Winter in Full Bloom

by Anita Higman

  I felt that desperation like Marcus. I felt the confusion too. Our relationship was far enough along that we knew something wonderful was happening, but what would we do now? Lord, give me wisdom.

  Marcus wrapped his hand over mine. “I may be forced to come visit you in Houston.”

  “I would like that … very much.”

  “I’ve been so moved by your determination to reconcile with your family that I’ve wondered if I can’t do the same with mine. You know, somehow make things right, even though my parents don’t appear all that receptive.”

  “That’s such a good idea, Marcus.” I gave his hand a caress.

  “Of course, it could be a disaster, just as you said about taking Camille home.” He grinned. “But I admire your desire to try.”

  A sudden chill whipped up from the river, making me shiver.

  “Let’s get you back to the hotel.” Marcus warmed up my hands. Then he warmed up my lips one more time, but like the gentleman he was, he escorted me back to my hotel as promised. I went up to my room with a strange joy, a mixture of so many emotions I couldn’t categorize them in my usual emotional filing system. They were new ones, the kind you keep close to touch and study and know, not out of reach, hidden away in a bottom drawer or filed away like office data that was rarely used. Guess I’d been a secretary a bit too long. Even my metaphors were clerical.

  Over the two weeks before my departure I spent lots of time with Marcus, and of course Camille joined us whenever she could get off work. By bus, we traveled on the Great Ocean Road to see the Twelve Apostles, which turned out to be spectacular—limestone sentinels jutting up from a sparkling turquoise ocean. We saw miles of eucalyptus woods, and if one looked closely, hugging the branches and gaping down at us were koala bears looking just like stuffed animals. I snapped a bezillion photos to show Julie.

  As the time got closer for my departure Marcus threw in a few more adventures. We toured an old gold-rush town, where we journeyed below ground to see the way life had been for the miners long ago. We explored Melbourne’s aquarium and the famous flea market, and stood happily terrified as we swayed on top of the tallest building in the Southern Hemisphere.

  Then leaving the most enchanting experience for last, we drove two hours from Melbourne to see the famous parade of the fairy penguins. I nearly froze to death, but the three of us bundled in blankets at sunset and watched hundreds of the tiny creatures march out of the waves toward the dunes on Phillip Island—toward home. I remember thinking yes, my time had also come to take my little family home. But with that joy came a sorrow. Saying goodbye to Marcus.

  Each time we went out I sensed a silent countdown. Marcus and I no longer spoke of it, since it was easier not to mention it, but each day had become a small goodbye as we waited for the big one. The one that would surely make me cry a river.

  And then the day came—that day—it fell on an ordinary Monday.

  The taxicab driver put the last of our suitcases into his trunk. Camille said her goodbyes to Marcus, gave him a hug, and slipped inside the cab.

  It was my turn now—the moment of the big farewell.

  Marcus pulled me to him in an embrace, the kind that overflowed with unspoken sentiment. “I should be driving you to the airport. That is, if I had a car and I wasn’t concerned about driving on the other side of the road, and well, not getting you and your sister there in one piece.”

  Dear Marcus. Would he ever recover? I smiled at him. “This is the best way. There’ll be fewer people here when I embarrass myself crying.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, Lily. I’ll miss all of you, even your tears.” He gathered my hair in his hands and brought it around to frame my face. “I wish you’d had more time here. There was still a world to share with you. You only got to see a tiny fraction of Australia. You didn’t even see the Outback or Sydney or …” His voiced faded in the breeze.

  Was he only longing to play the affectionate tour guide with his adoring fan, or were other more profound emotions hiding in his words—the kind that could last a lifetime? I pulled away to look into his eyes. No doubt, great affection radiated in his countenance, but was there love? Since no real declarations had been made, I said, “I just want you to know that if something happens, and you change your mind about coming to Houston, I won’t hold it against you. I promise I won’t shriek at you on the phone or riddle you with guilt or bawl like a baby. Well, I might do that last one.” I chuckled. “But I promise you I’ll be brave.”

