53 Letters For My Lover (6 page)

I remember reading the listing and thinking it would be perfect. And maybe, just maybe, I’d be free of Troy. Every hour we spend together intensifies my awareness of him. The scent of his skin, the shape of his nails, the subtle inflections in his voice—the savvy businessman, the charming bad boy, the sensual lover. Watching him eat, talk, smile, tease, it’s easy to see why women come undone around him. That insatiable appetite for life, the intrinsic confidence, the dark, dangerous allure wrapped in layers of genuine playfulness.

“Okay then.” I start turning the lights off.

This is it. We’ve found him a place. I’m almost there, still intact.

We take the private elevator down. Small spaces are the worse. Cars, laundry rooms, guest bathrooms, walk-in closets. I’ve been in them all with him, showing him this, inspecting that. Soon, I’ll be able to breathe freely.

“I leave for New York in three days. If we could have this wrapped up by then, it would be great,” he says when the doors open.

“The closing isn’t for another two months. That’s if they accept our offer.”

“They’ll accept. I want it. Whatever it takes.” He walks me to my car before saying goodbye.

I get in and shut the door, massaging my temples. The stress of holding it together when I’m around him drains me.

I jump at the knock on my window.

He’s circled back. Now what?

“I just realized that I’m officially living in the city,” he says. “I think that calls for a celebration.”

“I can’t, Troy.”

“Can’t?” He looks at me for a moment. “I like ‘can’t’. Much better than ‘won’t’.”

“Can’t, won’t. What difference does it make?”

He straightens, but his smile is oddly unsettling. “See you when I get back, Shayda.”

September 29th, 1995

“Bye, Shayda. Have a
great weekend.”

“You too.” I wave back at Susan, set the code for the alarm and lock the door behind me.

A dark sedan pulls up beside me. The driver unrolls the passenger side window.

“Shayda.”

I peer into the car. “Troy? What are you doing here?”

“Get in.” He unlocks the door.

“I’m on my way home.”

“This won’t take long.”

“Is there a problem?” I ask. The closing on his loft went through without a hitch.

“No.” He dangles the keys in front of me. “Just picked them up from the lawyer. Now will you get in before Hulk Hogan back there decides to have a go at me?”

I glance at the driver of the car waiting behind him. The thought of Troy’s impeccably fit six foot frame being tossed around like a Saturday morning cartoon is a bit far-fetched, but amusing.

“Why do I get the feeling that you’d enjoy seeing me get roughed up?” he says.

“What do you want?” I ask, getting in.

“I have something for you,” he replies, indicating the back seat.

I see a round mesh box, wrapped with a satin ribbon.

“What is it?”

“Something that needs our immediate attention.” He pulls out of the parking lot and takes the highway.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Would you quit with the twenty questions and just relax?”

I sit back and look out the window as the fall foliage whizzes by in spectacular streaks of red and yellow. It’s easier than dwelling on how good he looks in a leather jacket. He takes the exit a few minutes later and turns into a quiet park.

“Come.” He grabs the box and walks me to edge of a big pond that mirrors the blazing colors of the trees around us. We follow a path up the hill, where a slight clearing gives way to a breathtaking view of the ravine.

“Wow.” I take in the meandering silver of the Don River as it cuts through the valley, flanked by golden oaks and maples and birch. “It’s like we’re not even in the city. How did you find this place?”

“I come here for my daily run,” he replies. “Here.” He hands me the box. “A little something for you. Make a wish before you open it.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes, make a wish and then open the box.”

“This is silly,” I reply.

“Do it.”

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Then I untie the ribbon and peek inside.

A brilliant flash of red flutters inside.

“Oh my god!” I snap the lid shut. “Is that...is that a butterfly?”

He smiles at my obvious delight.

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You’re supposed to release it.”

I peek into the box again. “It’s a Monarch! I’ve never seen one this color before. Where did you find it?”

“I happened to be frolicking through a field of wildflowers and there it was. And wouldn’t you know it? I just happened to have a butterfly net.”

“Troy.”

“I made a few phone calls.” He fesses up.

“But why?”

“Remember that first time we met? By the sidewalk outside Bob’s house?”

“Yes?”

“I lied. There was no butterfly. I made it up.”

“Why would you do something like that?”

“Because you were about to bolt and I wanted you to stay.”

My heart stops, and then slams hard and fast against my chest, my thoughts racing back to that sunny morning in June.

It was a long
walk from the bus stop to Bob’s house. My hands were heavy with the contracts he needed for the day. I heard someone running behind me. Two girls, walking in the opposite direction, all long legs and bouncy hair, passed me by. They smiled. I smiled back, but quickly realized they were smiling at whoever was behind me.

“Morning, girls.” The tone was bold, appreciative and wickedly playful.

The girls giggled and walked on. The footsteps behind me slowed, then started up again.

The next instant, I felt myself being knocked off my feet. I landed on my knees, papers flying everywhere.

“Whoa! Are you all right? I didn’t see you there.”

Of course not. Why would he? He was too busy checking out the girls over his shoulder, enjoying the rear view.

He chased down my papers before kneeling next to me. Dusty sneakers, grey sweatpants, a ‘University of Waterloo’ sweatshirt, and then—the most startling pair of blue eyes. They reminded me of the cut outs I had saved in my wish book, of the places I wanted to visit. Blue like the water that surrounds the islands in the South Pacific. I felt like I had been picked off the pavement and plopped smack dab in the middle of it. I floated there for a while, suspended in its endless horizons as it held me for long, still seconds.

The chut-chut-chut-chut of an automatic sprinkler transported me back to the suburban street. I blinked and started getting up.

“Shhh. Don’t move,” he said. “Not a muscle.”

“Huh?” I had the most peculiar urge to flee. My cheeks were already burning like I had run a long way.

