The Beginnings of a Novel

Well, I'm trying my hand at a longer novel, so I thought I'd share it in sections as it progresses.  I have a good portion so far in longhand, so I'll type it out and post it bit by bit.  Hopefully I'll be able to do it regularly enough to keep you coming back for more.  I'm busier than a beaver right now, so I'll need encouragement along the way!  So for now, enjoy!

Kay's Story (I don't have a title yet)

A lark called in the distance.  A girl looked up, straining to see over the murmuring blue of the long water before her.  She saw a flutter of wings rise against the sun.  Breathing out a sigh, she closed her eyes and a faint smile stole its way across her face. 

            The years past has seen her visit this solitary place in the forest countless times.  It had drawn her with its peace, with its soft, caressing, kind air, with the unexpected joys that tingled their way into their eyes.  It was a place she could lift her heart to the Son and her face to the sun.  She had a wild love for both.  There was not, in any language anywhere, a word billowing enough for the pleasure that filled her when He reached out and warmed her, touching her with rays of truth and grace.  He made her world a glittering dream, dappled with butterflies, flared with flowers, strewn with the beauty of virgin hillsides.  But unlike a dream it was unshakeable, not easily torn from the mind and memory.

            This lone girl in the forest clearing was not ordinary.  Far from it.  To begin with, her outward features had about them a peculiar light that se her apart from others as much as a candle stands out in a room full of blank, cold stones.  A mist of magic and flame hung about her, charging the air all around with a subtle glow.  Not all had eyes to see his light, as many who miss the wonder in a blade of grass, or a leaf against the sky.  But it was there nonetheless.

            If a sleepy squirrel nearby had the words, he might have remarked that her hair fell delicately behind her, like enchanted, golden water.  He might have said that it appeared both softer and lovelier than his tail, and made him a bit resentful of that.  But when she turned, and he saw the form of her profile, and then those haunting blue eyes of hers peer back at him, all resentment fled away and sleep was forgotten.  He felt very small all of a sudden, and struck with a sensation of falling through the air from a great tree, knowing that the landing would be gentle and satisfying.  It was as though this creature before his eyes were what all other creatures should have been and had missed by some strange ordinance.  Or she was what every other creature was meant to set the stage for. 

            Now, if a girl can make a sleepy squirrel feel all these things, she must be far from commonplace. 

            The silence broke with the sound of a short giggle.  A wide grin was shining from her face as she gazed over the water.  She held a pen and paper in hand, and began to write. 

Dear David,

            Where have all the years gone?!  As I sit here reminiscing over so many past joys and sorrows, my heart cannot help but overflow with gratitude to the One who has bestowed on us the treasures of both darkness and light.  Isn’t He wonderful?  Just now I remembered the way you used to get so angry when I hid your shoes whenever I had the chance to give vent to my mischievous nature.  It made me giggle aloud, alone in this beautiful forest.  You know the one.  It is the clearing we have been to many times before, just beyond the Mayhurst fields.  Part of me wishes you were here to enjoy the scent of the pines, and the distance chorus of the frogs.  I can only wonder what you must be doing at present.  I want to imagine that some of my most importunate prayers for you have been answered, but sometimes my heart despairs over the years God seems to have turned a deaf ear, breaking my heart until there are cracks large enough to pour in more patience.  But we must trust in His unfailing love, must we not?  May our hearts rejoice in His salvation.

            I hesitated to write you a letter at all.  You know why.  But in the end it is something that cannot be quenched—a tide that cannot be stayed. 

            It would seem that nostalgia is as pervasive as life itself in this forest.  I can sense it seeping into me, firing memories, both lovely and painful.  Alas, I wish to relive so many of them, and revel in their nectar, savouring each drop with all my being, embracing the whole realm of sweet reality gone by, pulling it to my breast with such resolve and strength that it becomes part of me.  Oh David, I would kiss these memories if I could—kiss them long and slow—as we saw that couple doing at the edge of the Windsor’s meadow when we were young.  Do you remember that?  I’m sure you do, even though you feigned disgust at the time.  They never noticed us, even in the broad daylight.  Oblivious to the rest of the world outside of their universe of pleasure in the other.  In a way I feel that way now precisely.  Reality seems most vivid and real in the dreamlike memories that dance before my mind’s eye as I write.  The insistent present seems more hazy and distant, as an echo in the fog on the empty streets of London at three in the morning.  Why were we up so late?  I cannot recall.  However, I cannot forget what you told me then.  The words were halting and unsure of themselves, yet earnest and true.  Why did you wait so long to tell me that?  Oh David!  The look in your eyes as you said it—I can see it clearly as a May morning by the sea.  O, I miss the sea.  I long for—almost palpably—the times we rambled along the ocean’s edge in Edinburgh.  We were not there long enough to fully grasp all the splashing, rippling, salt-scented magic of that place.  The incessant din and lap and crash of the waves—such are my memories of you, never ceasing to break upon the worn shores of my heart’s dearest annuls.  Those waves in Scotland truly held the lore of a thousand legends.  The way they “gushed pearls,” as you used to say, streaming into our consciousness like a woman wild with gifts.  Even though Sylvia was with us for most of those moments on the shore, and I fought jealousy, the recollection still shines as one of my fondest.  How is Sylvia, David?  Stephen has asked about you of late, as have mother and father.  What shall I tell them?  I feel embarrassed to admit that I have little to no news of you.  Rosemary and Violet send you their love—they always make a point o remind me of that when I see them.  Oh, and I wish you could see little Frankie.  He has grown so much since he last saw you.  He still remembers you, David—as do most people who only have had momentary exposure to your person.  You seem to be rather unforgettable.  That is my problem as well.  Sometimes I wish I could forget you; then the ache might finally subside.  But I cannot forget you anymore than I can stop loving you.  And that love is a as persistent as those memories crashing in on me again and again, rushing, swirling glassy light, carving in the hardest stone, smoothing and refining the sand, tireless.  

