Guest Writers
Show us your stuff!
Do you have a short story or poem that you’d like to share? Simply submit it typed in the body of your email at info@markhamvillagewriters.com.
***
Here, There,
but Nowhere
By Diane Walsh
(c) Media Geode GTI Inc., 2009
Pink houses in small-town America. Certainly not the dream anymore. Not April’s anyway – that’s for damn sure – Midwestern, Middle-American, forty-something bitter femme with an axe to grind. No, April had spontaneously and out-of-the blue decided to escape to Kathmandu (of all the ridiculous places to choose). But she thinks to herself with a squint in her eye: I had better call my buddy, Mick, to let him know.
Dropping the bomb, she says to him, “I’m so sorry to do this to you, Mick; I know how much you love coming to my yearly Christmas party. You’ll have to be the one to take it up from now on – I’m handing it over to you, Buckaroo!”
April’s usual splendid, splashing year-end neighbourhood party would disappointingly for him and others never take place anymore; emphasis being: never April mutters to herself, quietly gritting her teeth.
“Brother, so you’re telling me you’re not just ducking out temporarily. You’re quitting as community-hostess permanently. April, what brought this on?”
Mick was secretly pleased.
He had absolutely no intention of becoming the goodie-goodie neighbour – being the one to stand in for the party just to accommodate people’s expectations. He had come to be ashamed of his reputation on the block: the jolly-jolly single guy who globs onto the friendly couple, gaining nothing but the privilege to attend a social functions and eat April’s turkey; each year, more and more dry. Mick persists, “Did you convince Bill that escaping, albeit temporarily, to a bizarre foreign land was the antidote for suburban misery?” Mick tried to sound interested in April’s rationale for simply taking off.
“Yah, brother; actually, yes, I’ve come to the conclusion I need more than just a tan from Arizona – I need a radical change of environment. But not only do I need some time away from this godforsaken place; Bill’s not coming with me.” Full stop. Said April in a disturbingly nonchalant manner.
Curious, but not wanting to appear too nosy, Mick inquired delicately, “Oh… can’t he get the time off work?”
“Nope. He’s left me. He packed one suitcase, strapped it to the back of his bike and simply rode off! He said ‘to have a better life without me.’ A Bertrand Russell copycat, as far as I’m concerned, whom I understand did the very same thing to his wife more than a quarter of a century ago.”
“What? That doesn’t sound like Bill. You’re joking, surely. I didn’t know he had a bike,” Mick responded rather ridiculously.
“…’fraid not, Mick. It’s no laugh. It’s Bill, all right. Ah! I was getting a tired of the phony disguise that was our life together, myself. But it was he who decided to do something characteristically inane – yet again. This time, by doing the leaving: on a bike.”
Exasperated, Mick said, “But I saw you together just last week and you seemed fine – a perfectly happily married, dinky couple.”
“We were good actors – like everybody else ‘round here in a cheesier version of Wisteria Lane. Look at you Mick – who the heck are you anyway?”
Mick was totally spooked, once believing his facade had been working well for him. He’d never seen April so raw – it actually kind of turned him on. “I’m going to ignore that remark, seeing as you’re obviously under severe stress from this. Tell me; with whom are you going to that unusual destination of Kathmandu?
“The girls from work.”
“Oh. Hmm, what girls? I never knew you were close enough to anyone at work that you’d want to travel with them.” Mick realized he was sounding proprietary. He didn’t want to give it away, how, inwardly, his heart was thumping like a branch flapping in a storm. ‘Had April found something out?’ he wondered to himself. Thoroughly doubting April’s chummy story, Mick listened onward. Rather intently, too, to this gratuitous expression of fast friendship with these apparent girls.
“You should know. Funny isn’t it, how they’ve suddenly become my best friends.”
Growing suspicious of the role of these girls, whom Mick knew to be spying women ‘bout town, he continued to puzzle over April’s story in his own head: ‘Where’s Bill? If he did leave, why didn’t he tip me off or even call to say goodbye?’ He began to feel a sense of betrayal.
As if knowing what was going through Mick’s mind April reassured him: “Bill will phone you Mick; I’m counting on it. You guys stick together. But, the point is, I feel I’m entitled to some R&R and some female bonding. Aren’t I?” April said snidely. “I mean, my husband just walked out on me – Blimey! Actually cycled out on me!”
As far as the gravity of the situation was concerned, Mick felt April was over-emphasizing the bike exit, to the point that he began to wonder if he should be believing any of it. Her use of the term ‘female bonding’ in the context of what he had to hide made him feel more than a little uncomfortable. Not wishing to disclose his emotions, “Of course you are entitled to relax, considering the emotional whirlwind you must be going thorough.” Mike was trying to draw April out.
