Storms of Passion (2 page)

Even though Mark’s betrayal occurred nearly nine months previous, the wound still tore at her heart. A tear slid slowly down her cheek as she gazed out to the frozen landscape.

To her credit, she did not do as the books and movies so typically depicted. She didn’t storm to the bedroom to confront Mark and his lover. She didn’t grandstand. Instead, she’d left the one bag of groceries unpacked on the counter, pulled a sticky note from the drawer, and wrote,
Came by to surprise you with supper, but I was the one surprised. Have a good life. V
. Then, she left.

Her friends had rallied around her, equally shocked and constantly questioning if she was sure there was another woman, when she didn’t actually
see
the event. Vivian always just shrugged.

“Why doesn’t he call?” she had asked Marcy, unconvinced. “If I’m wrong about what was going on in his bedroom, then I’m happy to be wrong. So, why hasn’t he called to plead his innocence?”

Vivian had waited by the phone. God, how she waited. Time seemed to slow as she served out her sentence in purgatory. She picked up the receiver more times than she could count to listen to the dial tone, ensuring the phone was indeed working. She even went as far as to punch in his number before promptly hanging up.

“Honey, he’s likely as hurt and confused as you,” Marcy said, but the light of conviction didn’t shine in her soft, brown eyes. “I really liked Mark and I liked the two of you together. I want you to be sure about what happened before you throw in the towel.”

He never called and within a month, rumors circulated that Mark’s new lover had moved in with him. Everyone in the small world of publishing would now see that Mark and his new girlfriend were a couple.

Vivian avoided the office. She was humiliated. To show her face made her sick that she’d be seen as the laughing stock of office gossip. She questioned her relationship with Mark. Did he look elsewhere when she was unmotivated to make the commitment he wanted? Was his infidelity was her fault? Her mother would say so. Keeping a man happy and satisfied should be a woman’s top priority, is what her mother would say.

Then the letter arrived.

Vivian, I am not going to bother to call to explain myself. What happened has happened and is, in my opinion, for the best. I simply want closure as I move on with my life. I don’t need to explain or justify my behavior to someone who has her head so far in the clouds she can’t see life happening around her. I want to share a life, live life. I don’t think any male can live up to your ideal man. I gave up trying. Mark

Her tears had splattered the surface of the heavy parchment, leaving water blotches and running the ink. Later, when the irony of the letter struck, her eyes were stinging and dry from crying as she crumpled the letter and threw the balled parchment across her bedroom floor.

“That would have been good to know prior to your sleeping with someone else, you bastard!” She yelled at an imaginary Mark into the air of her empty house. “You bastard!”

She wanted to smash furniture, make a big dramatic show of her emotions, but who would care. There was no one to see. No one to care. Empty. That is how Mark’s letter had made her feel. He had worded the letter purposely with malicious intent. He wanted her to feel hollow with lost hopes and dreams.

Despite the acknowledgment that they did not truly love one another, the way the relationship ended still spiraled her thoughts. Mark’s note, so succinctly written with the minimum amount of words, had been so harsh, she wondered if her
head in the clouds
part was true. Had she created a life where no one could live up to her ideal man?

How could an author be motivated to write about love, passion, and adventure, if it didn’t exist? She shook her head. “If romance is out there Snicker, I will certainly find it.” She made a vow to the over-sized dog, and bent to give his ears a good scratch.

Vivian opened the back door leading off the kitchen. A blast of frigid cold air sailed over her bare feet, bringing her back to the present. She crossed one foot over the other to preserve their warmth. Vivian waved her hand forward, an indicator for Snicker to go outside do his business. “You go on now.” She couldn’t help but smile when she glanced down at Snicker. If dogs could talk, she was pretty sure his return stare would be vocalized as, “You try to pee in that cold. I’d rather hold it than freeze my…”

She shut and locked the door. “Okay, I get the picture. At five, you are certainly old enough to know your own mind.” She checked his water and food dishes to ensure they were full. As if having not appreciated her insinuations, Snickerdoodle merely sniffed and turned his nose up at the food. “A man of discerning tastes as well today. Well, well.”

“A cup of tea for me.” Vivian turned the kettle on. “Then back to the next submission.” She was thoroughly cooled down now from that last story and in need of a good distraction from her present train of thoughts.

She didn’t love Mark. She knew that now. Realizing she didn’t love him was harder than the break up. Yes, she had feelings for him, enough to considering spending her life with him. But she didn’t
love
him? To her, love would include a burning need. Love would involve a deeper passion where the music of his soul would find an answering song in hers.

“I already know the answer, Snicker,” she said, watching the dog follow her as she walked back to her brightly lit living room. She set her tea on the tray next to her favorite reading chair.

I’m not faring too badly, all things considered
. Vivian pulled her wooly socks on, shook the tea bag out to lay it on the saucer, and wiggled to get comfortable in her chair.

After graduation, Vivian worked in the editorial department at a newspaper. Going as far as she could with the paper, Vivian grew bored. She thrived on literary excitement and the position had become mundane. The job became something she could do without much effort expended. It was time to move on, but she had become complacent. It wasn’t until reading through the local newspaper, she spotted an intriguing advertisement seeking someone with editorial skills to be a reader. She was glad she seized the chance to respond to the ad.

Learning the ropes in this new medium was a competitive curve Vivian relished. The challenge was intriguing. Within the first year, she launched two very credible romance authors. In the last five years, she had added to her roster while her original two continued to flourish. These achievements added substantially to her pay cheque, allowing her to invest a little more into her tourist shop. Every time one of
her
authors wrote a new novel, their manuscripts came to her for first reading where Vivian’s notes went back to the author for revision before moving up the ladder to the main editorial department. Vivian hoped to eventually make it to the editorial staff, and she was sure that day would come if she kept recommending great stories to the publishing house.