....

My Husband is a Mind-Reader

I came home from a job I have tutoring yesterday to supper nearly ready to come out of the oven, coffee brewing, the appropriate drinks (milk for Brad, water for me) already poured and put out at our respective places, and a husband smiling over his good work.  How did he accomplish this without any instruction, without even knowing where I was and when I'd be home?  He was excited to share with me his thought process.

"I came home and you weren't here.  I didn't know where you were so I walked over to the calendar - 'Ah, she's at tutoring.  I wonder what she had in mind for supper.'  So I remembered that you had a little list somewhere and came over here to scan the counter for it.  Aha!  Green sticky note with 'meals for the week' written on it.  Since they weren't assigned to any specific day, I thought I would put in the frozen pizza.  Then I thought I'd better check to see if you didn't have something else in mind.  I looked in the fridge to see if you'd taken any chicken out or cut up some vegetables already. Nope!  So I made the pizza."

"Babe!" I cried, "You're sooo smart!" 

He grinned back at me like the cutest proud little boy ever.  "Yup," he affirmed.

"We are like, successful at life!" I exclaimed.

"Soo organized," he agreed.

We hugged and jumped around the kitchen like frolicking children and then sat down ;ike good, civilized folk to eat our meal.  And so went my joyous arrival home from work.

The Cafe Story finale

Such apparent turmoil wrestled behind Crystal’s dark eyes.  I wondered what had gone on between that third meeting and now and what it was that ate away at her every time she gazed into the fire...

“So, you guys were sitting where we are now, and you were picking at tidbits about him?” I gently reminded.

“Yes.  He asked for my email address then and permission to write me.  He’d love to have me read over some things he’d written for my input, if I were willing.   I was willing.  I thought it would be a great way to get to know him more, despite feeling completely uneducated and naïve compared to him.  He said he would appreciate the freshness of my opinion.  He started sending me smaller articles he’d been working on - theological and linguistic papers.  His writing is brilliant and fluid and lovely.” 

Crystal trailed off.  The trace of a frown befell her finespun features.  She continued, “We began sharing little highlights from our days back and forth too – visions of glory, precious means of grace… Then struggles with school and schedules and the dreariness of the barren winter outside compared to the ever vibrant spring of our souls.   For months we carried on this way, into true spring and the fullness of summer, very close friends.”

“He didn’t have a girlfriend or anything?” I inquired.

“No.  No one in all his years had caught his interest enough for him to seriously consider them.”

I gave her my best frown of incredulity.  “Not in England, not in the States, not here had he found anybody who remotely interested him?”

Crystal smiled.  “He’s an incurable idealist, it’s true.  His parents have one of those magical, mysterious loves – the kind you write books about.  He’s seen it first-hand.  He can’t settle for anything less.  His parents only found each other in their thirties and he’s resigned himself to wait as long as it takes to find a love like that.  He has good friends, good books, good work, good ambitions.  Of course, he feels the need for a wife - feels keenly how it is not good for man to be alone-”

“A wife?  Shouldn’t he start with a girlfriend?  He sounds so serious.”

“He’s a serious sort of guy.  He’s not interested in dating for the sake of dating.”

I seemed to recall having heard about these kind of people once.  Some guest speaker at church had a message containing similar ideas.  He hadn’t been received well and I’d never met any of these sorts personally before.

“And you were both still just friends at this point?” I asked.

“Yes,” Crystal nodded, “I knew nothing more could ever come of our friendship, despite his rampant charm and our seemingly flawless compatibility.  I’d never had such a good friend before, whose thinking meandered on the same plane and paths as mine, who was passionate - rather than mocking -about all the same things.”

“What about from his point of view?”

“Well, I never imagined he could be interested in me in any way beyond friendship.  He spoke of others girls in his department easily enough, sharing his latest suave moves and irresistible lines.  It all merely delighted me.  His presence, his zeal, all delighted me.  I’d read of men like him and here was one before me, a good friend of mine.  I felt so fortunate just to know him.”

