Tilting the bottle to empty the last few drops directly into her mouth, she wondered why she wasn’t crying. She felt like it. But she wasn’t.
Just minutes ago I loved James and now . . . I want to kill him . . . how does this happen . . . ?
Staggering into the kitchen, she fumbled in her purse for her cell phone and dialed James as she stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom. She had no idea what she would say, but she needed to say something.
No answer.
She felt mortally wounded. And very, very drunk. Passing out would be her salvation tonight.
The alarm clock broke through her fog: 5:30 a.m. For a moment her only awareness was of a terrible hangover.
Reaching over to the emptiness next to her, she remembered. James has left me.
Sobbing filled the room and grew into piercing wails. She clutched her pillow and, shoulders heaving, buried her face into the soft down. Dampness spread around her head.
Hurt mingled with sorrow, then anger. At times a sense of panic intruded as she pounded the bed with her fist.
She cried for her broken life, her broken dreams, and her broken heart. She cried until she ran out of tears and lay empty, it seemed, of everything.
Painful as it was to lift her head, she reached for the phone and hit the speed dial to her office. Knowing it was too early for anyone to answer, she left voicemail. “Sorry, I’ve got a terrible case of stomach flu and won’t be in today. Probably not tomorrow either, the way I feel right now. I’ll let you know.”
She already knew she would take these two days off before the weekend. Her hangover was just the beginning of her agony.
Turning over, she fell back to sleep until the phone woke her at noon. As fragile as she felt, she saw her mother’s name on call display and knew she had to answer. Her mom was eighty-five, with a heart condition, and Katherine was always a little nervous when the phone rang.
“Katica, edesem, I just called your office. When did you get sick? Was it something you ate last night at the Old Mill?”
Knowing she could not begin to address the truth, Katherine gave a convincing performance as she described a flu bug. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Anyu. I’m sure I’ll be feeling better. Are you okay?”
“Igen, I’m fine, but I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t worry. You know how these things are. A day in bed will fix it.”
“Well, James will take care of you when he comes home.”
It was such a stabbing pain, Katherine could barely hold the telephone.
“Bye.”
Turning the ringer off as she hung up, Katherine lay still while the room spun around her.
“Oh no, not the whirlies . . .” she groaned. Closing her eyes, she willed herself not to throw up.
“I am breathing in. I am breathing out,” she whispered until she felt herself get a grip. This simply does not compute. My entire life has been predictable. This cannot be happening.
Her parents had placed great importance on a simple, predictable life as they rebuilt theirs in Toronto as Hungarian immigrants in 1949. Katerina Elisabeth Varga was born in Toronto on the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the year 1955, Remembrance Day in Canada. They had always reminded her of this special coincidence. This day symbolized peace, and she had brought peace into their lives.
She had grown into a quiet and somewhat serious adult although under the surface there was a distinct sense of humor and avid curiosity about life. She had boundless energy, much of which she put into her love of cycling beginning with her bright-red Radio Flyer scooter at age four. With James, the cycling evolved into a passion and consumed most of their recreational time.
What the hell happened?
Lying in the softly luxurious bed, which she always hated to leave, she felt no pleasure today. Her head hurt. Everything hurt.
Gingerly sliding her legs over the side of the bed, she sat with her head in her hands, hoping the nausea would pass. After a few long minutes she went across the hall to her desk. For a moment she contemplated phoning James again but just as quickly decided against it. Pride, anger, hurt prevailed.
First she decided she needed to call a locksmith, one who would be there that day. Next, a lawyer. She recalled a card she had in her drawer. A friend of Molly’s needed a divorce lawyer a while ago, and James had suggested this one, who it turned out was away until Monday. Katherine wondered whether hiring her was really a good idea but couldn’t think of anyone else. Then again, with a touch of irony she thought, the woman was highly recommended.
She lay back in bed for half an hour, numb, and then threw on some workout clothes before halfheartedly running a comb through her shoulder-length blond hair.
In the kitchen, a wave of nausea washed over her again—partly from the hangover but more so from the gut-wrenching anguish that hit her as she stared at the roses on the island and the note on the floor. Feeling faint, she picked the biggest glass from the cupboard. Pressing the crushed-ice button on the fridge door, she half filled the glass and then topped it up with water.
She drained it in a few gulps. The cold began to clear her head and, with deep breaths, she felt some balance returning. Pouring a refill, she jumped as the doorbell rang.
Moving about his work very efficiently, the locksmith took just over an hour to replace three locks and show Katherine how to reset the combination for the garage.
Turning her new front door lock, she watched him drive off, then without a thought, climbed the stairs to the bedroom, fell into bed, and pulled the covers over her head. Tomorrow would be here all too soon.
Around noon the next day, Katherine dragged herself out from under the duvet and lay staring at the ceiling. Still in her workout clothes, she had slept fitfully for almost twenty-four hours, alternately quietly crying during her wakeful times or simply feeling drained.
She knew she wanted to get up but couldn’t think of a good reason why. What’s the point? she asked as she slowly sat up.
Picking up the phone, she heard the insistent beeping that indicated messages were waiting.
She called the office first, confirming she was still not well.