“Don’t move. There’s a butterfly. On your shoulder.”

I froze. I don’t know why. I couldn’t even see it.

“What color?” I asked.

“Red.”

“Red?” I felt that molten blue stare on me again.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen,” he said.

I dared not breathe.

“You know,” he continued, “there’s a Native American legend which says that if you want a wish to come true, you must capture a butterfly and whisper your wish to it. Since it makes no sound, it won’t tell the wish to anyone but the Great Spirit. By making the wish and releasing the butterfly, your wish will be taken to the heavens and be granted.”

“Are you...are you going to try and catch it?”

“Only if it wants to be caught.”

I squeezed the bundle of papers in my hand to stop them from shaking. His gaze dropped to my lap, breaking that electric contact. When he looked up, his eyes were different.

“It’s gone.”

“What?”

“The butterfly.”

I nodded, letting my breath out.

“Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked.

“No.” But every second he looked at me, he zapped through another layer of my safe, calm cocoon.

“I’d say I’m sorry for running into you, but I’m not really.” He smiled as he handed me the rest of the papers.

It wasn’t fair. Having a smile like that.

I looked away, my eyes focusing on the silver cross that hung from a rosary around his neck.

“Need some help?” He held out his hand.

“I’m fine.”

He paused for a beat, then he turned and took off, the steady thump of his footsteps fading into the summer morning.

I looked at my watch. 9:05 a.m. I was late. And all the forms were out of order. And my heart was beating like I’d jumped over a thousand hurdles. I rounded the corner to Bob’s house and rang the doorbell.

A second later, I was staring at the blue eyed stranger through the criss-cross mesh of the screen door.

Of course. Bob’s son. Home for the summer. How could that have slipped my mind?

“Ryan?” I asked, turning red as he appraised me from head to toe.

“I’m Ryan.” A head popped up beside him. “He’s Troy. Who are you?”

“Coming through, coming through.” Bob’s familiar voice. “Oh hey, Shayda.” He stepped out and held the door open for me. “Boys, this is my assistant. Be nice.” He gave them a stern look. “I’ve left some notes for you, Shayda, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Okay.” I put my head down, parted my way through two hard, muscular bodies and marched into the office.

“Holy crap. My dad’s assistant? She’s smokin’!” said Ryan.

“Lay off, man. She’s married.” I heard Troy reply.

I dropped the papers on the desk. My wedding band. He’d noticed. And run. Literally. I smiled in spite of myself.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god!” Jayne came into the room and shut the door. “Did you see Ryan’s friend?”

“I did.” I laughed.

It was way before noon, but Jayne was up. Her hair was combed and she had on a dab of mascara.

“So he was washing his car yesterday. No. Shirt. Eeeeee!” she squealed. Then she opened the door a crack and peeked out. “He’s so cute!”

“Hey, Jayne?” I asked. “Have you ever seen a red butterfly?”

“A red butterfly?” She turned around. “Does that even exist?”

“Sure does.” Troy poked his head into the study. “I saw one just this morning.”

“Yeah, right,” replied Jayne. “What’s it called then?”

“A Beetroot Butterfly.”

I stare at the
red Monarch before me now.

“You made it up? There’s no such thing as a Beetroot Butterfly?” I ask over the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

“Oh, but there is.” He catches the color wash over my face. “And I’m looking at her right now.”

The seconds stretch out indefinitely, leaving me suspended, floating mid-air, weightless, breathless.

That’s when the butterfly decides to come out. It perches on the edge of the box, wings folded flat, with white spots that stare at us like fake eyes. The majestic valley calls, but the butterfly clings to its mesh cage.

“Fly, dammit, fly!” says Troy.

The Monarch spreads its wings, taking in the warmth of the sun before touching them together and flying away. It rises before us, a fragile wisp of crimson against the vast valley.

“I wonder if she’ll make it,” I say.

Every year, Monarch butterflies migrate south by the millions, a round-trip journey of many thousands of kilometres.

“No one butterfly completes the whole trip,” he replies. “It takes four or five generations.”

“That’s sad,” I say. “And beautiful. If she stays, she dies. If she goes, she dies.”

We watch it glide lower, and lower still, until it disappears into the backdrop of autumn leaves.

“We all die, Shayda.” He turns and looks at me. “It’s about how we choose to get there.”

“Is that what this is about?” I ask. “You want me to choose?”

He pulls the edges of my coat together as the sun begins to set and a coolness settles in the air. “It’s not about what I want. Or what anyone else wants. What do
you
want, Shayda?”

“Don’t,” I say, feeling tiny headed flowers of hope push through long-forgotten graves. “Can’t you see what you’re doing?”

“When it comes to you, I’m blind, Shayda.” He lifts my chin. “I just see you. Not a mum or friend or wife or co-worker. Just you, Shayda.”

With the setting sun in his face, Troy’s eyes look like the tops of two blue umbrellas with dark pin point centres and spokes of gold. The glints in his hair soften his features, making him seem infinitely more vulnerable.

“You just see what you can’t have,” I reply.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve carried you with me for so long, there’s no room for anyone else.”

I suck in my breath. “You’ve made me out to be something I’m not. It’s all in your head.”

“That theory went out the window the moment we kissed. And you know it too.”

“It’s just physical attraction, Troy. Nothing more.”

“Fine,” he lets out a ragged sigh. “Then let’s have a wild and crazy affair. Get it out of our system. Anything would be better than this. This half-living. This damned yearning.” His thumb traces the curve of my lips. “I can’t stop thinking about you—your touch, your taste, your smell.”

I close my eyes as he runs his finger down my neck.

How do you deny a living, breathing feeling? How do you hack it and kill it and bury it so that it never surfaces again?