“But he never said anything that might make you think he was interested in you more deeply?”

“Oh he said plenty.  Early on he took to beseeching me on random occasions after a good talk or rather splendid email, ‘Marry me’ or ‘Come with me to Peru and be my wife’.  I just laughed and finally grew used to such petitions.”

I stared blankly at her.

“What?” she asked.

I let out a huff of exasperated breath and threw up my hands.  “Hello!?  Why would you think he was joking?  Why wouldn’t he be interested in you Miss Gorgeous?  Miss Smart and Lovely and Fascinating and Full of Faith?  Why would he find you places and want your opinion and want to get to know you so well?  You are naïve!”  I let my hands fall in a loud, clumsy way.  I looked out the glass front door against which the rain still fell, skewing my sight of the road and cars moving outside.

A few minutes passed.  Crystal had remained quiet.  I finally turned to look back at her again, only to see her hastily wipe away a tear and open her mouth to speak again.

“I didn’t want to fall so helplessly and unquenchably in love with him.  I knew full well that my dad would never approve of such a romantic interest.  I didn’t think I was close to crossing that line.”

I looked at her with sympathy.  “What changed?”

She sighed.  “For my birthday last September he gave me a copy of the book he’d written that was all ready to be published.  He had dedicated it to me.”

With this, she went into her brown satchel again to bring out another book.  She turned a few pages in and showed me the dedication:

To the redeemed near-drowned rat.  May you always know God’s umbrella of grace, comfort, and protection around you.  I have an unending debt of gratitude to you.  Thank you.

“It just hit me then, with a wave of force, that I completely loved him and, shortly after, that I’d gotten myself into a terrible situation.”

“Terrible situation?  Why?  He’s sensational!  Extraordinary!  He loves you!  Crystal, seriously – where’s the problem?  Please don’t tell me you’re going to let your dad’s crazy preferences dictate your life.  You’re not even still Catholic really then, are you?”

“Abby – shh!  No, listen, you don’t understand-”

“I don’t understand?  I don’t understand that you’re perfect for each other and he’s the man of your dreams here to sweep you away into a great love!  Listen, chica, this doesn’t happen everyday.  The vast majority of us over here on Average Street and Mediocre Boulevard have convinced ourselves that that whole thing - that kind of great love - doesn’t exist.  It’s the only way we can attempt to pretend that our lives are good and happy, and not be stung every moment by the plummeting realization that we’re missing out on something significant and better.”

“Abby, please,” Crystal implored, stopping me, “I mean, you are missing out of something significant and better, but it’s not this, it’s not human relationships.”

“What?”  I asked, pleading for her to make some sense of this.

”Just hear me out.  Please,” Crystal said, demanding my eye contact and commitment to listening.  I gave a small nod and she continued, “This all happened last September, remember.  From there, I watched and listened more carefully to everything Jack did and said.  It became apparent to me that when he told me of his latest episode of charm, he would carefully consider my reaction and sulk in posture just the tiniest bit when I merely laughed with him and reminded him of his honorable intentions.  I began speaking more about my future - finishing school, getting my teaching certificate, getting some experience before applying to go to Africa or Papua New Guinea to teach literacy – any place far from Peru.  He took the hints and retreated from me slightly, found me in the library less often, showed up to walk me to the bus less often.  It killed me, slowly, more each time, everyday less that I would see him.”

“Oh Crystal, why?”  I moaned, sinking down into the chair.

She carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“It got to the point where I didn’t hear from him in a week – unheard of for us.  Then one absolutely dreadful grey, wet day in November, I was again walking to the bus stop, without a jacket.  I’d left my umbrella at home by accident, having too many books to carry.  Soon, the sound of the rain changed once more as between it and me rose a shield of black umbrella.  I merely waited for the words and sure enough – ‘What – no umbrella?  No jacket?  On a day such as today?  Madness!  Don’t they teach you anything in these schools?’  The same lopsided grin met me with that contagious playful glint in his eyes.  ‘How are you Jack?’ I asked him with earnest.  As we walked to the stop and waited for the bus, he proceeded to tell me of his latest assault of charm on unassuming Imogen Maguire.  He got her with the umbrella rescue, too.”

I scoffed and wait for her to continue.

“She was very impressive – is doing her Masters in Linguistics same as him, for the same purposes.  She’s well-read, a musician – pianist-” 

                “Ugh,” I injected.

                “I know.  She grew up in Ireland; they went to the same university, apparently, but never knew each other over there.  He was going to accost her at her place of work the following Friday.”

                “And how did that go?”

                “Swimmingly,” Crystal smiled and turned sideways in the chair, crossing her legs up over one of its arm and facing the dim fire directly.  “She’s splendid.”

                “And since then?”

                “They’ve talked ever since.  He won’t get into anything quickly, I know.  I see him at least every week.”

                “And how do you feel about him now?”

