Chapter 1 – Olivia

The second I heard the long, loud blast of a car horn, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. A honking horn in New York City is as common as birds chirping in the forest, but this alarming blow was meant for me.  The music in my earbuds sheltered me in my little world, and I hadn’t noticed the car speeding around the corner at the same time my toes passed the curb and grazed the pavement of the street.

Leaping backward, I realized the honk was not only a warning but a signal to awaken.  My thoughts are scattered, but for more reasons than this incident.

My hand raises to ensure the male driver that I’m fine, minus the heart palpitations, and the driver, shockingly, waves and smiles at me.  Only in New York can someone who nearly killed with their impatience would still manage to find time to flirt with you afterward.

I end my morning run with a slower-paced jog as I near my favourite haunt for coffee and pastries. My t-shirt weighs heavily with sweat, and my breathing has become ragged. As I pause to catch my breath, I bend over and place my palms on my thighs to read the menu on the chalkboard outside the café’s door. I decide on two Americano coffees and two lemon-filled Danishes for Carl and me to share.

When I return to the apartment, Carl is still resting in bed. Calling out his name from the kitchen rouses him, and I hear the telltale sound of his slippers shuffling across the hardwood floor as he enters the room. “Sit,” I say, gesturing to the island bar stool. “I brought you your favourite coffee and pastry for breakfast.” I slide the Danish over the counter, which I plated neatly for him, open a vanilla yogurt, and set it beside the Americano coffee.  

Carl nods and offers a small smile at my gesture. “Did you sleep well?”

He takes a bite of the Danish, a spoonful of his yogurt, and nods at me again. I wish that he would use his words rather than nodding, but he isn’t the same man he was before the stroke. His doctors warned me that Carl’s personality might take some drastic turns after his recovery, and they were spot on with that diagnosis. I feel like I’m married to a completely different man, and I have no idea how to deal with this stranger in my life. I had hoped that after all this time, I’d see glimmers of who my Carl was returning, but I fear I’ve lost my Carl forever.

Memories of how handsome he was while he lectured in the auditorium during my senior year flood my mind.  Every step confident, every glance of his distinctive green eyes upon his students, the tone of his voice – deep and clear with just a hint of gravel to it – his genuine smile on the rare occasion that one of us would make him laugh; all these small things combined into a tempting package to me.  I doubt I was the only one who thought there was something special about him.  His humor was deftly smattered throughout his lectures, and I loved the way his mind worked and how his teaching style appeared to command everyone’s attention.  So many other professors bored me to tears, but Professor Carl Aston had a gift.

I remember trying to capture his attention with my questions, face to face at the end of one of his best lectures.  When I stood next to him, I felt a bit of a rush, yet I doubted he felt the same way.  But when we met again, it was months after I had graduated.  I stood behind him in the order line in the very same coffee shop I pick up his danishes and coffees while on my daily runs.  We sat together, chatted easily, and that is when I knew he did have an attraction to me while I was in his class, but he held that secret close.

My mother scolded me when I told her how old Carl was.  “You shouldn’t be dating a man so much older than you, Olivia.”  Our age difference was never a barrier to us.  I loved his mind, his introspectiveness, his humor, and we made love with such ease that in my mind, no other could be a better match for me.

That same year, Carl decided to take a one-year sabbatical from lecturing to write his first book.  I moved into his apartment three months after our first date, and I think he thought I’d hang out, be his muse while he penned his novel, and then leave his side when I grew bored.  But I never felt the need to leave.  I would paint and sculpt beside him in the living room while he toiled with his prose on an old oak desk that was once his father’s.  We both had creative minds but on such different scales.  His words were his art; my hands and visions were mine.

God, how I miss those days.  Nineteen years have passed, and for the most part, we were the perfect couple – envied by our friends, and even my mother got over her age difference concerns when she realized how perfect Carl and I were for each other.

Though I know that he and I are no longer that couple, the reality of our situation hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.  If he would only open up and talk with me, I might find the man I fell in love with hiding in there somewhere. But he remains predominantly silent. Perhaps I am also a stranger to him now. 

I press my marriage dilemma to the back of my mind while I become inspired to paint the rose garden at the front of the church that I passed two blocks down from the café to help distract me. The image I captured on my cell phone helps me remember the details of the one-hundred-year-old wrought iron fence that lines the sidewalk and how the roses hung among the black wrought iron pickets in a lackadaisical display of various pinks and soft yellows. 

It is reminiscent of a traditional English garden, replete with Boston Ivy weaving its long tentacled vines that cling vicariously to the brick facade around the church’s dark red arched wooden double doors.  

I smile swiftly at Carl as he takes his last bite of the Danish and washes it down with a sip of hot coffee. “I’m going to have a quick shower before heading upstairs to my studio to paint. Are you good on your own for a few hours?”