  Marcus took me by the shoulders and caught my misty gaze. “Then I must never give you a reason to be brave.”

  “I’m serious.” My chin quivered.

  He kissed my chin and my mouth and then whispered into my hair, “I’m serious too.”

  I breathed him in one last time. Some scent that was fresh and clean, but his touch would be even more memorable—like solid earth covered in a soft green moss. The touch of the man who’d changed my life.

  The cabdriver cleared his throat.

  Marcus cocked his head at the man. “Hey, mate, give us a minute here. Haven’t you ever had to say goodbye?”

  The cabby grinned and shook his head. “It’s your dollar.”

  “Guess it’s time to go.” I stroked my finger along the contours of Marcus’s cheek, memorizing every angle of that emotive, whiskery face of his. I tucked away the moment, wanting to imagine it all the way home, hoping to imagine it always.

  Marcus took hold of my finger and kissed it.

  “I don’t want us to miss our flight. Okay, you’ve got my numbers and home address, so if you do come—”

  “When I come,” he corrected me.

  “For when you come back home to your America.”

  “That’s better. It does have a nice warm ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.” More tears threatened. No matter how we spun the phrases and promises, the moment felt like the closing of a beautiful play—a drama worthy of a standing ovation—but a performance in which the hero and heroine are torn apart for good. I scrunched up my face to keep more tears from streaming down, but they did anyway, against my will.

  Marcus kissed my cheeks where the tears fell.

  “I’ve got to stop crying.” I swiped the tears away and chuckled. “Honestly, I’ve got to go.” I wanted to scream out that I’d changed my mind and I would stay in Melbourne, but we both knew that was ridiculous. All was set in stone, and my main concern had to be Camille, my new family.

  I slipped a letter into his pocket. “For later when I’m gone.”

  “For me?”

  “For you. Well, goodbye, Marcus.”

  He patted his pocket where I’d put the letter. “See you soon … Love.”

  I grinned. Then I turned away from him and scooted into the taxi next to Camille.

  When I looked at Marcus again, the sun had lit his smile. And such a smile—such an inspiration to know that even after all he’d been through with his family that his smile could still come out looking like a sunrise. I wish I’d written more in the letter. It was too short, and not nearly sweet enough. But I’d wanted him to know that my time in Melbourne had been some of the best weeks of my life. Beyond the joy of finding my dear Camille, there had been such dazzling sites shared with Marcus, the exotic foods and unique culture and diverse peoples, and the quieter, holy moments, like evensong. It would all be missed. Every last moment of it.

  Just as the taxi pulled away Marcus picked up his bagpipes and began to play an Irish tune. I had no idea what the melody was, but it sounded sweet and sad, and it would be forever branded on my heart. What a send-off—majestic, beguiling, and so very Marcus. Guess I’d need tiny silver bagpipes to put on my charm bracelet.

  I strained to watch Marcus for as long as I could, until the cabdriver turned the corner, and then he was out of sight. That’s when I rested my head on Camille’s shoulder and the rest of my tears began to flow.

  Even though Camille didn’t seem to know what to do with my pitiful
state, she held to me tightly.

  The words to a beloved Irish blessing came to me then—one Nanny Kate had me memorize as a child—but its bittersweet refrain brought with it as much sorrow as it did consolation.

  “May the road rise to meet you,

  May the wind be always at your back.

  May the sun shine warm upon your face,

  The rains fall soft upon your fields.

  And until we meet again,

  May God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

  Yes, until we meet again. O Lord, please do keep Marcus in the palm of Your hand, but remember our affections and do let us meet again. Let this be the beginning to our lives together and not the end.

  Camille handed me a wad of tissues. “Guess I should have brought another box.”

  I chuckled. “I’ll be okay now. It hurt a little more than I thought it would … this prying my heartstrings loose.”

  Camille looked out the cab window.

