Coming Home To You

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“Linda’s,” Callie said from her acrobatic position on two adjoining yellows.

Matt said, “She’s not here, remember?”

And wouldn’t be probably ever again. He’d only told Seth that Linda couldn’t make it tonight. He’d best get the breakup out there now. “Did I mention what happened with the motor home at Tim Hortons last Thursday?”

His question was directed to the room at large, and it was answered at large. They’d heard the whole story, of course.

“Mom,” Matt said, “you take Linda’s spot.” Before Alexi could abstain, Matt said, “Right hand on blue and left foot on red.”

Alexi assumed the downward dog beside Mel, the exact position he was in. Only, she made it look effortless. “What you don’t know,” Mel said, “is that I was in Tim’s when the accident happened.”

Connie whipped to face him. “You what?” The sudden motion jarred loose her hand position and she fell to the mat.

“You’re out,” Matt said.

“But I... Fine... Stupid game,” Connie said and flipped off the mat. Mel envied her.

Connie plopped herself close to Ben on the couch and ate from his popcorn bag. “You better make this good, Mel.”

“Linda and I were having a coffee,” Mel said, “when I see this giant motor home turn to come into Tim Hortons. Only, it doesn’t—it goes the other way and I think that’s a good thing. Linda and I keep drinking coffee.” He remembered Callie. “I recommend whipped cream on top.”

Matt directed Callie to a position the girl accomplished in two quick moves. Mel cranked himself through his own moves and continued on. “But then the motor home comes for us again. No, I think. But it does. Suddenly the thing moves like an icebreaker toward us.” He had the whole table now. He unrolled the rest of his tale and then he gave the bonus material.

“Turns out the passenger and I have a lot in common. Her name’s Daphne. She’s a professor of English literature in Halifax. Lived there all her life, except for years in Toronto, where she went to get her degrees.” She’d filled him in on her life story when they’d gone to dinner. “She’s also been to Paris and England. She speaks at conferences.”

“Mel,” Connie said, “you haven’t done any of that. How can you say you have a lot in common?”

Mel met Matt’s eyes. The boy’s steady gaze asked Mel to dig deep. “Yeah, but when she told me about herself, it felt like I was there.”

Matt gave a small, satisfied smile and instructed his mom to reach for circles that forced her into a belly-up bridge. Mel would be in surgery if he tried that. Alexi not only maintained the position, but also managed to quietly ask, “How did you find all this out about her?”

Mel had known Alexi for a year now, and one thing about her stood out. She was a mother, which meant she figured out stuff that no one else had the foggiest notion of. He resorted to a careful response. “Now that Linda and I aren’t the friends we used to be, I have more time for Daphne.”

Mel’s news was an invisible ball that ricocheted from glance to glance around the room. Alexi to Seth to Ben over to Connie, who lobbed it back to Mel. “Uh, so, you’re telling me I need to look for a new Mrs. Claus, right?”

“Yep.”

“Daphne, by any chance?”

Daphne in a Mrs. Claus outfit. She would look so sweet and jolly.

A sight he’d never see. They’d only gone out to dinner last night. They’d chatted like old friends, yes, but he’d taken her at her word when, at the end of the evening, she’d given his hand a quick squeeze and thanked him for playing along and that she’d enjoyed their discussion. That was it. Nothing to look at here.

“She’ll be back in Halifax by then.”

Around the room bounced the glances again.

“If that’s the case, I don’t see the point—” Seth began, but he was cut off by Matt.

“Uncle Mel, you got left hand, green. Right foot, red. Try to get there without falling.”

It nearly split him up the middle but he succeeded. Alexi suddenly paled and had to lower herself to the mat to recover, and Callie collapsed her pose to tend her mom. So Mel actually took that round and claimed his prize of a doughnut with sprinkles. The conversation never returned to Daphne.

Later Seth and Mel walked together back to the truck. During the years they’d worked together, the two of them would leave the apartment they shared and go for coffee in the mornings. They’d seen more of each other than everyone else combined. Now the walk to the vehicle on Wednesday nights was sometimes all they had in a week. Mel didn’t begrudge Seth his wife and his family, but he did walk slower than necessary.

Tonight, when they got to the truck door and matters of the farm and the roofing business were sorted, Seth leaned on the truck hood and said, “I’m sorry about you and Linda.”

“It’s fine. I’m moving on.”

Seth leaned more heavily on the truck. “It’s just that this woman, from the sounds of it, is, too. As in, right out of Spirit Lake.”