Carl nods again. “Fine then. I’ll come back down when it’s nearing lunch and prepare whatever you are hungry for.” I pause for a moment to gaze into Carl’s eyes. Those beautiful green eyes always had a hold on me. I force back the urge to cry for myself, knowing those eyes now belong to someone else, someone I have yet to understand and relearn to love.  

I grow tired of feeling sorry for myself and what the stroke did to Carl. We sleep in separate beds, speak rarely, and feel awkward in each other’s presence. When I agreed to love and cherish him for better or for worse, until death do us part, I had never considered my current situation was remotely possible. And as his continued silence reminds me he’s not the Carl I married, I have to ask myself if I should break my vows for that reason or continue as regularly scheduled in the hopes that he will return to me one day?  

A thundering ache fills my chest while the sound of the shower water streaming down upon my heaving body drowns the sound of my sobbing. I cannot do this anymore. I have a life to lead; I’m still vibrant and just as alive as I was in my twenties. I’m never going to recover what I lost ten months ago. To me, my husband is dead. The man in my kitchen is a stranger with whom I have nothing in common with exception that I bear his last name. I spin my wedding rings around my left-hand finger nervously while my sobbing subsides.

If I take these rings off, will I feel guilty for pretending I’m no longer attached? Will it help me to move forward or force me to fall deeper into my guilt? I think the only way to find out is to take these rings off my finger and see if Carl notices I’m no longer wearing them. He was not wearing his wedding band this morning and hasn’t worn it for the past few weeks. If he has abandoned our marriage, then perhaps so should I.

Chapter 2 – Olivia

Soft light filters inside through the south-facing window, enhancing the pallet of colours I chose for the English garden scene in front of the church. I’ve used some artistic license with the overall scene, not wanting to replicate it perfectly as many have before me. The St. Augustine Catholic church is a common subject for photographers, painters, and writers because of its tall, ornate spire and striking architecture. Many churches built in the same era were equally ornate, but St. Augustine stands out as the most favoured.

As I add the finishing touches to the painting, I hear Carl downstairs making noises as if he is rummaging through kitchen drawers. I glance at the clock on the wall above the door to my studio and note that it is five minutes before noon. He’s hungry, or bored, or both, and I should attend to him. 

After placing my brush inside the jar of water to rinse it, I quickly dry my hands and descend the stairs to the kitchen. Carl has decided to make himself French toast, and he seems to have it under control. He doesn’t struggle with everyday tasks, which I am eternally grateful for. His lack of communication has become the critical barrier in our relationship.

“Can you add two slices of bread to the pan for me?” I ask as I sit at the kitchen island bar. Carl nods but doesn’t look over to me.

“Thank you,” I say, then rise to wash my hands and to set two plates and cutlery at the bar for us when the meal is ready to serve. Quietly, Carl hums a song I don’t immediately recognize. 

There it is. A glimmer of who he once was. Carl always hummed when he cooked, and my heart skips a beat with this realization that he is in there somewhere. My Carl.  

“What is the song you are humming called?” I ask as I sit back down at the island bar.  A quick side glance tells me he is willing to engage me with more than a nod today.  

“I don’t know the name of it. I heard it being played outside my bedroom window this morning from a street performer on the sidewalk. It has stuck with me all day. Let me continue to hum, and maybe you’ll recognize the tune.”

“Yes, of course. I love that you are humming again.”  Carl doesn’t smile or nod before he returns to humming the song. After about the first few bars of notes from his baritone voice, filling my ears and heart, the melody is recognizable.  

“Let It Be, by The Beatles,” I say brightly.  

“Is that what it is?”

“Yes, I’m certain. One of your favourites. Don’t you recall it as one that you often played on your guitar for me?”

He thinks for a minute while he flips the bread over on the pan and shuffles the pieces to fit perfectly within it. “Yes. I should try to play it.”  As Carl checks the French bread’s doneness, I retrieve the butter dish and the maple syrup from the pantry.  

“Will you want tea with your lunch, or should I put on a pot of coffee?” I ask.

Carl places two pieces of bread upon my plate before replying with, “I’ll have tea, please.”

This is the longest conversation we’ve had in quite some time. Could this be a tipping point in his recovery? My mind races in circles, looking for subjects I can bring up that may interest him in continuing to chat with me. He sits next to me at the counter, pats the top of my thigh with his hand twice, and then digs straight into his meal without another word. My heart pounds in my chest a little harder after his gentle touch. I want to grab his face, force him to look at me, and kiss the living hell out of him. 

He has not touched me, incidentally or intentionally, in the time since his stroke. I’m dying to be touched, to be loved, to be given a ray of hope that I can have my Carl back. My words spill unceremoniously like a glass of milk knocked from the table. “Why haven’t you kissed me? Do I not appeal to you any longer?”