  As we rode along, various scenes played out before us—a child swinging between two parents, a camera flashing among friends, someone running late for something that must have been important. Life went on, even when hearts were breaking.

  “Imagine being with your guy for a year and then saying goodbye,” Camille said, still staring out the window.

  Surely she wasn’t still pining after that horrible man. “I’m sorry for the way he hurt you, but somewhere deep down … aren’t you relieved that he’s gone?”

  “But I still miss some things about Jerald.” Camille shrugged. “As crazy as it seems to you.”

  “I didn’t know the man. Hard to judge fully.” It was easier to give her a little leeway on the subject since we were heading far away from him.

  “Do you love Mrs. Gray even though she’s made you miserable?” Camille asked.

  “Yes, but isn’t that different?”

  She looked at me. “How?”

  “I didn’t choose Mother for my mother. It was just the way it happened. I’m trying to make the best of the mom God gave me. You could choose a finer man, one who deserves you.”

  “I suppose. I should choose somebody like Marcus?”

  “Yeah, somebody like Marcus. But not Marcus.” I grinned.

  Camille chuckled and gave me a dainty punch on the arm.

  Could it be that Camille was envious of my relationship? Guess I wouldn’t know until I asked, but that query wouldn’t come today. “We did miss a lot of fun growing up.”

  “We could have played such tricks on our boyfriends,” Camille said, “as we switched back and forth. Loads of mischief. I can just imagine it.”

  The cabdriver gave us a grin into his rearview mirror.

  “I suppose so. Although I didn’t have that many beaus to tease.”

  Camille slipped a cough drop into her mouth. “Hmm. I wonder which one of us was born first.”

  “I have no idea. What made you think of that?”

  “I just thought that whichever one of us was born a few minutes earlier would probably end up acting like a big sister.”

  “Well, I think in our case we need to be each other’s big sis.” I gave her sleeve a tug. “You know, watch each other’s backs.”

  “It’s a deal.” We hooked pinkies and shook. Then we laughed.

  All the various stages of check-in at the airport went smoothly enough, and the long flight to Houston, with a layover in LA, was not nearly so stomach-twisting as the one going over. Not because it felt less bumpy, but because I was a more seasoned flyer, and I had a sister to enjoy. But during the tossing and turning hours, trying to get some shut-eye, my mind became occupied with plenty of other matters—such as how Mother was going to react when she saw Camille, and the other way around. Hard to fathom.

  And then there were the endless little reveries about Marcus, wondering if his promise to visit me would get pushed off so many times that he’d no longer remember why he was coming at all. Or if the intensity of joy we felt now would get watered down in the never-ending flow of daily struggles. Only God knew the answer, but I would need to leave that last question far behind like the vapor trail in the wake of our jet.

  After we landed at Intercontinental Airport in Houston and picked up our bags, we stopped in the garage for my car.

  “Don’t you have a friend to pick you up at the airport?” Camille asked. “It must get expensive to keep your car in the garage.”

  “I didn’t want to bother my friends. To be honest, I don’t have a lot of close friends. You know, the kind you can call up at 3:00 in the morning to go to the hospital?”

  Camille raised an eyebrow as she heaved our suitcases into my trunk. “Or even any friends to take you to the airport at a reasonable hour of the day?”

  “No, not really.”

  “You sound like me. If I had left Australia for good, there weren’t really that many friends to say goodbye to. I can be a loner at times. Not sure why. That’s a part of me I’m still exploring.”

  “Maybe that’s the one thing we have in common with Mother. That she’s had to pay a woman to be her friend.” I turned on the engine and then looked at her for a straight answer. “So, did you leave Australia for good?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ll see how it goes here. It would be a leap for me, but I don’t feel I have all that much to go back to now.”

  I pulled out of the parking garage, and before long we were whirling down the Beltway toward my house in Northwest Houston.