                I watched her eyes follow the dwindling flames.  Her expression was still.  Her eyes filled enough to skew their azure colour, resembling the glass of the front door.  She looked down and blinked; tears consequently poured out and down her rosy cheeks.

                “I love him fiercely with every fiber of my heart.  I know I am still young and indeed naïve, but I think I also have something of an old soul, at least since my mother died,” she looked into her hands, at her mother’s ring.  “I can’t imagine loving any mortal man more than I love him.  It consumes me.  I still think about him all the time, and write, and give him my advice on his papers.”  She sighed and closed her eyes, resting her head on the back of the chair.

                “But why? Crystal, please, you have to explain this to me.  I’m at an utter loss here,” I begged, weakly.

                Leaving her head there, she but smiled to herself and then opened her eyes.  “Abby, you may think this is a great love, that it is of that significant and better kind that people like to deny exists.   But it is small in comparison to the love of Jesus Christ to me.  You might, at this point, call them fanatical or even crazy, the beliefs I’ve come to hold, but I count them and Him to be the most precious, most important parts of my whole life.  I couldn’t trade them for anything.  He is my life.”

                “Okay, but why is that in contradiction with Jack?  Doesn’t he believe the same things too?” I asked.

                Crystal smiled, “Yes, he does.”  She turned to look at me, “But my dad doesn’t yet.”

                “What?  Why does he have to?  How does that stand in the way of you and Jack?”

                “The Bible says to honour your father and mother.  I cannot be a hypocrite and go against his wishes while I live under his roof and, more importantly, while I work and pray to the end that he will come to see and love the truth in the Word of God he hears so often.  This isn’t just a matter of opinions, Abby.  It’s life and death, heaven and hell.  It’s too important and the love that God has given me for Himself is too unsurpassable.  There’s no other feasible way to go.”

                I blew the air out between my tight lips, shaking my head.  A soaring tale I had indeed heard.  Forgotten were all thoughts of football and loud men and pizza and twelve days of rain.  Though I could not identify with her reasoning, I could follow her logic, see what these things meant to her, and sympathize. 

                “So, what do you do?”

                Crystal turned her resting head to look up at the ceiling, understanding the question.  “Some days I’m fine and can focus on school and home and reading.  On others, it feels like shackles of iron arrest and weigh down my heart to an indescribably low level.   Some days I am thrilled that such a man and such a love exist.  Others I grovel before God in prayer, asking that he would take away my feelings for him.  I’ve prayed that much, for a long time, though, and haven’t known any relief.  But my love for my heavenly Husband grows each day and that gives me joy and hope.  I wouldn’t be anywhere if not for Him, Abby.”  The corners of her lips rose in a small, meaningful smile, even as the tears still shined in her eyes.

                We talked about a few more menial things before parting that afternoon.  Jean came by to collect our mugs.  I got on my jacket.  Crystal was going to stay and read for a while longer.  We hugged.  I held onto her little frame.

                Opening that clinking door on the way out, I looked back to see a trace of sky blue at Crystal’s feet – the umbrella was lying on the floor beside her.  She looked up from that black leather-bound book, beamed one last smile my way, and waved.  I waved back, stepped out into the deluge, and heard the door clink with a jingle as it closed behind me.  Back to Average Street and Mediocre Boulevard, but with many significant and better thoughts to turn over in my head.

The Cafe Story continued

She looked into those beloved, rolling flames a moment longer, before taking a breath, and beginning...

“Well, despite my bent toward all things romantical and dramatic, I’ve actually always been fairly level-headed and pragmatic when it comes to men and relationships.  I mean, in high school I was simply too busy with school and choir and such to give guys much attention, but I also knew I would not find one whom my soul loved among that barrel of monkeys,”  she shook her head, rolling her eyes with a smile.  I smiled back in understanding.

“I started a few courses part-time at Corpus Christi,” she continued, “because I needed to work and save up money to continue in school.  That’s when I first found this place and applied for a job.  The cozy, quiet atmosphere suited me and I made some good friends.  That was probably the closest I first got to being in a relationship.”

“Oh?”  I asked.

“Yes,” she smiled, “Not Jean, though.  He didn’t start here until after I left.  No, this was a guy named Noel, and I shouldn’t have been interested in him.”   She knit her eyebrows together, trying to remember that time.  “It was mostly just that we got along so well.  We were both greatly affected by the weather.  When it was excessively grey, we would take turns cheering the other up with a novel concoction of espresso and various flavours.  We shared poems back and forth, our own and others’, to read on breaks and quoted random lines at opportune times to unsuspecting customers.  It was… just delightful and easy all-around.”

“And why shouldn’t you have been interested in him?” I queried.

“We had a lot in common, it seemed, but disagreed on things that were much too foundational to our very lives and hearts.  We talked about these things through and through but in the end, he didn’t take them seriously enough, got frustrated that I wouldn’t budge at all, and then decided to assume a rather laissez-faire attitude about everything.  We continued to work together, just not with the same level of close camaraderie.