He continued on with his inquiry. “But it’s just that you two are, like, my best friends, and Bill never, never said a word to me about having major problems at home. Are you sure he’s really left? I’m wondering April… if you guys aren’t short of money, which would explain why he hasn’t mentioned said anything to me. Clearly he’s embarrassed.”
No answer from April.
Fishing to find out whether April and Bill were short of money did nothing to help Mick acquire any more information about why his buddy might have left his wife in haste – if in fact he did leave. Mick wrestled with his own personal possibilities of explanation of what might have happened to Bill. He thought to himself, ‘Bill never did anything radical without telling me, especially thinking about or, worse, actually leaving his wife!
Mick blurted out to April, “Are you sure he’s not just pissed off and he’ll be back?”
“Yep, I’m sure. He’s emptied the savings accounts.”
‘Well, if that was so,’ thought Mick, ‘then it wouldn’t be possible for April to take off to Africa or wherever the heck she said she was going for a Christmas relaxation. For a woman who’s just been left, she doesn’t seem devastated by the whole thing. More to the point, she seems perfectly neutral. Very odd.’
Mick probed on, “But, April, you don’t even seem upset. Is there another man?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A logical one.”
“Really – is that so? When you’re suppose to be Mr. Buddy-buddy.” April was clearly stalling. “Get real! Like I pulled some guy out of a hat and he’s taking me – a forty-nine-year-old cleaning lady – on holiday, and the girls are made up, right?”
“Exactly. I want to meet these girls.”
“You can.” They will be here momentarily. In fact, why don’t you consider coming with us? Oh, then again, I forgot; Bill was your favourite.”
Again ignoring April’s sneering remarks, Mick quickly retorted, “That would be crazy – I can’t go with you! Bill is my best friend. What are you trying to pull?” Mick was angry now. He thought to himself, ‘I certainly didn’t want to open that can of worms. Bill and he had been so discreet; there’s no way she knows.’
“I thought you said I was your best friend,” April said, a coy toss of her head.
“For goodness sake – this is insane. I’m getting off the phone right now! I’ll call you later.” Mick slammed down the phone.
To himself: he didn’t know what to make of the whole conversation. He wasn’t sure what to do since he wasn’t able to ascertain whether April actually had anything on him. It wasn’t clear to him whether she knew what Bill and he had been up to. There was derision in her voice, but it so happened she had always had that tone toward him. So it was hard measure if it had any new meaning. She had always been jealous of Mick’s friendship with Bill. Mick decided he needed to do some damage control. For his own peace of mind, he needed to find Bill – make sure Bill hadn’t, in the heat of an argument with April, exposed their proclivities and then regretted it so intensely that he’d had to bolt from both Mick and April.
The thought of losing Bill horrified Mick. He picked up the receiver again and dialed Bill’s cell. (Ring-ring.) Nothing. He redialed. Again, no answer. Why wouldn’t Bill answer his phone? And why didn’t he tell me what he was up to? Where the heck is he? Something did not sit right with Mick. The sudden disappearance was out of Bill’s character. Mick knew this intuitively. Emptying a bank account, as April suggested he had done, was also out of character.
Mick looked at the clock and retired to bed, turning on the TV to numb-ease his angst and confusion. Gazing at the screen, he heard the tail end of a news story about a mangled bike with blood-smeared handlebars. Abandoned, with no sign of an injured rider; reported by some kids playing near a ravine, less than fifty miles from Rockcliffe – coincidently – his very neighbourhood.
He panicked – not knowing precisely why he should be so certain that there was a connection to Bill. He had no details on the circumstances of the lead – it wasn’t clear from the news story that there had even been a crash, but fright stirred as he thought that his friend could be injured. Had Bill driven himself off the nearby cliff? Had April driven him to it by confronting him about a secret? But which secret? There were so many. Mick was churning himself into a worried, paranoid frenzy. What if it is Bill and he’s dead? He realized his thoughts were ludicrous. There’s no connection, he told himself over and over.
By now, the television anchor had moved on to report another story. Mick decided that he would not be able to check out the full sequence of the story until sometime later, when the news was repeated at the top of the hour.
The dreadful feeling Mick had inside did not dissipate. He tossed the whole night through. Had April found anything out? Mick’s mind obsessed. He, himself, would look for Bill in the morning. Figuring he could intercept Bill on his way to work, he set his clock at the uncomfortable hour of six a.m. He wanted to make sure they got their stories straight.