Between chews of his latest bite, he replies. “Would a kiss make you stop fussing over me like I were a small child?”

I swallow hard. “You think I’m treating you like a child?”

“In some ways, yes. I’m not broken, Olivia. I’m just different.”

“How do you know you are different?” I ask, speaking softly to keep the conversation from potentially escalating to a fight.

“I live with you, and I understand that we are husband and wife, but if this is what marriage is supposed to be like, I don’t like it. I can’t imagine that at one time in my life, before or after the stroke, that I’d marry a woman and live in what can essentially be considered a bubble. I have my job, and a safe place to live, money in my bank account, but I’m not certain what it is that you and I are doing. Were we always like this?”

My jaw clenches, and I have to remind myself to relax. “No, Carl. We were happily married, had sex regularly, entertained friends and family nearly every weekend, and enjoyed our lives together. Since your stroke, you have become disconnected, distant, cold. I’m still the same woman you married eighteen years ago. Correction, nineteen years ago, as it was our wedding anniversary last week, but I feared bringing the subject up with you since you find it so difficult to talk to me most days.”  

My tone has become snide. I cannot hold back my hatred for what has become of us. And now I’m beginning to understand his silence. He cannot differentiate between what we were to each other and what we are now. And my patience to correct this situation has drawn thin. “Tell me what you want to do, Carl. Are you unhappy?”

A brief moment of silence fills the small space between our bodies. A chill runs down my spine. I look upward to the ceiling and rapidly blink while I attempt to refrain from letting the welling tears fall. 

“Yes,” (he mumbles.)

“Yes, what? Yes, you are unhappy?”

“I want a divorce, Olivia. I don’t want to be married to you or anyone else. I want to be alone.”

As the shock of his admission registers, I rise from the stool and slip out of the kitchen to escape to my studio. When I’ve reached the second-floor landing, I fling myself through the studio door and slam it shut behind me. Tears and my crushing cries echo within the empty space. I don’t care if Carl can hear me sobbing like a grieving widow over her husband’s casket. This is a death to me. My entire life has been upended since Carl’s stroke, and now the only thing I hoped was salvageable, our marriage and love for each other, is officially gone.

It takes me nearly twenty minutes to collect myself enough to go back downstairs and address Carl’s request for a divorce. I cannot do this dance with him any longer. And if he has given up on us, what choice do I have but to let him go. I never imagined I’d be single again at the age of forty-five. I never imagined a life without Carl.

Chapter 3 – Max

I glance up briefly from the empty cocktail glass my hand is wrapped around to catch a reflection in the bar’s mirror of an old associate of mine.  “Jason,” I say as I spin around on my seat and reach to shake his hand.

“Max?  What the hell, man?  Good to see you again,” Jason replies.  As expected, his grip on my hand is firm to the point of nearing painful, but Jason always had a firm grip on everything, from his handshake to his career.

“What brings you in here tonight?” I ask.

“A buddy of mine is getting married in two weeks.  We’re planning his stag night with the rest of the groomsmen.  You’re welcome to join us if you’re not here with someone,” he says, gesturing with his thumb out toward the crew of men behind him.  I glance at the guys he’s dragged into the bar with him and grin. 

“I’ll take a raincheck on the invitation.  Me and weddings don’t go well together,” I say, as I smile and chuckle.  “But good to see you, Jason.  Call my office next week, and we can do lunch somewhere.”  Jason nods and pats me on the shoulder before waving to the crew of guys behind him to follow their server to their reserved table.

Spinning myself back around, I analyze my face in the bar’s wall mirror.  I’m looking a little worse for wear these days. I scrub my fingers over my heavy stubble, rake my fingers through the right side of my head to tame a wayward strand and decide I need a haircut and a proper shave.  Maybe I’ll grow a goatee instead of a beard, have the sides of my head trimmed tight and let the crown be a bit longer.  I may not be twenty years old anymore, but they say forty is the new thirty, and I’m ready for a bit of a change.

The bartender tips his chin toward me to question if I want a refill, and I place my palm in the air to indicate that I’m done.  The receipt for my two drinks gets quickly slipped inside my jacket pocket.  Sometimes I wonder if he’s more familiar with my credit card than I am since I come here nearly every night for a top-up or a client meeting.  I smile at him as I ease myself off the chair and head for the exit.  I have an early showing of the property on Klassen Way, and I want to confirm with the showing agent, Daniella, that we’re still on for the nine AM showing while I head to the subway.

My stride is quick.  I think it might rain sooner than later, and if I have to jog the next four blocks to the station, I’ll do it.  The clouds appear to be moving swiftly across the evening sky tonight, and I wonder if a storm is brewing off the coast.  Once I reach the station, I realize I’ve missed the 7:15 train and have to wait another ten minutes for the next one.  I find an open seat on a bench and pull out my cell to check the weather reports for tomorrow morning and look through any emails I need to address.

