New chapter coming next week . . .
Happy Birthday No.10! It was hard to believe the newest business on Downing Street, the coffee bar at No. 10, was already a year old. And now, the veteran employees of the establishment, Poppy and Stella, were given charge to plan the celebration. They were both, immediately, pleased with the duty and distinction. Marjorie could … Continue reading Coffee at No. 10: Chapter Fifty-Six: Happy Birthday No.10!
“The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much!” Anne Dashwood impatiently clicked the remote, silencing the television with finality. She sat still, grateful her mother was not home, would not see her sudden scowl, her own face a screen of emotions. She stood, stretching, and walked to the kitchen. She dumped the half glass of mango juice, absently watching the swirls down the drain. She had settled into the recliner to enjoy an old Jane Austen favorite, but found, it had not been all the sentimental pleasure she had hoped for. Half her mind had watched, half her mind had flitted between memories of two men . . .
Jane Austen had posed a “reality” immortalized in her most famous work, Pride and Prejudice. “It is universally accepted that a single man with a good fortune is in want of a wife.” And while Marjorie Dashwood's reality was personal to her, and never to be that famous, she suspected it was, in fact, widely agreed with. “It is universally accepted that every human hates going to the DMV.”
Carapace The darkening sky boomed with sudden thunder, a rapid rattling, as if a giant celestial hand was shaking out huge sheets of metal laundry. And then, cataracts, cascades, fountains, and Downing Street a sluice gate, opened wide. Everyone in No.10 turned in unison to the big windows, all occupants together in a car wash … Continue reading Coffee at No. 10: Chapter Fifty-Three: Carapace
There’s a pattern here, thought Marjorie. Yes, it was true. Those statements of one thing—which usually mean quite another. As if the first statement, starts a natural, unstoppable counter result. Sort of a verbal Murphy’s Law. “This won’t hurt," says the doctor. It does. Like a root canal or a thousand paper cuts . . .
Marjorie is taking a coffee break, but she will be back next week! Meanwhile find out what Marjorie's first impression of Henri was here while you wait for the newest chapter (arriving next Friday).
The door to No.10 was propped open, with sunshine pouring in, not too hot, though the clock showed midafternoon of a late summer day. It was one of the lovely benefits of a mountain town—summers were mild, beneficent, treasured. At the entrance, a large clay pot on either side, of riotous red geraniums, welcoming banners of color to those who ventured into the coffee bar for a caffeine pick me up. Marjorie Dashwood, polished glasses behind the counter, pausing, as if someone had said her name quietly but firmly at her shoulder . . .
Kindness. Thank goodness there was no end to it, no limited supply, no expiration date, no final performance. Websters or Google confines it to eight words. “The quality of being friendly, generous, and considerate.” But Marjorie Dashwood knew it could not be confined to eight words, or eight million words. Kindness was in limitless words. And, it was beyond words. May, June, early July, slipped by as mere pages on a calendar, the sweep of a clock, with all the world continuing its tempo and pace, but in Marjorie’s home, time had slowed to being measured in tears, in silence, in anger, and then, in slow and shaky steps of healing. Marjorie hardly noticed the weather those long weeks, or what she ate, or what news threaded into her world from the outside. What she remembered ever after was . . .
Henri Dylan was home. Thinner yet stronger, battered but not beaten. And new hair growth that was promising in the early stages, to be a distinguished shade of silver, less web like in texture, with only one side part instead of three. New times indeed. With chemo and radiation treatment behind him, with a doctor’s blessing of health in front of him, he was feeling like a man released from prison, from death row, a survivor from a sinking ship, cast up on shore, and feeling the firm ground was the finest thing he’d ever felt. Gratitude and appreciation flowed through Henri Dylan like a new found pulse . . .