The next morning, Mick skipped his shower, as that was the way Bill liked him, and headed straight for Bleak City, where Bill worked as a foreman at the smelter. He arrived a hair before half-past-six. He scanned the factory parking lot but failed to see Bill’s truck. Squinting through the windowpane of the administration office, he saw the receptionist was already seated and poised to open for business. But no sign of Bill – notably an early riser and a favourite at the factory for always being the one to turn the machines on for his coworkers.
Bill’s office was the next adjoining windowpane closest to reception. The drapes were still drawn. Mick waited in his car in front of Bill’s window and watched. Ten, then twenty minutes went by. Still no sign of Bill. At eight o’clock, Mick strode into reception and asked when Bill was expected.
“He’s usually here by now. I just checked voicemail and there’s nothing about him not coming in,” said the receptionist.
“Okay, I’ll wait.” Mick grabbed a coffee from the waiting area and went back to the parking lot. I know, I’ll call April. No answer; not even an outgoing answering machine message. How odd, he thought. April’s usually pretty good about turning the machine on when she’s away from the phone. Mick phoned Bill’s cell. No answer or voicemail there either; just ringing. Peculiar. Realizing that all this sleuthing would not pay his own phone bill, Mick darted back to his car and raced to his own office in Sludge County, just over Trickle Hill bypass.
He could not concentrate. He left to check all the favourite haunts he’d frequented with Bill. No sign of him. When he returned home that night, he called April again.
“Oh, thank God you’re home. Bill didn’t show up at work today and that surprised me, given he’s such a keener – you know, he never misses a day’s work!” Mick squealed this out, feeling exasperated about not having found Bill after all his efforts.”
“Who?” April puzzled.
“April!” Mick screamed, “Bill… your partner!”
“I’m sorry; I don’t know anyone named Bill.”
“Have you gone completely mad? You told me yesterday he left with suitcase in hand and I understood that you guys had broken up!”
“I’m sorry, Mick… are you feeling all right? I told you, I don’t know anyone named Bill. Are you ok?”
“If this is some kind of sick joke you’ve cooked up, pretending you don’t know him anymore because you think it will be easier to just move on and party…”
“Mick, get a hold of yourself. I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t know anyone named Bill.”
Mick dropped the phone and ran outside. He jumped the adjoining yard fence and raced up Bill and April’s front steps. As he peered into the window, he did not see a trace of Bill and April’s décor. Everything was different; the paint colour on the walls, the pictures… all changed.
He rang the bell. April answered, looking unshaken. “Mick, what are you doing?”
“What am I doing… what are you doing? You think you can just eliminate Bill.”
“Mick, I don’t know what you are talking about. Who is this Bill?”
“That’s it. I’m calling the police.”
“Why, Mick?”
“Because you’ve lost your mind!”
“No, Mick, I think you should sit down and tell me what’s happened to you.”
“Nothing’s happened to me. Something’s happened to you. Bill’s left. He didn’t go to work this morning and now you’re denying you ever knew him!”
“Mick – settle down. You must be…”
The next time Mick saw the light of day, he realized he was in a hospital corridor. Frantically, he tore at the tightly fitted sheets cocooning him, to expose a baby-blue gown and bare, shaved legs.
In a frenzy, he bolted off the bed and ran down the hall. A nurse intercepted him at the elevator. “Mr. Larvae, you must go back. You are in no condition to be up.”
“Go back where? I seem to have been abandoned in a hallway. Why am I even here?”
“I think you know,” the nurse said in a patronizing tone.
He was briskly escorted back. The nurse settled Mick onto his cot. Mick began to wonder if he was truly awake. He decided he would let the nurse turn her back and exit the room, wait a few minutes so she would think he was in repose and then he would make his escape. Lifetimes of time seemed to pass by. Finally, not seeing anyone in view, he sneaked down the corridor, found what seemed to be an endless stairwell downward, and skedaddled, hospital gown flowing behind him. Once out on the road, he ran until he saw an old man walking. He asked if he could have a quarter. The old man gave him four quarters. He thanked him profusely and ran past, looking for the closest phone booth. He thought he saw one across the way but looking down, he felt his freezing toes and realized he was standing in a mud-drenched, grassy spot.
