Forecast (5 page)

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you. How are you handling things?”

Rowie smiled. “Better now you’re home. When did you get back?”

“This morning. I can feel jet lag creeping up behind me like a Catholic priest. Want a beer? Beer is the best thing for jet lag … and broken hearts … and anything for that matter.” Angel pulled a six-pack of Bondi Blondes out of her bag, opened two and handed one to Rowie.

“I’ve got a friendly Merlot in there as well,” she giggled.

Rowie locked the shop door and the two friends curled up on a lounge with a drink. Angel plopped her feet up on a coffee table, guzzled back some beer and let out an obnoxious burp.

“God I love beer,” she sighed.

“So how was Sydney?” asked Rowie.

“Brilliant darling. The Aussie Peso is so bloody weak that when I converted all my money I felt like a well-fed Hilton chick. I shopped, I shagged, I partied. I’d love you to come back with me one day.”

“I will, definitely,” said Rowie.

Angel rolled her eyes. “That’s not one of your hokey pokey little insights is it? A little flash of the two of us cruising around Sydney in a convertible filled with party loving surfers?”

“No,” laughed Rowie, “just hope.”

“Thank God for that because I can’t stand surfers. They have small willies. I think it’s because of the pressure from the wetsuit. It stunts the growth,” said Angel. “So are you totally devastated?”

“No,” Rowie admitted. “I’m used to it.”

“I didn’t like him.”

“Thanks for telling me now,” Rowie laughed.

“I mean, he was nice enough, but he was a bit insipid. He had small feet and you know what that means?”

“Small shoes?” offered Rowie.

“Exactly,” said Angel. “And also that you were lucky you didn’t do more than kiss him.”

“You’re obsessed,” giggled Rowie.

“No, just particular. So, what else has been happening?”

Rowie took a sip of her beer and tried not to sound too excited. “I’ve been offered a job.”

“No way!” Angel shrieked. “Where?”

“Rowie told her about Drew’s accident. “It’s only temporary, while he’s away.”

“That’s amazing. Brilliant.” Angel paused for a moment. “Will you get to meet handsome Henderson?”

“Unlike you and my grandmother, I’m not obsessed with the guy.” Rowie looked at Angel and they both giggled. “Although he is hot.”

Angel threw her empty can into the trash. “How did Gwendolyn react?”

“I haven’t told her yet,” Rowie admitted.

Angel slapped Rowie’s arm. “You’ve got to stand up to her. I love Gwennie, but she’s a manipulative old cow. You have every right to do this.”

“I know,” Rowie agreed.

“Go tell her. Get it over with now. I’d better go home anyway. I’m a bit pissed.”

“Who with?”

“Pissed. Drunk.” Angel translated.

Rowie smiled. She still got confused by some of Angel’s Australianisms. “You’re losing your touch, we only had a few beers.”

“You had a few, my princess. I, on the other hand, have been drinking for twenty-six hours straight, courtesy of Qantas.”

“The spirit of Australia.”

“And my spirit of choice was vodka.”

Angel fell silent for a moment and stared at the resident statue of Ganesha, who, as he always did, stared right back. Gwendolyn had discovered the statue in India after it had called her name as she passed. He was shipped back home and had taken pride of place next to the counter at Second Site ever since. It was rumored amongst New York’s new age community that he bought great luck to whoever kissed his trunk during the first full moon of summer. It was a tale that had lines of tie-dyed, quasi-Hindus lining up for hours with their best beeswax lip balm.

“What’s his name again?” Angel asked.

“Ganesha. He’s the Patron God of artists and writers. You should ask him to help you write that book you’re always talking about.”

Angel rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

“He’s also the remover of life blockages.”

“Then you’d better ask for his help when you speak to Gwendolyn.”

“I was going to,” said Rowie seriously.

“And I thought I was weird.” Angel turned back to Ganesha. “Hey big boy, is that a trunk on your face or are you just glad to see me?” she chuckled and, with a wicked gleam in her eye and a lick of her plump, pouty lips, she sauntered out the door.

The Grove was a grand old home, with creaking floorboards, rickety stairs and a hodgepodge of floors and furniture. Unlike many of the area’s brownstones, which had been renovated or turned into apartments, the house was exactly as it was the day the Shakespeare family bought it.