  “So, this is Houston … where I started my life. The palm trees are pretty, and the crepe myrtle and oleander, but it’s more humid than Melbourne. That’s for sure. I noticed the sauna as soon as we left the building.” She gave her blouse a few fluttering tugs to let in some air and then lowered the window. “You’ve got mozzies too.” She shooed out a buzzing mosquito.

  “You might want to switch to natural fibers until it cools down some. Cotton will breathe better in this warmth and humidity.” I grinned. “But you’ll get used to it, just like I was beginning to get used to the cold in Melbourne. But as I’m sure you know, while you all were heading into spring there, Houstonians are moving into fall now. It’ll be a little cooler soon and drier.”

  “I think I should start saying that too … you all with that Texas accent you have.”

  “Well, to say it like a real Texan you have to jam the words together.”

  “Y’all. And I could buy some cowgirl boots while I’m here too.”

  I chuckled. “They would look good on you, especially with your white dress and jean jacket.”

  “Well, whatever would look good on me will look good on you. By the way, is it true that everybody in Texas carries a weapon like the gunslingers in the old West?”

  “Only in your imagination.”

  Camille grinned. “Didn’t think so, but I thought I’d ask.” She stretched and yawned. “Sorry to conk out on you, but I need a catnap. I was too restless to sleep much on the plane.”

  “Go right ahead. With this rush hour traffic you should get a thirty-minute nap.”

  Camille rested her head back and within a short time she was happily snoring away. Loudly, just like I did, enough to frighten small animals.

  I glanced over at her, still amazed that she had actually come home with me. So few things in life worked out that way—like you want them to—but God had ordained that I should have my sister back. And I couldn’t have been more thankful.

  But invariably when I had most of my ducks in a row, and the aviary brood was reasonably happy, I couldn’t celebrate. I had to chase down those last ornery ducks. In this case it was Marcus and that gaping hole he left in my heart.

  Everything I looked at made me think of him. Truth was I already missed him with a vengeance. How could it have happened? If life were a mystery, then love was beyond understanding. It was a puzzle with half of the pieces missing. Some of the pieces got vacuumed up. Others got forever lost under the couch. But the box, oh the picture on the box. What delight God ha
d made when He created love between a man and a woman. Oh, no, there was that word.

  Love.

  While Camille was still deep in slumber my thoughts ran amok. The little-big word love played in my head without supervision. Apparently my thoughts needed supervision. No one could fall in love in three weeks. My emotions had merely spent too much time on the treadmill of jet lag.

  “So, when do you think is the right time for me to spring myself on your mother?” Camille said suddenly in a groggy voice.

  I startled. “I don’t know. Maybe we could go over to her house tomorrow after we’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

  Camille picked up a lock of my long hair and studied it. “You don’t cover your gray, do you?”

  “No. Not yet anyway.”

  “Hmm. I have to, but then I have more gray hair than you.” Camille scooted up in the seat. “All right, we’ll wait until tomorrow to see Mrs. Gray, but if you think I’ll get a good night’s sleep on the eve of when I finally have a chance to give my biological mother a piece of my mind, you’re dreaming.”

  I winced. “The way you worded that just now … well, it doesn’t sound like the comment of someone who wants to reconcile.”

  Camille adjusted the cool-air vent so that it blew right on her. “You are such a dreamer, Lily. I wish I were. You’ll have to teach me. I used to be when I was younger, but I guess life crushed it out of me.”

  “No one’s ever said that before … that I was a dreamer.” Sounded nice.

  “Well, you are.”

  She rubbed her neck. “Besides, true reconciliation includes discussion. Maybe even a heated debate or two. Otherwise it’s anemic and worthless. It isn’t real, and it won’t hold up. It’ll only be made of paper if we don’t get down to it.” She looked at me. “Lily, don’t ever forget, our mother ruined my life.”

  She said the words—our mother—and it was such a unique thing to hear, I grinned.

  “And just what is so funny?” Camille asked.

  “It’s the first time you called Mrs. Gray our mother.”