Cold earth on his feet and his robe damp from sweat and outdoor air, he crashed into the phone booth’s shutter-doors, pouncing at the phone. He dialed his friend, Bill’s, cellphone number. He heard the recording: “This is not an assigned number.” Confused and bewildered, he called information to try and get Bill’s work number. He called it, asking for Bill Trigger. The voice at the other end replied, “I’m sorry, but no one with that name works here.” Mick whimpered, “but… that can’t be right… can you please check again?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve worked here for thirteen years and I’ve never heard of anyone with that name working here and that’s certainly a name I’d remember!”
Mick dropped the phone. He called April’s number. Same message: “This is not an assigned number.”
Mick slumped to the ground. He thought he felt ripples on his feet… an image of himself trapped in a small puddle of water came over him. With the rain beating down, dazed and exhausted, he questioned if he was not sitting in some sort of wetland. With what appeared to be muddy ridges on both sides of him and a sort of crevasse beneath him, he sunk deeper into sticky gunk, wondering all the while if he wasn’t in that ravine. He muttered to himself: ‘she’s got the bill.’
A nurse’s bell sounded. 
Diane Walsh, MA, is a freelance writer based in the Pacific Northwest. Her background is in political science and policy writing for government, with an interest in liberal and creative fine arts. She often explores the Greater Seattle region by bike or canoe and enjoys hiking and spending time on Vancouver Island, where she has family and friends. She spent several years in San Francisco and London, England.
***
Dream
By Katie Spittle
In our state of blackness
We bask in the belief
Of becoming butterflies.
In our flights of fancy
We yearn for freedom
From these foreign folds.
Alas we finally emerge
And our souls escape
Above this earthly empire.
To return at dawn
With fairy dust
And words of delightful divinations.
Katie Spittle began composing poetry and creative writing while pursuing a degree in Geography at Simon Fraser University. From a family of storytellers, she grew up listening to multicultural stories and frontier tales.
***
Castle of Love
By Anna Dynowski
He stood, leaning comfortably on the doorjamb, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of frayed jeans, hip cocked. Like he owned the place, Kate Koperski thought, looking around her with charmed interest. Which, of course, he did, she had to admit.
Thirty-two-year-old Stefano D’Amore, Prince Stefano D’Amore, owned this stately eighteenth-century Victorian mansion situated along the Niagara River Parkway, a few minutes from the historic town of Niagara-on-the-Lake. A secluded country inn nestled in its own nineteen acre working vineyard—she’d done her homework by surfing the net—Castello D’Amore—Castle of Love—radiated classical elegance and a gracious old-world appeal and offered its guests a breathtaking view of the Niagara River to enjoy in peace and relaxation.
There was, however, nothing peaceful or relaxed about the sea-blue eyes staring down the unswerving Roman nose at her or the traditional Italian mouth forming a straight line of displeasure.
He knew. Somehow, he knew. Or at least, a sixth sense made him suspect her identity. And he was none too happy she’d tracked him down. Well, she wasn’t either, but she’d come to say her piece and as soon as she did, she’d get out of his hair. Which, she just happened to notice, was chocolate-brown with a dash of curls and a sprinkle of grays. She itched to brush back that unruly lock falling across his forehead where a frown scored a deep line between his brows, but she tightened her fingers on her purse strap instead.
Drawing in a fortifying gulp of air, she pulled back her shoulders and ignoring the sudden thudding of a pulse in her throat, she met his gaze head-on. Through a dry mouth, she pushed out the words, “Good afternoon, Prince Stefano,” and was instantly rewarded by the narrowing of those sea-blue eyes. Her courage mounting, she relaxed the fingers clamped around the purse strap and flashed him a mocking smile. “I’m Kate Koperski.” His eyes darkened briefly, then turned unreadable. “You might remember me, Stefano?” A heartbeat of a pause, then added, “Your fiancée.”
His face schooled into a mask of composure, Stefano inclined his head, an action that managed to look regal in spite of the jeans, black t-shirt, and bared feet. Silent, he straightened to his full, six-foot-two-inch height, towering over her five-foot-four-inch frame, and with a sweeping gesture of an arm bronzed golden by the sun, he said, in a low, caressing voice, “Welcome to Castello d’Amore.”
Kate dropped an arrogant curtsy before flouncing past him into what had to be the finest of houses in the Niagara region. And caught her breath.
The foyer, a Victorian elegance with quality antiques and artifacts, stone fireplaces and graceful settees, reflected Stefano’s commitment to the finer things in life. Adding to the unequalled ambiance were two sprawling staircases, one on either end of the foyer, each overseen by imposing chandeliers, rising majestically to the upper floors.