Now was the time to set the record straight. It wasn’t as if Daphne had sworn him to secrecy. Except he liked how the two of them were in on a little scheme together. Just friends, but friends with a shared secret. “Daphne will be around for the next week or two. Her and me, we’re... We get along well, is all.”

Seth bowed his head. “The way you talked about her...it sounds as if you’re hoping for more. Mel. It’s a classic rebound.”

Mel knew about rebounds. His fourth girlfriend came to him on a rebound, and a week after they’d broken up she rebounded onto a newly divorced man. Eight years later, the word was she was still bounding about town. But his relationship with Daphne wasn’t a rebound. It was a plan, a favor, a chance to speak to a woman freely about other women without any expectation or innuendo.

He recalled something Connie had gone on about one time during a family dinner. “She’s a friend for a reason and a season. The season being two weeks.”

Seth tipped back his cap and looked Mel square in the eye. “And the reason?”

Mel yanked open his truck door. “To be with someone who doesn’t ask a bunch of interfering questions.” He slammed the door shut right quick before Seth could ask another.

* * *

AKIN TO ENSURING mutual corporate cultures during a merger, the ideal Austenian marriage, then, is a transaction with compatibility, not love, as its currency. And if compatibility was the foundation of marriage, then love operated in the field of illicit affairs, which rendered love by necessity as insidious and detrimental. This gave rise to an inherent internal conflict within the individual most tellingly realized in the modern revolt against—

“Daphne! What are you still doing here? Weren’t you supposed to meet Mel a half hour ago?”

Daphne jumped, her computer sliding off her lap. She grabbed it and checked the clock on the screen. Heavens. To stop Fran from nagging, she’d invented the date and then promptly forgotten about it.

“Oh, he texted me earlier, he had a roof to finish,” she said. “We might meet up later if he has time.”

“Time? Time? Is he dying of a terminal disease?”

Daphne raised her eyebrows, a strategy she’d developed to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. “No, and therefore he must earn a living.”

“Good for him, but not for either of us. You need to figure out if he’s your man, and if he can’t be bothered to participate in the process, especially on a Friday night, then we might as well take Frederick west.” Fran eased slowly onto the love seat.

This was new, this uncertainty that objects were solid and wouldn’t crumble or get whisked away. It pained Daphne to see Fran lose confidence in the existence of physical reality.

That was more Daphne’s territory. She could easily lose track of time and space while immersed in books and thoughts. And quite honestly, Mel-the-Love-Interest was like a character in a book to her, more alive in her imagination than in reality. To keep Fran convinced, she needed to do a better job of pretending he was real. She thumbed her screen and paused, as if reading. “He sent another text. He wants to know if I’d like to go for ice cream.”

“Again? You did that the last night. Surely, there’s something else happening in this hick town.”

Nothing that a single woman of a certain age could do. Then again, perhaps a woman of a certain age could do anything. Consider the widow in Sense and Sensibility. No longer on the marriage market, she was permitted to—Daphne reached for her laptop.

“Yes, google Spirit Lake and romance. See if anything comes up.”

It took effort but Daphne opened another window and typed what Fran suggested. A sunset picture of the lake, an old coupon special for a lakeside restaurant called Smooth Sailing, an XOX Valentines event at the library for women only. Women only? What was the point of that? She resorted to ad-libbing. “The ice-cream shop seems to be the best bet. There are many flavors for us to work through. The combinations are endless. Especially if you get a double scoop. Then you have to not only decide on the flavors but which one goes on top. Never mind the sprink—”

“Fine. Off you go. How come he never picks you up?”

Precisely the complication she’d discussed with Mel at the outset of their charade, but she hated to put him through the dress-up routine already. Perhaps she could talk him into dining with her as a reward. He certainly liked his food, and she could more easily fake a relationship in front of Fran if she could report on events that actually transpired.

“He probably doesn’t want to deal with you.” Daphne shed her laptop and books and papers and pens from her lap like a spinster with cats. This phantom dating was a royal nuisance. Just as she was getting somewhere with her book. Perhaps there was a work-around. She said, “Mel wants to know what I’m working on, so I’ll bring the laptop.”

“Honestly, Daphne,” Fran said, tightening her silk shawl about her. Feeling cold, too, was new. “He’s just saying that to be polite. Surely, you can think of something better to do.”

Daphne raised her eyebrows as high as they could go. “I’m sure I can.” She shoved the cords into the bag’s side pockets and settled its strap on her shoulder. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.”