Writing
Excerpt from an Early Chapter :
A Painting to Die For
The lounge shimmered like sunlight on a still pond, the scent of white roses and Debussy drifting in the air. I spotted Anne seated at our reserved table. She was sipping Chardonnay, looking cucumber cool in white capris and a blue and white striped top. Framed by a tangle of auburn curls, her face was freckled porcelain. My cousin had lost none of her Pre-Raphaelite looks.
She sprang from her chair the instant she saw me. I approached her, trying to put on an air of urbanity, despite the scuffed Rockports.
‘Bill!’ she exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. ‘Handsome, as ever,’ her hand gently brushing my temple.
The lounge shimmered like sunlight on a still pond, the scent of white roses and Debussy drifting in the air. I spotted Anne seated at our reserved table. She was sipping Chardonnay, looking cucumber cool in white capris and a blue and white striped top. Framed by a tangle of auburn curls, her face was freckled porcelain. My cousin had lost none of her Pre-Raphaelite looks.
She sprang from her chair the instant she saw me. I approached her, trying to put on an air of urbanity, despite the scuffed Rockports.
‘Bill!’ she exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. ‘Handsome, as ever,’ her hand gently brushing my temple.
Up close, I could tell she now wore contacts, but her eyes remained the luminous blue I remembered. Her perfume smelled of autumn leaves, the kind you remember as a kid.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said.
‘No problem, I got here early. Couldn’t wait to see you.’
She’d picked up a mid-Atlantic accent, somewhere between Forest Hill and Grosvenor Square. It suited her, this new sophistication. I shuddered to think what impression I was making, but the self-doubt quickly melted in the warmth of her eyes.
A waiter arrived to serve afternoon tea on green and white striped Spode.
‘A house specialty,’ Anne said, smiling.
‘A mix of Ceylon blends, ma’am,’ the waiter explained as he poured mineral water into crystal glasses. He’d barely departed before a second server appeared carrying a selection of sandwiches, scones and hand-made pastries, all artfully balanced on a silver cake stand. ‘The Severn & Wye smoked salmon and the Dorrington ham are excellent,’ he said. Finally, a third attendant arrived to pour the Laurent-Perrier Brut, already cooling in an ice bucket.
The army of waiters finally retreated. ‘Don’t forget to try the Génoise cheesecake,’ Anne said, smirking. ‘It’s to die for.’
We toasted our reunion as the servers hovered in the background. Where I was from, service was a spotty teenager handing you a bag out of a drive-thru window. Here, the tea ritual was conducted like a High Anglican Mass.
The conversation flowed easily as if we’d never been apart. We spoke nostalgically about our past, sharing a sense of disbelief at turning middle-aged. I described how Toronto had become a sea of high rises, while she chronicled the stresses of the Big Smoke. We found ourselves leaning in, our hands almost touching. I had to keep reminding myself we were cousins.