“So I continued with my courses and working, into second year, still part-time.  It was one of those gross, wet days – like today really – that I met Jack,” Crystal paused here and took in a breath.  “I was hurriedly trudging from the library toward the bus stop, keeping my head down hanging over my books, in attempt to keep them somewhat dry.  The rain was coming down in a very wet way – I mean, big, sopping drops.  Then suddenly, the sound of their falling became louder and muffled.  Confused, I looked up to see that a big, black umbrella had come out of nowhere and was surrounding me.  The person that was holding this umbrella caught up with it and me and was shaking his head in a very flummoxed fashion.  He said, ‘What – no umbrella?  No jacket?  On a day such as today?  Madness!  Don’t they teach you anything in these schools?’”  Crystal chuckled to herself.  “I explained to him that it hadn’t been raining in the morning when I’d left.  He asked if I’d lived in Vancouver long.  I said, ‘All my life’.  He shook his head and told me I should’ve known, then, and been prepared.  All this was in such a pompous, patronizingly baffled tone, I was much shocked.  My days to and from and around school have always been rather quiet affairs.  I read on the bus, attend classes, study in the library.  It’s all very quiet, you see.  So to have this stranger bombard me, with rebuking no less, ruffled my coiffed feathers not a little, or so I described it in my journal later.  He accompanied me to my bus stop and seemed in no rush to leave.  The bus wasn’t there yet and there was no other undercover place to take refuge from the terrible rain.  I told him thank you and he needn’t feel bad about going if he must.  ‘Agh,’ he gruffed, ‘but what would become of you?  I’d give you five minutes before you turned into the soggiest, most miserable drowned rat there was ever seen.  It would be too much a shame, with your lovely soft-curling hair.  Besides, I couldn’t go on calling myself a gentleman if I left you now, could I?’”

“Oh Crystal!” I laughed merrily, “He didn’t really say that!  Come on.  You made this up.  ‘Soft-curling hair’?”

“Abby, believe me, I know.  It’s… true – what can I say?  He’s not like most men…”

“Well, what happened from there?” I asked.

“I asked him if it was his habit to rescue silly jacket-less girls from downpours.  He said of course, how could he let pass such brilliant opportunities to meet pretty girls?  I laughed and said he was a charmer then.  He looked at me seriously from the corner of his eye and nodded in the affirmative.  ‘But not an insincere charmer, no,’ he said, ‘I have the most honorable of intentions’.  His conscience wouldn’t cease to prick him painfully, he explained, if he hadn’t had the most honorable of intentions.  Then he asked me what I was, if he was a charmer.  I told him, ‘Not more than a pile of dust with a bit of soft-curling hair’.  He nodded gravely, agreeing that it may be so, but what else?  At this point, the moan of the approaching bus sounded and I retrieved my bus pass from my purse.  The bus stopped, I moved toward the opened door, looked back, smiled, and told him, ‘Redeemed!’  Then I got on the bus and off I went.”

I wondered at this mystery of a girl before me.  What an odd thing to say.  If I’d been Crystal, surely I would have told him ‘a wistful dreamer’ or ‘an old soul’ or something of the like that suited her equally well.   As for ‘redeemed’, well I’d heard that term before at church surely.  But weren’t we all redeemed?  What difference did that make? 

“And you just left him?” I asked.

“Sure.  My bus was there.”

“But what about his name or anything?  How would you find him again?”

“Why would I need to find him again?”

“Because he was extraordinary!  You never meet men like that!  Weren’t you interested?”

“Of course he caught my interest.  You never meet men like that.  But there was the most peculiar normalness at the same time around the whole experience, not that it wasn’t thrilling, but like we should’ve expected it in some way.  I thought of him the whole bus ride home – didn’t even take out a book.  I thought of the alternatingly playful and serious glint in his rich blue eyes.  I pictured the way his dark hair fell this way and that over a very masculine, jagged hairline.   I marveled at how distinguished and rather formally he dressed and gathered that he must be several years my senior.  But then, later that night, I forced him out of my head and returned to my studies, surmising that I’d likely not see him again.  He didn’t go to Corpus Christi, I knew that, so he was likely in or around UBC somewhere else, doing something, and with what a city it is out there, I’d probably never see him again.”

I smiled knowingly, “But you did, right?”

Crystal smiled, too. “Yes I did, but not for a few weeks.  I carried on as usual, studying, working, taking care of things around the house, spending time with my dad.  Then one day, studying in the library, somebody pulled out the chair across from mine, sat down and asked, ‘So, ‘redeemed’, hm?  Explain yourself.’  I looked up to meet those same piercing eyes across the table from me, engaging in conversation like the weeks of time between hadn’t occurred.  I followed suit and told him what I meant by ‘redeemed’.  I told him of growing up Catholic and my mother passing away, my consequent shift into a quieter, more inquisitive nature.  I’d gotten into biographies at the time, to be taken up with others’ lives and think less of my mother-less one.  It was through stumbling across some missionary biographies that I began to see what truly godly people looked like and realized that I surely didn’t live like them and neither did the people at our church.   I examined more closely what we claimed to believe and what they believed and found myself increasingly drawn to their God-besotted ways of life.  During those hours in the library at my high school, major shifts in my outlook and soul took place and I knew I’d never be the same again.  I emerged from high school determined to one day be a missionary, taking God’s Word to those who needed them in other places in the world.”