But it was the wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor, drapeless window overlooking the lush vineyard surrounding the home that drew her attention, compelled her to walk toward it. Row after row, for as far as she could see, ran the trellised vines of Chardonnay and Merlot. In their earthy setting, they complimented the opulence of the inn with a quiet, casual atmosphere that soothed, relaxed. Emptied her mind of all thoughts and cares. She jumped when warm fingers wrapped around her elbow. Her gaze flew to Stefano’s face. His eyes gentled, his lips relaxed slightly, interestingly, into a smile. A smile that hinted at romance and love and passion.
The classic Italian smile demanded a classic reaction from her. With her heart pounding, she tried to brush aside what she saw in his eyes. What she imagined she saw in his eyes. It made her weak-kneed, light-headed, and hot-blooded all at once, chasing any semblance of rational thought clear out of her mind, stalling her voice somewhere in her throat. She shook her head once, twice. Closing her eyes briefly, she drew in a steadying breath and desperately searched for her AWOL voice. With no success.
“Come.” Stefano led her through the glass door. “There’s no better way to enjoy the countryside than from our patio, rimmed by our pristine vineyard, sipping an estate-bottled vintage.”
“If you don’t mind, Stefano,” she said, slipping into the chair he pulled out for her, “I would prefer a tall glass of ice-cold water instead. No offense.” How polite she was, she thought, as the tension began to spread from her neck to her shoulders. She needed all her wits about her for the forthcoming conversation. She needed an agile mind and quick reaction ability. She couldn’t afford to have her senses dulled by an elegant and unique-tasting wine—even one that had won numerous international awards, as her research had revealed. And once again, her heart pounded against the wall of her chest, only this time, not in response to Stefano’s thousand-watt smile, but out of pride for his accomplishments. He hadn’t sailed on the coattails of his name or pedigree.
“None taken.” He gave a quick, completely open smile and stretched out of his chair to open the little cooler of bottled water. Handing her a bottle, he tapped his to hers before reclaiming his chair and lifting the bottle to his mouth.
That lazy smile on his face as he’d taken a long pull from the bottle of water sent shivers scud-missiling straight to her brain, which instead of being alert, attentive, awake, suffered a super-fast meltdown. In this chaotic state, she began to wonder if, maybe, she ought to rethink the carefully rehearsed speech she intended on delivering. The thought, the ludicrous, absolutely absurd thought called for her to take a long drink of water, buying some time so she could peel her heart out of her throat and plant it back into her chest and reaffirm—to herself!—a relationship with the Prince was illogical. Impractical. Downright impossible. They didn’t love each other. They didn’t even know each other.
She came here today for the sole purpose of freeing Prince Stefano d’Amore from a ridiculous, old- fashioned, archaic, hand-shaking pledge their fathers, best of friends since childhood, had sworn to twenty-five years ago, when she was first born, and the Prince, a young boy of seven.
A pledge that sent the Prince, not of royalty but of nobility, into a self-imposed exile, away from Toronto, away from his family, away from his intended, ten years ago, before she could reach the ripe age for marrying. Well before, she thought, a reluctant smile tugging on her lips, and left no forwarding address. Just to be on the safe side.
“What, Miss Koperski, do you find so amusing?”
He reclined in the chair in a very un-prince-like slouch, his hands clasped loosely at his waist, his mouth softened into a little smile, but his eyes, his sea-blue eyes, were sharp, alert and… hypnotic. Every bit hypnotic as she remembered. There was nothing wrong with her memory, but her lips? They seemed to have frozen in place.
Clearing her throat, she forced her mouth to loosen up into a smile. “My, aren’t we formal. Miss Koperski? The name’s Kate.”
“What, Kate, do you find so amusing?”
“You.”
A regal brow winged up.
In a dry voice, she answered the unspoken question. “I never would have taken you, Prince Stefano, for the type to shoot up to the ceiling and cling there, shivering, like the cat in the old cartoons.” She spilled a bit of the water over the side of the bottle and blotted the drops with a finger. As she watched the calm expression on his face settle into cold stone, a thread of fear snaked through her bravado to tighten her throat. One thing you don’t do, Kate, is insult a prince. And especially not on his property.
…
Stefano’s fingers tightened on the bottle, but he caught himself just in time, before the water was pushed up over the mouth to flow down the sides and pool in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he straightened in his chair and set the bottle carefully on the table. “Care to elaborate, Miss Koperski?” he asked, his voice, low, calm and quiet.
Kate sucked in a breath, winced, flushed. She glanced around, as if making sure no one was within earshot, set her bottle on the table beside his and inhaling and exhaling deeply, she leaned forward.
