calls it.” Marcus looked away toward the river and the boats and the tide of tourists strolling along the promenade.

  A couple next to us effervesced with laughter. Their heads dipped and touched, and the outline of their forms almost made the shape of a heart.

  The pleasant vignettes seemed to ease the taut pull of Marcus’s revelation. But he really had allowed me to see into a window of his past. I could tell that the confession had diminished the playfulness in his demeanor and replaced it with a burden that I could not imagine. “Do you mind if I ask how the accident happened?”

  Marcus pushed his food around on his plate but didn’t eat it. “I wasn’t drunk, but I was very tired, which is just as bad. I shouldn’t have been driving. After I had dinner that evening with my family, I needed to go home to bed. But my little sister, Ellie, wanted to go to the movies, and she didn’t want to go by herself. My parents weren’t in the mood to go, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. We all had trouble saying no to her, because she was such a good kid. Anyway, she had her own car, but she asked me to drive. She still wasn’t all that sure of herself as a driver.