Spread over four floors, the house was a labyrinth of rooms, many of which were never used. People regularly gathered in the kitchen, the heart of the home, or the attic, which was used for séances. In summer the garden, the family’s constant and vital link to Mother Nature, teemed with friends. Surrounded by walls and tall trees, the garden gave the Shakespeares the privacy people of their kind needed. It shielded them from the prying eyes of neighbors who, through lack of understanding, feared them. For their own kind however—psychics; spiritualists; witches; students of the old ways and the new ways—the door of the rambling old house was always open. In a city where it was unheard of to leave your windows and doors unlocked, they had no worries about intruders. Not since a Romany friend had placed the Mark of the Gypsy over their house forty years earlier.

Gwendolyn wandered the house dusting and occasionally placing a Post-it on something she’d forgotten she owned. She drifted into the lounge room and noticed Lilia who was, as usual, curled up reading.

“Can I get you anything, love?”

“Yes thanks, that would be nice,” said Lilia, barely glancing up.

Gwendolyn looked to see what Lilia was reading and realized the book was upside down. How she’d ever given birth to such a strange creature was beyond her. Lilia’s entrance into the world had nearly killed Gwendolyn. She refused to leave the fluid world of her mother’s womb and Gwendolyn screamed and cried and pushed to no avail for two horrific days. The midwife and the spirits failed to coax the child out, so it was a bespectacled doctor and a huge set of tongs that finally dragged Lilia into the world.

Stubborn and aloof from the very start, Lilia refused to breath until the doctor gave her a hard whack on her milky white butt, which shocked her into taking her first gasp. But she never cried, never whined, even at birth she bottled her despair of it in. Lilia still bottled everything away, so much so that she often forgot what was bothering her and would wander around worried about something she couldn’t quite recall.

Gwendolyn sidled over to a table laden with family photos, and picked up one of Lilia as a child. Lilia’s burgundy hair fell in gentle undulating waves over her shoulders and her skin remained so translucent that it was almost blue, like the sea she appeared to be floating under. Lilia was then, and still now, the most stunning creature Gwendolyn had ever seen. Fifty odd years after her birth, Gwendolyn was still surprised that such perfection had sprung from her own body.

She placed the photo down and reached for one of Rowie, undoubtedly the greatest love of her life. She looked just like Lilia, but without the hazy edges and liquid eyes. Rowie worried Gwendolyn. She seemed unhappy, restless, although Gwendolyn couldn’t understand why. Hadn’t she provided everything the girl needed?

Dorian was always telling her to get off Rowie’s back, but that was easy for him to say. He was rarely around, and Lilia couldn’t raise a rabbit. Someone had to take responsibility for Rowie. Gwendolyn was always the responsible one.

She picked up a framed photo of Dorian and her on their wedding day.

“You’re not getting melancholy on me are you?”

Gwendolyn jumped and realized her husband was behind her. “I didn’t realize you were at home.”

Dorian walked over to his wife and together they peered at the photo. “You looked beautiful in that dress.”

“It’s still in the attic somewhere.” Gwendolyn sighed. How quickly time had passed. It only seemed like yesterday since she’d first locked eyes with him.

When they met, Dorian was struggling with a small funeral parlor he’d inherited from his father. He’d never liked the hushed tones and morbid colors of his father’s work, but endeavored to keep the business afloat out of respect for his parents. During the week he spoke in subdued, considerate whispers as he buried and burnt his customers, then on his days off he would sing loudly as he tended his garden. Not in the modern sense where every plant has its place and weeds are not welcome. Dorian’s garden was as Mother Nature intended, with a mass of flowers and plants supporting each other’s existence and where weeds were equally admired.

He carved tiny chairs and tables and placed them underneath bushes and hanging plants. He painted small signs that invited wood folk and elementals to feel at ease in his garden. Faeries, elves and mystical animals—creatures that now hid in other realms, wary of the human race and its fear of the unknown—grew to trust him and their festivities in his yard could be heard late into the night.

It was the nature spirits that orchestrated Dorian’s first meeting with Gwendolyn. Her mother, the world famous Rosina Shakespeare had just died when Gwendolyn discovered a leaflet in her mailbox. It said:
Feel like you’re six feet under with all the decisions to be made? Trust is a must and in us you can trust. Call Cunningham and Sons for your entire funeral needs.