Her mom needed to know she was okay. That would be her next call after she listened to the messages.
Her cousin Andrea, who was also her very dear and only truly close friend, had left a message. “Hey there, lovebirds! Hope you had a beautiful anniversary evening at the Old Mill. Don’t forget we’re expecting you for lunch on Sunday. Are you bringing your bikes? We thought we might drag you over to a neighbor’s pumpkin patch so you can help pick out the perfect ones to carve for Halloween.”
She swallowed hard, fighting that stabbing pain again. She would have to respond.
The final message was from her next oldest and only other friend, Molly (the Moaner, as James had dubbed her, and not without reason), apologizing for forgetting their anniversary, and sending belated good wishes.
“Oh God,” Kat groaned, realizing she was soon going to have to find words to tell those closest to her what had happened.
Briefly she again considered talking to James. It felt instinctive, like the right thing to do. She shook that thought off. The finality of his words in that damn note cut through, and she knew there was no going back.
Taking a deep breath, she counted to ten to slow her heart rate. Then she forced some normalcy into her voice and phoned her mother.
“Hi, Anyu.”
“Katica, how are you now?”
“I’m feeling much better today, but I’m not going to work. I thought I might pop over later this afternoon.”
“Of course, come for tea. Come whenever. If James is working late, stay for dinner.”
“I’ll come around four and we’ll have tea.”
Swinging her feet gently to the floor, she pushed herself up, stretched long and hard, and headed for the shower.
Before Katherine got into her car, she took a quick inventory in the garage. She couldn’t believe James had
n’t taken his prized possession with him: the S-Works Venge road bike that he spent hours tuning and cleaning every week. He loved that bike. She noticed the car rack was still hanging on the wall and figured he had run out of time packing up his things before she came home.
Obviously that’s what he was talking about in the note . . . that self-serving, self-centered note . . . and he’ll come back for it . . . “When I say he may,” she said out loud, her face tight with anger.
She slammed the door to her silver Toyota harder than she ever had before. The usual twenty-minute drive to her parents’ home in the west end of the city seemed to take forever as she put all thoughts into how she would break her news. Taking deep breaths, she tried to stop crying before she arrived, knowing that would only upset her mother more.
More than once she pulled over to sob, beating her hands on the steering wheel.
Anger as much as anything fueled the outbursts now.
James was a liar and a cheat—this she knew. She wondered if she had really loved him or just loved the idea of being married. They had known each other for so long and become each other’s habit before they ever married. She was beginning to feel like a fool. The midafternoon sky was low and gray. A light but steady drizzle infused a sense of gloom beyond the rhythmic slapping of the wipers.
How is it that less than forty-eight hours ago I thought I loved my husband and he loved me, and now I feel . . . hatred? Is that what it is? I’m not sure it’s hate . . . I hate what’s happening . . . I can’t seem to think past that. How can I suddenly hate him? How could he do this?
She knew it was too much to comprehend at this point.
Just deal with it.
Pulling into the driveway of the small, Tudor-accented house in which she grew up, she sat for a few minutes to gather her thoughts. Katherine’s mother in all honesty had not been very fond of James. Still, this would not be easy.
2
Elisabeth Varga was sitting in her most comfortable chair by the bay window in the living room, a place where she had spent many hours watching life pass by. When she saw her daughter’s car turn into the driveway, she slowly made her way to the front door.
At eighty-five she grudgingly admitted her body was letting her down. Macular degeneration was stealing her eyesight, and her doctor had made it clear that her once-strong heart might not have much left to give her. A widow for just over eight years, a part of her was more than ready to join her beloved Joey. After all they had shared in life, his absence caused an almost constant ache.
The one balm that relieved the hurt was her darling daughter, Katerina. A happy, safe home had been their wish for their daughter, and as the years had passed without a sibling joining her, they focused every effort on being good parents to their only child. From the moment they arrived in Canada, their philosophy revolved simply around one belief: every day is a gift. This they knew only too well.
It was in this refuge Katherine knew she would find solace today. How much good it would do, she wasn’t certain.
The door opened and she fell straight into the waiting arms she knew would be there. Mother and daughter hugged longer than usual, and Elisabeth sensed immediately all was not well. The strong, taut frame pressed against her, but something was very broken.
“Are you still feeling ill?”
Shaking her head and leading her mother to the sofa, Katherine felt the words she had tested on the drive over slip away as she struggled to keep her composure. Within seconds she was weeping as her mother held her tightly.
“Na, na,” Elisabeth whispered as she patted Katherine’s back and rocked her gently.
Feeling strength flow from her mother’s embrace, Katherine eventually pulled her shoulders back, wiped her face, blew her nose, and began to recount the unbelievable.
Elisabeth’s hands trembled as Katherine held them in hers. Her skin was so thin now, like delicate, fragile porcelain to be treasured and protected.
Her mother’s blue eyes, almost a pale turquoise, radiated concern. Katherine looked at her face, knowing every line held a memory of her long life, some of the deeper ones hiding pain too intense to acknowledge. She had been through so much herself and gone on to make such a fine life for her family. Love had motivated her mother in absolutely every action.
This news wasn’t fair to her.
