Title: carpe diem

Author: Alex Foster

Category: Drama/Romance

Rating: PG

Summary: In the autumn of 2009 I found my life again crossing hers. Post movie fic.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Katherine Brooks. No money is being made and no infringement is intended.

Author’s Notes: This is my entry into the Taming the Muse weekly writing challenge. The prompt word was a claddagh ring. Thank you for reading.

I love thee, I love but thee

With a love that shall not die

Till the sun grows cold

And the stars grow old.

William Shakespeare

Even for Seattle in the middle of October it was unusually cold and rainy. People crowding the streets were bundled for winter as they held open umbrellas and rushed for the shelter of storefront awnings and taxicabs. Water flooded crossways as storm drains struggled to keep up with the steadily falling rain. The autumn of 2009 had already set records.

Holding the collar of my coat closed with one hand, I moved down the street at a half run. I’d only been in the city for a month but already knew the way to my destination by heart. I’d been by the window more than once, stopped inside just long enough to find a table and leave before a waitress could see me, but today was different.

I kept my head down against not just the rain but also curious stares of strangers. It was habit now; none of these people recognized me. In fact years had passed since my face was anywhere close to the front page of a newspaper.

The scandal lived a brief and sweeping life before fading unexpectedly out. The senator wouldn’t press charges and neither would the authorities. I didn’t know for a fact, but believed Annabelle was my savior in that. Her mother had the political power to see me ruined and instead settled for my relatively minor humiliation. Annabelle must have begged for mercy.

I couldn’t think of anyone else that would have on my behalf.

Perhaps she pointed out that pushing for such a public hanging would look bad on the way to the White House. Our first female president was nothing if not a compassionate and forgiving soul.

Of course I didn’t walk away completely unscathed. Family members no longer returned my calls and my letters to them returned to me unopened. My job and position naturally were gone—though I would have walked away regardless after what I did. The students and the parents of those students deserved better. And I was currently looking for a new church.

Determined to follow through this time I hurried among the early dinner crowd to the coffeehouse. It’d taken months of searching and inquiries to now graduated former students—those conversations had been almost as embarrassing as the scandal itself—to find this location.

Thursday through Saturday evenings people could gather in the eastside shop to enjoy live music with their lattes and cappuccinos. She played every other week, sharing rotations with a small band.

I felt like a stalker and a fresh rush of humiliation raced through me as I pushed open the shop’s door. The bells over the entrance chimed but no one looked my way. It felt like everyone was looking at me though. Aware of my paranoia I strained nevertheless to hear my name whispered in the murmur of conversations filling the coffeehouse.

I found an empty table in the back away from the small stage. Leaving my raincoat on I set my bag on the extra chair and settled in to wait. The house was blessedly dark with most of the light coming from small lamps set on the tables. Behind the bar was bright strip lighting that further pushed shadows into the main seating area. Moving deftly through the room were waitresses dressed crisply in black pants and buttoned white shirts.

The simplicity of the uniform struck me and for a moment I saw her face superimposed on each of the wait staff. For a panicky second I wondered what I would do if she walked up to me to take my order. Reason caught up with me and I worked to calm my rapidly beating heart. She didn’t work here like that, I reminded myself.

When a server finally did make her way over to me I avoided her eyes and just ordered a pot of mint tea. My stomach twisted at the thought of eating anything else. Feeling like not just a stalker but a juvenile one at that, I looked at the shop’s door as a young couple walked in. Outside was my freedom and obscurity. Life was peaceful and comfortable once and could be again without her—in time anyway. I didn’t have to risk whispers and disapproving looks.

I stayed.

My tea arrived and I thanked the waitress with a nod that kept my eyes away from hers. I’d break that habit one day, but it was a step for another day.

Half an hour passed slowly. I drank two cups of tea out of nervousness before realizing that if I didn’t stop I’d have to risk her seeing me as I crossed to the restroom. I’d rehearsed hundreds of times over the three years how I wanted this evening to happen, and her spotting me on the way to the lady’s room was never considered.

The store filled as showtime approached. Around my doubt and nerves I felt pride that so many people wanted to see her perform. If nothing else the evening was worth it to hear and fully appreciate her singing this time.

Without warning or fanfare I suddenly spotted her by the bar.

In counterbalance to my demeanor of avoidance Annabelle leaned casually against the countertop with one foot balanced behind her on the toe of her shoe. Head held high she met the eyes of those around her fearlessly. Her hair was shorter than I remembered but still a wash of brown and blonde. Just three years but she seemed older—no, I corrected, Annabelle always seemed older than she really was.

It was a weak and hollow excuse even in my thoughts, but she was an expert pursuer even as a teen. Outmaneuvering me and invading my thoughts at each turn. Like someone far more experienced than she had any right to be, she planted the seeds that drew me here.

Slightly bohemian in dress she wore a long flowing skirt topped by an untucked shirt and tightly cinched vest. Three bracelets circled one wrist and a ring looped on a chain hung from her neck. I knew her well enough to wonder what each of those pieces represented. Nothing was incidental about Annabelle.

She was unaware of me as I watched her laugh with one of the bartenders. After all this time I wasn’t sure what to expect. Finally old enough to escape her family she was together and happy and free. Hers was now a life where no one knew who she was.

With one last word to the bartender, Annabelle turned and strolled confidently across the room. I fought the dual urges to sink in my chair or to jump up and call her name. There was a plan to this that I had to stick to. It was possible she no longer wanted to see me, and I had to offer that out in a way that wouldn’t embarrass both of us.

She took the stage to a smattering of applause and picked up the guitar waiting for her there. After flashing a smile to the crowd and taking a moment to check the instrument’s tuning, Annabelle started to play.

For the first few minutes she just strummed a steady melody, letting the music drift through the coffeehouse and grab the attention of the patrons. Slowly the grumble of conversations and the clashing of dishes from the kitchen faded and all eyes were on her.

Mine included. I sat in rapture while my former lover began to sing. Softly at first, building the song’s tone on the guitar, and then raised her voice to match it.

Annabelle sang about the heart, love, and the strength and weakness they bring. Alone at my table I fancied that the songs were about me. Longing and sadness filled the words, but Annabelle did not seem overcome. In fact, lost in playing and singing, she looked contented and at peace.

Before the end of the third song the crowd was hers.

Knowing her break would happen after the fifth number, I leaned forward and peered closer. I did my best to commit this happy Annabelle to memory in case she didn’t accept my offer. No longer afraid she’d feel my gaze on her, I studied every part of her.

I noticed then that the ring on the chain around her neck was a claddagh. Two hands, holding a heart, topped with a crown. I was enough of a romantic to know the ring’s meaning when worn on the finger, but I couldn’t guess why she wore it around her neck. Nothing about Annabelle was by accident.

Coating my dry throat with the now cold tea, I waited until she took a five minute break and then pushed to my feet. I threw money on the table and did my best not to appear rushed as I gathered my bag and pulled an old book from underneath the flap. Red with a corner of the binding missing it was one of my oldest collections. Written in gold lettering across the otherwise empty cover was the name Christopher Marlowe.

Clutching the bag to my chest I started for the door. No one watched me, and my eyes never left Annabelle again standing by the bar. She sipped a glass of water and talked with one of the waitresses. As I passed the stage I set the book next to her tip jar.

Inside I had dog-eared a poem and wrote my phone number and name. Satisfied and dizzy with a hopeful high, I rushed from the coffee shop and stepped out into the rainy Seattle night. Now I had only to wait for her to pursue again.

End

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields...
Christopher Marlowe