“What did your dad say about this?”  I asked, slightly nervous.

“Well, much of this I didn’t share with him at the time, especially my desire to go and do missionary work.  You can probably imagine, with how he is and with my mom gone, that it will not be an easy thing to broach when the time comes,” Crystal explained, leaning back in her chair.

“And you were telling this to the guy?  You said his name was Jack, right?”

“Yes, but I still didn’t know it at the time.  After telling him about my life, he asked all manner of questions about what I’d come to believe.  We talked theology all afternoon, though I didn’t get to hear much of what he thought.  By the questions he asked, I knew he must’ve been a Christian too.  After a few hours, he promptly rose as if to leave, but before he did, he picked up an item he’d had on the floor beside his bookbag.  He came over to my side and propped this thing against my chair, ‘so I could avoid the shame of the ruin of my soft curls in the future’.”

“An umbrella?”

“Yes.  A big sky blue umbrella with lovely dashes of white clouds on it.”

“And you still didn’t know his name at that point?”

“The umbrella had a tag on it on which he’d written, ‘No drowned rats allowed!  -Jack’.”

“Huh.  Like, where did he come from?  Was he studying at UBC then?”

“Those details I found out at our next meeting.”

“And that was…”

“Again, a few weeks later.  I was here, working, wiping down the counter.  I looked up only upon hearing. ‘So what would the barista recommend for a gentlemanly Puritan soaked and chilled to the core by this dreadful incessant rain?’  I told him a seat next to the fire and some dry clothes.  He condescended that he meant what should he drink.  I told him to go sit and I’d bring him something.”

“What did you make him?”

“A caramel apple cider.”

“Not coffee?”

“He didn’t seem like a coffee drinker and I was right, he wasn’t.  I asked him then why he came to a coffee shop and he said that picking the brain of soft-haired baristas was a favourite pastime, but I said he wasn’t getting away with that.  It was me who was going to do the picking this time.  I still had about twenty minutes left of my shift so I got back to work and he waited, reading in the meantime.  This was only the third time I’d seen him, over the course of a good many weeks, but I marveled as I restocked items around the counter that there was something so entirely natural and familiar about seeing and talking to him.  However, like I said, I’d never met anyone like him before in my life.

“I finished cleaning, and restocking, hung up my apron, brought my own coffee over, and set in to ask him some questions for once.  Where was he from?  How long had he been in Vancouver?  What did he do?”

“And?” I asked.

“He grew up in Washington, moved to England with his parents late in high school – his dad’s work was transferred there.  He did his undergrad degree there, then went to seminary in the U.S.  Now he is here doing another post-grad degree at UBC.”

“So how old is he?”

“Twenty-eight,” Crystal answered, raising her eyebrows.

“And you really are twenty-”

“Twenty-one, yes.”

“What on earth does your father think of this?” I exclaimed.

“We’ll get to that.  I then asked him about favourite/most influential books, actual favourite pastimes, etc., and found we had much in common, down to exact obscure books and favourite things.”

“Like?”

“Oh where to start… C.S. Lewis, L.M. Montgomery, different bands, specific verses of specific hymns, the smell and feel of a fire, ladybugs, missions, reading cozily on wretched, socked-in days like this, Puritans, other classics, pumpkin cheesecake, chess, sovereignty…”

I nodded, following along.

“It was after this meeting that I flounced home in a rather wind-swept fashion, apparently smiling absently to myself throughout all of supper.  Dad asked what the smile was for.  I smiled more deeply, I suppose, and told him I’d met someone very interesting. Yes, a boy (though definitely a man and not a boy).  Yes, I met him at school.  Yes, he was “religious”… ‘Catholic?’ my dad asked.  I told him he was an evangelical Christian and my dad’s countenance darkened a few notches.  ‘Just a friend?’ he asked.  ‘Of course, daddy,’ I told him and kissed him.  ‘Good.  You know what I think about that,’ he said, patted my leg and rose to take care of the dishes.”

 “Really?” I asked, taking my turn to raise eyebrows, searching Crystal’s face.

“Yes.  He’s French, Abby.  He’s very Catholic - you know that.  I always knew his opinion of the matter, with regard to boys, but it never really affected me before because I’d never thought of being in a relationship.  And I wasn’t thinking of that then, either.  I’d only met Jack on three occasions; I still didn’t know him.”      

“Yeah, but he was special – that’s obvious,” I countered.

“Of course.  Of course Jack is special,” Crystal said quietly, pointedly.  Her furrowed brow took in the glare of the small fire, thinking, pondering. 