I get distracted by a notification on Twitter from an artist I’ve been following recently.  She’s posted two new images of watercolour paintings.  I enlarge each image to see them more clearly.  I never cared much for watercolour paintings until I came across one of hers that another follower shared.  There is something different about the way she paints that I find interesting.  I’ve also noted that she does some sculpture work.  Typically I’d be more interested in the sculptures, but her watercolours have caught my attention as well.

The train I need screeches to a halt in front of me, and I rise with the other waiting passengers to enter the car.  Glancing around the open seats, I have to pick and choose which one I want that hopefully hasn’t been pissed, puked, or spat on during the day.  The third seat on my right looks the cleanest, and it’s now mine. 

Maybe it was the two double Bourbons I knocked back and my empty stomach, but I have the undeniable urge to direct message her and ask her about where her work is displayed.  Maybe she does this as a pastime, not as a profession.  Maybe she is a professional and has her work on display in a gallery.  Fuck.  Why am I assuming she’s in New York?  She could be anywhere. 

The car stops at the next station, and a load of people climb on and climb off in a jumbled mess of bumping shoulders, backpacks, and shuffling shoe sounds. I keep my head aimed down at my cell phone as I raise my eyes to take a glance around at the new passengers.  There are only two more stops before I’m home, and I may have one more Bourbon when I get there.

The sun is about to set by the time I reach my apartment, but the heavy cloud cover and distant black clouds make it impossible to witness.  I remember the first time I viewed this suite.  It was about this same time of day, the skies were dappled with light cumulous clouds, the sun was setting, and while I marveled in the beauty of the views, I suddenly couldn’t imagine myself living anywhere else.  As I notice the impending storm brewing, I remember that storm watching from my suite is equally impressive.

After dropping my briefcase on the counter, my phone begins to buzz in my jacket. I pull it out to see the realty agent showing my listing tomorrow is confirming her appointment.  Daniella is an excellent agent, and I never need her to confirm appointments, but it’s my peace of mind that makes me do this regardless of the agent.  She is one of the few you can count on one hundred percent of the time.

I find my bottle of Bourbon on the counter and collect a glass from the cabinet above me.  A two-finger shot is all I need while I scan the Internet for a few hours.  As I take the first sip of my drink, I recall the Twitter post about Olivia Aston’s watercolour paintings.  I’d like to know if her artwork is for sale somewhere online.

I park my tired ass on the couch and flip open my laptop.  Another quick sip of my Bourbon offers a slow burn down my throat, and I wince a little while I wait for the laptop to open up my apps. Twitter is always my first choice for information since many realtors use the app to market properties as I do. 

There on the left side of the screen, I see the link to the notifications.  The top notification is the one from Olivia’s post. Now on a bigger screen, I can get a better look at her recent work.  Stunning. I have no idea where she learned to do what she does, but it’s so elegant.  Forget it.  You can’t teach people to paint like that.  This is pure unadulterated talent.

My fingers hover the mouse over her message link.  “Yes, or no, Max?” I mutter aloud to myself.  “Fuck it.”  I click the link and start randomly typing.  I introduce myself, assure her I’m not a weirdo, and compliment her on her paintings. Wait.  I back up and erase the weirdo comment.  If I have to tell her I’m not a weirdo, she will naturally think I am one.

My last two sentences read: I’m interested to know if your paintings and sculptures are for sale and where an interested buyer like myself might view them in person.  Do you have a gallery representing your work in New York?

I read my message three times before I hit the send arrow.  Done.  She probably won’t respond anyway.  I knock back the last of the Bourbon in my glass and flick on the television as I kick off my shoes and rest my feet atop the coffee table. 

A good half hour passes before I see a few dots jumping on the message screen from Olivia.  My feet slide off the coffee table, and I lean forward, awaiting her words to appear.

Olivia:  “It seems we are both New Yorkers.  There is a gallery in Manhattan that frequently show my sculptures and paintings.  If you are truly interested, reply to me, and I’ll send you the address to the gallery.”

I flex my fingers and rub the edge of my chin.  This is interesting.  She is in New York.  I respond immediately.

Me:  “Hi. Thanks for replying.  I’d love to visit the gallery.  Please send me the name and address.  I have some free time tomorrow afternoon, and I might be able to slip over for a viewing.  Max.

Olivia:  “That’s wonderful.” She provides me the name and address for the gallery in the balance of her message.  I’m not familiar with it, but I’m sure I’ll find it. I questioned if I should continue a casual conversation with her, but I talk myself out of it.  Another time.  Tomorrow I’m going to sell a house and hopefully buy myself a sculpture for my entry hall.