Gwendolyn felt it was a sign and, to the delight of the watchful spirits, went straight over to Cunningham and Sons.

Dorian answered the door and felt a lightening bolt of love hit him straight in the chest.

“Are you Cunningham or one of the sons?” asked Gwendolyn, aware she had just met her future husband.

“Cunningham Senior is dead, I’m his son.”

“What about his other sons?”

“There are none.”

“Then why the name?”

“My father always lived in hope,” explained Dorian.

“Then he must have been a good man,” said Gwendolyn. “I’m looking for someone to bury my mother, but I don’t want any hushed voices, morbid speeches or black clothes. I would rather bury her in the back yard than subject her to that crap.”

Dorian led her into his life, and she stayed. The next week was a busy one for the new couple. They mourned Gwendolyn’s mother, and then celebrated their own marriage. They bought The Grove, and a short while later, Second Site. A year later, Lilia was born and they felt their life was complete.

Of course, their relationship had changed over the years … as relationships do, even true love. Then Dorian left her for a while, which had been devastating. And although he’d eventually returned, it was never the same again. Gwendolyn was used to feeling lonely now, especially when he was around.

Gwendolyn placed the photo back on the table. “Where have you been for the last week, Dorian?”

“Here and there.”

Gwendolyn turned on him, her green eyes flashing angrily. “Sometimes I don’t know why you bother coming home at all.”

“Oh don’t start, woman. I’m doing the best I can.”

“Well your best isn’t bloody good enough.”

Dorian looked like he was about to say something, but stopped. Instead he turned and left the room.

Gwendolyn gulped back her tears. She refused to cry. She made her way to the mantelpiece. There, in pride of place, were four urns, or the ‘mantel of marital mortality’ as she called it. Dorian hadn’t been the only man is her life!

Urn number one was husband number one: Ed. Gwendolyn and Ed met and married when they were too young and too stupid to know any better. He was killed when he fell down a manhole, the first recorded death of its kind in New York State.

The second urn was Tedious Tom. He was the dullest man on earth, although this fact didn’t transpire until well after their wedding. Tom choked to death on a fishbone, despite Gwendolyn pleading with him to turn vegetarian, like her. She contacted him during a séance not long after he died, and he admitted she’d been right.

The third urn was a boy Lilia married just out of high school. He’d been conscripted to go to Vietnam. Lilia knew he wouldn’t come home, and he’d been so in love with her that she felt marrying him was the least she could do.

Gerry had gone off to war with a smile on his face and the naive belief that everything would be okay. Under the circumstances, and with no choice in the matter, it was the best way to be. Lilia grieved, but only for a lost life, not a lost husband. It would be six more years before she met her One True Love: Rowie’s father.

And then finally … there was Dorian, or his ashes, anyway. More often than not she labeled it pain encased in ceramic. Sometimes Gwendolyn had the overwhelming urge to poor the ashes over her head, to rub them into her skin. Just to find some remnant of something physical to connect with. But she was practical enough to know it wouldn’t work … And she hated vacuuming.

Gwendolyn wiped a tear from her eye. Sometimes she felt her life was rather empty. It’s why she continued to cling to tradition, to her family, past and present. The walls of The Grove were lined with portraits of redheaded women: the glue that held her together. There was Rosslyn Shakespeare, burned at the stake in 1642; Ariadna Shakespeare, who bore the illegitimate child of King James VI of Scotland; Muriel Shakespeare, who wrote poetry that healed the reader; Yvonne Shakespeare, midwife to Queen Victoria. It was an illustrious history, a difficult one to live up to, even Gwendolyn recognized that.

The front door slammed and Rowie entered. Gwendolyn grabbed her Post-it notes and stuck one on a portrait of ancestor Margot.

“You look so much like Margot Shakespeare,” she said to Rowie. “She took over the family business when her mother was burned at the stake and she was only twelve at the time.”

“That’s interesting,” said Rowie, who’d heard it all before. She noticed her mother in the corner. “Weren’t you going out on a date tonight, Mom?

“I had to cancel,” said Lilia. “He arrived wearing the most awful shoes. Brown slip-on things.”