Regret, grief, need coming into her eyes, darkening them to a deep coffee, she said on a rush of air, “I’m sorry, Stefano. I didn’t come here to insult you. Honest,” she added, reaching for his hands and squeezed.
He raised his brows at the breach of protocol but couldn’t prevent the slow smile relaxing his rigid lips when, realizing she’d touched him inappropriately, Kate yanked back her hands, as if scorched and muttered, “Sorry.”
“Kate,” he said, then let her name hang on the air a moment. “Why did you come?” He reached for his bottle of water, not because he was thirsty, but to keep his fingers occupied lest they follow through on the urge to thread through her honey-blond hair.
Deliberately, defiantly, she squared her shoulders and snapped her chin up. “To release you,” she replied, her eyes flashing.
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“To. Release. You,” she repeated, spacing each word out, slow and clear, then crossed her arms at her chest.
“Release me from what?” Stefano frowned, drumming his fingers on the thighs of his jeans, trying to concentrate on the words coming out of her mouth and not on kissing her lips.
“Stefano.” Kate threw her hands up in frustration. “Your father, my father agreed to this stupid arrangement.” She made a cute little sound, a cross between a laugh and a groan.
And Stefano had to suppress the sudden need to step up to her, to skim his lips over her face, to glide his hands up and down her arms, to anchor her to his side, where she could be nearest his heart.
“Arrangement.” He lifted the bottle to his mouth, took a pull, slowly, thoughtfully. “You are referring to… our… um… nuptials?”
“You know I am.” She rocked to her feet and gathered her arms around her middle, as if warding off a chill.
Or worse, Stefano thought grimly, like an unwanted suitor, perhaps?
“I just want you to know, Stefano”—she dragged in a deep breath—“I am not holding you to their silly decision. I don’t want you feeling honor-bound to marry me.”
He checked his impulse to command her to sit and gestured, in an informal way, he hoped, to her chair. If she hadn’t sat down as she did, he would have had no choice but to step up to her, glide his hands along her arms, and…
He took another long drink, braced himself. “So…you came to set me free from my obligation—”
“You don’t have any obligation toward me.” Distressed now, she waved her hands in the air. “This… this arrangement should never have happened. It was two old men wanting to see their children settled before they die. They never thought about you and what you want. They ended up driving you away with their crazy ideas.” It was more than distress now, and closer to shame. “I’m sorry you felt forced to flee Toronto.” She dropped her vision to her hands locked in a death-grip on her lap.
“The thing is…”
When the silence dragged on, Kate glanced up from her hands, then quickly lowered her gaze again.
“What… what’s the thing?”
“The thing is”—Stefano set the empty bottle down and leaned over the table—“I never left because I didn’t want to fulfill my… obligation toward you. I left for two reasons.” He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face up. “One, I wanted to make something of myself without my family name and connections opening doors for me.” His eyes panned the rows of vines shimmering in the afternoon sun. “I believe I’ve succeeded in that area.” He couldn’t stop the pride from edging his voice.
“Oh, you have, Stefano. You have,” Kate enthused. “With your endless, tireless hard work, not only have your wines won gold medals for their elegant taste, but your Castello has earned widespread respect. And not just for using only prime Ontario grapes and Canadian oak barrels, but for supporting your Niagara neighbors and their family-run operations.”
She came up for a quick breath of air. “There’s testimony after testimony about how your tasting room and small café allow your visitors a greater degree of relaxation. And your gift shop is renowned for its unique, eclectic wine and food gifts. And—” Another swift intake of air. “Your vinegars, made solely from Niagara grapes, are to die for, with their wonderful balance of clean, crisp tastes and just the right touch of sweetness. And then, there’s your dressings, dips, glazes, drizzles, jellies. And the Castello Harvest Camp, with guests picking grapes, getting a behind the scenes tour, and enjoying the five course menu designed and prepared by your celebrity chef. What? What?” she repeated.
Stefano stood in awed silence, looking down on her face alive with passion. Her eyes gleamed with pride. On her lips, danced a smile of excitement. And her hands wigwagged through the air with gay abandonment. When he found his voice, he breathed softly, “How d’you know so much about my vineyard?”
Color bloomed in her cheeks and with a laugh and a shrug, Kate admitted, “I googled you.”
“Kate.” He reached down and wrapped her hand in his. “I said there were two reasons I left.”
She nodded encouragement.
“My second reason was to protect you.”
“Protect me?”
“I didn’t want you feeling pressured because of our rather spirited”—he said the word with a wry smile—“parents into marrying me. Or my lineage. We’re a package deal. With pressures and stresses, duties and responsibilities,” he said softly, bringing her hand deliberately to his lips for a kiss.