Such apparent turmoil wrestled behind Crystal’s dark eyes.  I wondered what had gone on between that third meeting and now and what it was that ate away at her every time she gazed into the fire...

The Cafe Story

                The door clinked with a jingle, closing behind me as I escaped into the little café on Columbia Street.  I shook off my jacket, holding it away from my somewhat dry clothes.  It was supposed to be waterproof, my jacket, but must not have been made for the kind of rain that is Vancouver’s.  Grizzly, incessant rain had pummeled down twelve days in a row at this point, causing the January Blues to roll unabated into February. 

                My gaze caught Crystal’s delighted smile as she looked up at my arrival.   Tucked into an overstuffed chair by the hearth where a cozy fire crackled homely was my coffee date and excuse for getting out of the house.  The men, guzzling beer and whooping for their favourite team, had not even acknowledged my departure when I called out “Goodbye! Enjoy the game!” and slipped out.  Steven had earlier permitted me to take my leave providing my deluxe home-made pizza and superior wings had been prepared and left to keep warm in the oven.

                “Abby!” Crystal Labrec exclaimed, rising to greet me.  She hurriedly took my sopping jacket, hung it over a nearby banister, and dragged over a twin overstuffed chair so it was situated appropriately across from her own, all the while never letting her beaming face leave mine.  “It’s so good to see you!  You look wonderful!”

                “Thanks,” I said, shaking my head, not believing her, and putting my purse down, “So do you!  How are you?”

                “Perfectly well,” she replied, sinking back into her chair, looking at me sidewise with that glowing smile, “And you?  How are you?  How is life?  How is Steven?”

                “Ah, you know.  Fine.  We’re fine.  Steven’s busy working.  I’m busy with work.  Nothing new really.”

                “I see, I see,” she nodded, as if I’d told her a mystery of excitement and lore and not the humdrum basics of our very un-extraordinary lives.

                Crystal bounced with a sudden realization.  “You must be freezing.   And thirsty.  What would you like to drink?”

                “Oh, just a medium roast.  But I can get it, don’t worry.”

                “No, no!  It’s my treat.  You just sit here and de-thaw and I’ll be right back,” she asserted with merriment in her eyes as she flitted off to the counter. 

                I watched that little thing as she spoke to the sole employee, ordering my coffee.  We had met when Crystal was only eight and I was thirteen, she an only child and me the ideal babysitter-next-door.  She was easy to watch and I willingly gave up weekend evenings to look after her rather than hang out with friends, despite the stingy pay.  Crystal always had epic tales to dazzle me with, and she would tell them in full fair maiden attire.  The unfinished basement held caves for secret clubhouses.  When the electricity went out during a storm one night, we huddled in our fort with flashlights and cookies, me telling her about high school (she could never get enough “juicy details”) and her telling me her life dreams.  She was going to be a teacher, for then she would have an audience of students every day, and write novels in the evenings.  She had determined to have a great love that would sweep her off her feet, a man whom she would love “as her own soul” and with whom her soul would be forever “knit together” (presumably Crystal’s father had been reading to her of David and Jonathan’s friendship and, word hound that she was, she hungrily adopted these lofty phrases into her vocabulary and used them at every possible turn).

                Things changed much for Crystal’s family when her mother passed away unexpectedly in a car crash one unfortunate winter night.  She and her dad grieved.  We brought over casseroles and tried to be of some comfort.  Then my dad got a job offer in North Vancouver and we were no longer neighbours.  I started my senior year in a new high school and Crystal entered grade seven a sadder, quieter little girl. 

                Busy with friends, grad activities, and extra-curriculars, I didn’t think of Crystal much.   My mom would periodically call her dad to see how he was doing.  “Fine, fine,” he told her, a rather closed, private man he was.  He eventually said less and less and so she eventually stopped calling.  I hadn’t heard from the Labrecs until Facebook notified me that a Crystal Labrec was requesting me as a “friend”.  Her accompanying note expressed her exasperation at trying to find me, seeing as my name changed when Steven and I were married.  She’d thought of me on an off for years, tried to find me, couldn’t, finally ran in to my brother at Superstore and acquired my new name. 

                It had been nine years since I had seen her but not much had changed really.  She hadn’t grown in stature since she was twelve, keeping her at a relatively humble height, and her hair flew in the same twirling waves it always had.  Though she did not have on the attire of various revered princesses of old, her purple blouse rippled elegantly as she moved with the same unmistakable feminine flare.  She wore no jewelry save for a simple gold band on her right hand – her mother’s wedding ring perhaps.  It seemed the luminance of her eyes, however, eclipsed any sparkle a mere jewel could have.

                I shook my head, wondering at these memories, a part of my life I hadn’t recalled for so long.  Time is such an odd thing.  My life now was so even and predictable compared to the times of rapturous adventure which were babysitting Crystal.