At length Elisabeth pulled a fine cotton handkerchief from the sleeve of her sweater to wipe the tears covering her cheeks, paled by sadness. She patted back her hair, which was pulled into a bun. Once a dark walnut brown, now still thick and the whitest white, this was a nervous habit her daughter knew well for as long as she could remember.
Elisabeth’s disbelief erased the comforting words she had been offering. She sat in silence for some time, looking intensely at Kat or down at her lap, listening to a story she didn’t want to hear.
Katherine talked nonstop, somehow finding the strength to control her voice when it caught. She had moved through a startling range of emotions. Right now she was angry. Totally pissed off.
“I just keep thinking of all the years we were together. Really from the autumn of 1981 until now he has been the only man in my life.”
Elisabeth nodded, remembering those early days clearly. “You weren’t crazy about James at first, nem? It seems to me you took your time warming up to him.”
“Think back, it’s not like I had been a big-time dater. I didn’t have a lot of boyfriends in high school or during my undergrad. I was a bookworm, remember? I liked studying more than dating!”
The conversation took them through the period of Katherine’s dating James to their moving in together in 1982.
“Your dad and I were not happy about that.”
“I know. I felt badly about disappointing you, but we thought we were very cool. Marriage was old-fashioned and unnecessary.”
“What was it young people like you were called then?” asked Elisabeth. “Poppies? Puppies? . . .”
Katherine had to laugh. “Yuppies—young urban professionals.”
But her eyes welled up immediately as she went on to talk about them choosing to get married so they could have a family. They weren’t that cool, they decided.
“Oh, Anyu, I’ve always wondered why it never happened. Why I never became pregnant when no specialist could give us a reason.”
Elisabeth put her arms around her daughter and pulled her close. “Just let the tears come. You need to do that. I know it was such a disappointment.”
“And now James is rubbing my face in it,” Kat sobbed, her voice muffled as she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder.
Elisabeth hugged her more tightly. She had no words for that pain. It would simply all have to work its way out in time.
Two pots of tea later, they sat at the kitchen table alternately looking into each other’s eyes and passing a comment or watching the downpour run out of the eaves trough into the rain barrel by the porch. Elisabeth would take her daughter’s hand from time to time and simply hold it during the silences.
“Stay for dinner, Katica. Keep your old mama company.”
Hesitating for a few seconds, Katherine said, “That’s a good idea. Honestly I don’t feel like going home . . . yet . . .”
“I took some chicken out of the freezer just in case, and if you didn’t stay I would simply have cooked it up and saved it for you.”
While Katherine chopped onions, adding them to the paprika-laced butter melting in the pot, her mother mixed up the batter for her delicious spaetzle. The tiniest hint of garlic was her secret. She sieved the flour and whisked the eggs with her deft light touch before combining the ingredients. The little dumplings would be dropped into boiling water just before the meal was ready to be served.
Chicken broth was added to the sautéing onions, and then chicken breasts and thighs to simmer for just over a half hour. Familiar mouthwatering aromas soon filled the house, and before serving came the final touch of flour-thickened sour cream with a sprinkle of cayenne.
Her mother’s chicken paprikash, with its delicately seasoned creamy sauce, was the ultimate comfort food.
From a very early age, Katherine had sensed how meaningful it was to her mother to cook and bake old familiar Hungarian recipes. Many strong memories revolved around food and meals. Traditions passed down through generations. Although her mother never discussed the war years, she often told her daughter stories of her happy childhood and loving family before it all ended. It was as if a blade dropped, cutting the threads of a beautiful tapestry, leaving jagged and dangling edges that were beyond repair.
Katherine had often gently prodded her parents to write their stories so they would not be forgotten. “What happened will never be forgotten, but to give it life through words is impossible for us,” her mother would respond with sadness.
The last thing she ever wanted was to bring more unhappiness into her mother’s life.
Sitting at the table with her mother now and savoring every mouthful of the familiar meal, Katherine realized how ravenous she was. They attempted to concentrate on eating with a few quiet exchanges about nothing in particular. She knew the shock had been huge for her mother—uh, as it was for me, she thought with a pang. Another reason to want to hate James.
They had shared tears and consolation as best they could. Elisabeth would have her private moments to deal with her confusion and sadness over this loss, this hurt of her daughter’s. Now she would give everything she could, as she always had, to provide love and reassurance about the future. Mothers who had this gift never lost it, no matter what the age, unless a health issue stole it away.
“Na, will you stay tonight? Snuggled down in your old bed?”
The thought of not returning to the townhouse alone was suddenly appealing. It was raining harder than ever now, a good night to stay put.
“Anyu, there’s nowhere else I would rather be right now.”
Mother and daughter clung to each other again for a very long while, rocking gently.
Lying in her old bed a short while later, Katherine couldn’t stop thinking about her relationship with James. She felt they had truly been in love. But then again, she thought, what is love? They started off with attraction and interest, added lust, which turned to passion, built respect, and—she had assumed—actually liked each other. They enjoyed each other’s company, wanted to be together, planned a life together. Why did it change for him and not her? When did it change? It was difficult to move past all the questions.
The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1) Page 2