“I wanted you to discover your own identity, determine for yourself your own destiny. Choose your own husband,” he said huskily. He was close enough to hear her hiss of breath and his smile deepened.
“I wanted the decision to get involved with me to be your decision. And yours alone. However, now that you’re older and old enough to make your own decision, I am not above using whatever tactics I have at my disposal to influence you to marry me.” Her eyes widened in disbelief and he chuckled.
“I love you, Kate,” he told her and reached his hand to her face, grazing her chin as she shook her head in negation of his declaration. “Yes, I have,” he whispered against her lips, “for a long time.”
Her hand flew to his wrist when he framed her face. “But… you never said… never hinted. You weren’t around—”
His fingers crept into her hair, tangled there. “I was around. Always around.” He studied her waterfall of honey-blond hair, combing his fingers from the crown to the tips of her long mane, enjoying the silky feel against the pads of his fingers. “I was there to see you walk down the aisle in the Skyline Hotel’s glittering ballroom. In your royal blue gown. At your grade thirteen graduation.”
His hands glided to her elbows and pulled her to standing, then skimmed around to her back, and with the lightest of touches, pressed her against him.
She released his wrist to stroke her fingers through his hair. “Were you there when I graduated from U of T?”
“Yes,” he breathed against her mouth, touching the corner of it with his lips, and smiled when he heard her slow sigh of relief. “Tell me, Kate, do you see yourself clear to taking a chance with me? To love me? To grow old with me?”
“I’ve been in love with you, Stefano, for as long as I can remember. The only thing I don’t understand…” Her brow puckered into a frown as she rested her arms lightly on his.
“What?” He lowered his head to nuzzle her neck. “What don’t you understand?” He trailed soft kisses along her jaw to her cheek. With a final kiss on the tip of her nose, he straightened and pulling back, kept her within the circle of his arms.
“How could our fathers have known? Been”—she shook her head—“so right?”
Her awed expression drew a laugh from him. “Well, that just may be one of those mysteries of life.
He dropped a kiss on her head. “So… you haven’t answered me.” At the quirk of her brow, he added, “Will you marry me?”
“And have a fairytale life?”
Stefano wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know how fairytale-ish it’ll be working the vineyard, but I do promise my princess an exciting reign.” He wiggled his brows meaningfully.
On a giggle, she said, “Then, I’d be delighted to marry you, Prince Stefano, and co-reign with you in this magnificent realm.”
“Kate, Princess of Castello d’Amore,” he began in a solemn voice, “let us seal our rule over our dominion.”
The taste of the kiss was so potent, so powerful, the flavor of it streamed through his whole mind, heart and soul, leaving him breathless. And speechless.
On a low laugh, Kate tucked her hand through his arm and said, “Well, Your Highness, shall we survey our kingdom, now?”
Anna Dynowski, author of seven inspirational romance novels, makes her home in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, Henry, and Misha, the calico cat. Her own “romance novel” began with the meeting of her “hero” through the personal ads, became engaged to him six weeks after that and married him three months later. And that was twenty-five years ago. Being an incurable romantic, she writes what’s in her heart: love; and what’s in her soul: faith in God. Currently, she is working on Book 3 of the Harmony Village series, featuring the rural community’s indomitable matchmaker, Cupid Cat, who isn’t afraid to bare his fangs to secure happily-ever-after. Anna invites you to contact her at annadynowski@yahoo.ca and visit her website, www.annadynowski.com.
***
Hockey Played Under the Lights
By Bruce Barnett
Some fifty to sixty years ago, my Toronto consisted of an area bounded by approximately six blocks. This was my universe and the centre of my universe was the playground of Jesse Ketchum School.
It was a magical place where the rampant imagination of youth enabled one to be whatever one wanted to be. There were no written rules or limits, nor any adults to provide unwanted guidance or instructions. That is not to say there were no rules. For every game played, be it one of the better known sports such as hockey or baseball, or lesser known ones such as ledgers (played with a lacrosse ball against the school wall) or British Bulldog, there were always rules. These rules could change daily and even minute by minute depending on who was playing — but there were rules. Generally these rules were initiated and enforced by the toughest of the players.
Taking up a large area of the beloved playground were two brick structures. One was a massive school building resembling a jail and to many of us attending on a hot June day, it was. The other was a much smaller structure known as the “clubhouse”. The clubhouse housed staff and equipment to maintain the playground, but more importantly, it had a small heated area where you could change into your hockey skates on a cold winter’s day. We loved the clubhouse.