                A ring of pure delectation echoed in the small, empty café, and I looked to see Crystal laugh, receive a coffee - presumably mine - from a dark, trendy-looking guy.

                “Do you know him?” I asked as Crystal returned to our warm nook of comfort, setting a steaming mug before me. 

                “Yes.  That’s Jean.  He’s a student here from France.  I try to practice my French on him, which usually leads to a good fit of giggles.”  She sighed happily and sank into her chair.

                “Is he your boyfriend?”  I asked, cautiously picking up the hot mug.

                “No, no.  I have no boyfriend,” she admitted, looking into the red flames of the fire.

                “Really?  What are you now – twenty-one?  And no ‘great sweeping love’ has found you yet?” I teased her.

                She paused for a moment, her features unchanging.  I sipped my coffee, which was surprisingly delicious.

                “Is this regular coffee?”  I interjected her silent thoughts.

                “Americano misto actually.  I thought you’d enjoy the treat.  Fuller flavour, isn’t it?  I love them,” she explained.

                “Yeah, I like it,” I said, taking another sip.  “So, tell me!  What are you up to?  How was high school?”

                “Oh please first tell me about you?  You’re married!  Did you go to school?  Where do you live?” she begged. 

                “Well, there isn’t anything too exciting to tell really.  Steven and I met in youth group when I was in grade twelve, liked each other, dated for a few years, got married.  Not much to it really.  I did a business associates degree at Cap because it was close to home.  We’re still on the North Shore.  Bought a condo last year.”

                “That’s great!” Crystal smiled again, looking ever so happy for me, asking with her eyes if I agreed that it was indeed great.

                “Yeah, for sure.  I don’t know.  We’re happy.  We like having friends over.  Still try to make it to church,” I nodded along with each boring sentence coming out of my mouth.

                “Do you enjoy church?” she asked intently.

                “Ah, you know.  It’s good to go, right?  We try to help out here and there with functions and such but our lives don’t revolve around it.”

                “Hm,” she sounded, holding her half-full mug and remaining silent once more.

                “Not like your dad, I guess,” I put in.  “Is he still all serious and Catholic?”

                “For now,” Crystal half-smiled and set down her mug, sitting back and crossing her legs. 

                “Do you still go with him?”

                “Yes.  It would dishonor him much if I didn’t.  I teach a Sunday School class of young girls, try to shine a little true light in a dark place.”

                My eyebrows furrowed slightly. 

                “So what is Steven like?”  Crystal asked, shining again that full inquisitive smile.

                “Crystal, you will not get any soaring tale from me,” I said, smiling and shaking my head.  “We met, we wooed – if you can call it that – we made an exchange of vows.  We’re married.   We’re content.  Life’s not so bad!”  I said, trying to sound carefree and satisfied.

                “’Not so bad’, hm?” she mused, looking into the fire once more. 

                I followed her gaze and for a moment let myself be hypnotized by the slowly roving flames.

                “It’s nice here,” I broke in.  “Do you come here much?”

                “Oh yes.  I come here a lot these days just to read and try to progress to bilingual status.”

                “Were you reading when I came in?”

                “Of course.”

                “An epic romance?”

                “Essentially,” she answered, taking the black leather-bound book from the table and placing it in her worn-looking brown satchel, to pick up her coffee again.

                “So, really?  No sweeping love, yet?  I mean, you’re a gorgeous young lady!  Surely you’ve met some nice guys at school?”  I prodded.

                “I’m at Corpus Christi College in my last semester of their university transfer program, moving on to UBC in the Fall.  Sure there are nice guys there, but none that I would consider dating,” she explained in a conservative manner.

                “Picky are you?”  I asked knowingly.

                “Of course.  You can’t have your soul knit together with just anybody you know.”

                I smiled, glad she remembered and was still the same little Crystal I once knew.

                “There’s really no one you’re interested in?”  I asked.  Now, usually I was not so nosey, so insistent.  Perhaps I was aching too much for one of her old gallant stories, anything to break up the unglamorous, exceeding normal existence that was my life.

                “Well, I didn’t say that,” she smiled softly, looking into her mug.

                Ah, here it was.  I knew there had to be something more. 

                “Spill.”

                She pursed her lips slightly and lifted her eyes to the ceiling, as if pondering and searching the stars on a clear night. 

“Such a tale is not ‘spilt’ as you say, but rather poured ever so carefully, slowly, and completely, into the finest of goblets, lest any drops be neglected or wasted,” she said finally, seriously, taking on the story-telling air I remembered and loved so well. 

I clapped my hands with delight, grabbed my coffee and burrowed into my chair a bit more.  “Ready!”  I said.

“Oh Abby, alas, it is not like one of my old taradiddles.  It is exceedingly real, frighteningly so,” she quieted, looking into her hands in a perplexed way.

“Just tell me, Crystal.  I’m sure it will be more stirring than my very ‘real’ life.”

She looked into those beloved, rolling flames a moment longer, before taking a breath, and beginning.