Although we thoroughly enjoyed playing all the sports and games that were available in our magical universe, nothing compared to hockey. Hockey for us started sometime in late November, kicked off with the anticipation of playing hockey. The commencement of our anticipation was marked by the date the School Board delivered the boards and posts to construct two hockey cushions (as they were known then).
These posts and boards would lie in the playground for weeks before workmen arrived to form them into hockey cushions. In the meantime, these materials were used by industrious groups of boys to construct forts in the playground during school recess. Teachers generally ignored the construction of the forts. There were of course many injuries suffered by the neophyte constructors during the construction of the forts, but that was before anyone gave much thought to health and safety.
The day finally arrived when the workmen came to construct the hockey cushions. The anticipation and glee felt by us was indescribable and caused us long sleepless nights. It was an agonizing period for us. Once the cushions were constructed, we then had to wait for freezing temperatures so nature could make ice. Finally, the day came when the thermometer hit the magic mark and the “Parky” and his staff began flooding the cushions and the adjoining large ice rink used for pleasure skating. The few days and nights of anticipation waiting for enough ice base to be built for skating were unbearable, but the day soon arrived.
On that eventful day we rushed to the clubhouse with hockey stick in hand and skates slung over shoulder to remove our turned-down rubber boots and don our skates. The wiser of us would carry our rubber boots from the clubhouse to the hockey cushions because there were some of us with a warped sense of humour who thought it quite funny to pee in vacant rubber boots left behind in the clubhouse.
We made our way across the field from the clubhouse to the perimeter of the skating rink which had to be traversed to get to the hockey cushions, and hit the gleaming winter ice at full gallop carrying our rubber boots and hockey sticks. Oh what great pleasure it was taking long enjoyable strides and gliding on that frozen mirror. While making our way across this span of ice, we were met by the loud voices of girls informing us that “you’re not allowed to have hockey sticks on the pleasure rink,” which we ignored.
Before jumping over the boards to enter the chosen cushion, we deposited our boots in the corner of the boards and — finally — we were on the ice and ready to play hockey.
Before the game started, there was the usual ritual of picking of sides. Talent wasn’t the main criteria of team selection. Friendship was. The two selectors chose their friends one by one to play on their sides and strange as it may seem, the selected teams were always fairly even in skills.
After teams were selected, the ‘committee of the day’ announced the rules. They were generally always the same: No raisers (since the goalie had no pads or gloves), no goal-sucking, change ends every three goals so that both teams could get the benefit of the wind, and so on. There weren’t any referees or adults, and team numbers could range anywhere from three to ten. Games could last for hours, commencing right after school until eight-thirty at night, but generally, there was an after-school game and a night game because to please the mothers, kids had to go home for supper.
The night games were the ones that remain embedded in the pleasure side of my personal thoughts. Inside the area of those old two-by- ten boards was a place remembered fondly by everyone fortunate enough to have taken part. Players, wearing every kind of winter clothing imaginable, including breeks, lined jeans, earmuffs, toques, scarves, mitts and gloves, flew around the ice in pursuit of the puck. When gaining possession, a player would make a beeline for the opponent’s net. Sometimes the player would pass the puck but that was infrequent. The only interruption to the games was when the snow from the sky or that made from skates on the ice, or both, became thick enough to impede the handling of the puck. Players from both sides would then take turns using available shovels to clear the snow from the ice and the game would then resume.
The game was played under a starlit winter night bathed in the glow of large, elevated incandescent light fixtures installed around the outer perimeter of the boards. One can easily remember the sounds of the sticks on the ice, the puck on the boards and the players cursing and cheering, sometimes all at the same time. Just when the game reached its ultimate pleasure with the very competitive players playing at their highest skill level and skating all out in that incandescent wonderland, everything went black.
Parky had turned the lights out for the evening.
Unwilling to give in to the night, no one left the ice right away. There followed a short period of time when teams tried to play on but soon realized it was futile and surrendered to the night’s cruel darkness. Then there was the process of removing frozen feet from skates to insert them in equally frozen boots, and the happy warriors hobbled home.
It was a glorious time.
Bruce Barnett has been a resident of Markham for the past ten years. He joined the navy in 1959 for a five-year term. He was later employed in many civilian positions, in many fields, retiring from the Toronto Public Library in 2007 as the Senior Manger of Facilities responsible for managing all construction and building operations. Bruce is a married father of two children and grandfather of four. Writing is a personal hobby that began in retirement. His essay, “Retirement Guilt,” was published in the Globe and Mail’s Life section.