“When was the last time I took at chance?” Vivian stirred cream in her English Breakfast tea. “Buying this place was a chance. An investment. Certainly opening the Brick ‘n Brack Shop and Café with Marcy had been a chance.”

The launch of her first two authors gave her the financial stability to
take the chance
as it were. Investing in the business and having Marcy as a partner gave Vivian the opportunity to build a nest
egg for the future.

“Then there’s the mundane. The ho-hum, no one ever writes about with any real enthusiasm. The insurance, the mortgage, the accounting, legal, and mountains of paperwork are no fun.” She picked up another manuscript, taking a sip of her now slightly cooled tea.

Thinking of insurance brought her family to mind, her father the accountant and her two professional brothers. One brother was the life insurance agent she purchased her policies from. They all lived not far away and kept in touch, but weren’t on top of one another. Her family thought her hobby of treasure hunting as a bit of a blight on the family. Vivian loved when the long weekend of May approached so she could start garage sailing. All summer, Thursday and Friday evenings were spent browsing for her treasures to refinish and sell in her shop. She learned a lot about tinkering and mechanics of small appliances in her hobby. She loved bringing something back to life.

“I’m like the cat lady no one admits to be to being related to. I can just hear my mother telling her society friends in her high pitched, nasal tones that her daughter has a job that pays, but…and here would be my mother’s near whisper…my daughter likes those garage sales thingies. You know where people sell their own junk. It’s as bad as eating left-overs. Imagine! Her father and I do all we can, but what can you do?” The
what can you do
would have to be repeated to emphasis the importance of the parental role in her life. Vivian ruffled Snickerdoodle’s head. “Bla, bla, bla, is what I say to that.”

Snickerdoodle, who was sitting stoutly beside her chair, seemed to be hanging on to every word she said, staring up at her with big chocolate brown eyes. Vivian was not the brooding type. She moved forward and planned. She did not regret or regress. And with that motivated thought, she smiled and went back to work.

****

“We should go to a psychic!” Marcy’s smile beamed with enthusiasm as they enjoyed a light lunch at Marcy’s house while the kids napped.

“What? A psychic? Why?”

“Oh, it would be fun. I listened to a documentary about psychics on the radio the other week, and I’ve been thinking about going ever since. Have you ever been?”

“No, never.” Vivian smiled. She was intrigued, but nervous to learn more. “What if they tell us something we don’t want to hear?”

“I’d just tell them, no bad news.” Marcy laughed and reached out to tap Vivian’s arm, her kind eyes encouraging. “Come on, we’ll have fun.”

“Okay, I’m game,” Vivian said, fork poised before her lips, feeling a slow smile rise. Excited at the prospect of an adventure, she noticed how Marcy’s eyes dancing with wonder and curiosity. “Should we make it a girl’s night and invite Jess and Steph?”

Marcy’s brown, bobbed hair bounced on her shoulders as she picked up the phone. “Oh, yeah, that would great.”

Vivian Googled local psychics on her iPhone. “Marcy, have you seen how many psychics are listed. How will we choose the right one?”

****

Vivian and her friends chose the Russian Tea House where they could combine a nice lunch along with the thrill of getting their fortunes read.

Stephanie paused, poised to open the restaurant door. She turned to face her friends, a determined look on her face as she stopped them from entering the restaurant. “No one says anything at lunch. I heard they have microphones everywhere to pick up on what you say so they seem authentic. Not a word.” She mimed zippering her slips shut, locked the dead bolt, and threw away the key.

“Not hard to tell who has kids in the gang.” Vivian laughed, miming the A-okay, thumbs up.

Just being the fly in the ointment, as usual, the legal council that was Jessica’s personality stripe piped up. “But they could be listening right now,” she whispered.

Vivian waved her hand at her giggling friends to enter the Tea House.

They decided beforehand that after their lunch and the readings, they would head to Marcy’s house to review their fortunes. Marcy, the planner of the bunch, had scheduled the whole day and discussed her reading first.

“Well, the fortune teller as much as called me a control freak.” Marcy laughed, her face contorted in a farce of mock anger. “George will be so pleased to hear that.”

Jess, clad in fit-to-suit silk, dusty pink blouse, paired with beige slacks, crossed her slender legs in the over-sized chair. “Big surprise there,” she said. “Don’t waste time on what we already know, tell us something we don’t know.”

“Well, I opted for the tea leaves and tarot cards. I never imagined I would get to choose two forms of reading. I thought they would just do their thing.” Marcy reached for her tea and sipped before continuing. “She said George and I were well matched and would live a long life together.”

Stephanie, a whip-smart firecracker of the realty world, was never one to waste time or words. “Sigh,” she said, settling her petite form more comfortably on the coach. “Get on with it.”

Vivian’s friends continued.

Marcy said there was a baby girl in her future, Jessica said her law practice would be a success, and Stephanie confirmed she had celiac disease, which explained why she was ill after most meals.

While Vivian’s friends hotly debated the accuracy of their readings, she reflected on not knowing what to expect from her fortune, or if she expected anything, but she was surprised at Madame Rose’s attire. Vivian assumed the psychic would be a Gypsy-looking woman with at least a crystal ball nearby, but Madame Rose resembled a modern day woman, wearing a black pencil skirt and white blouse.

The only information Vivian had relayed to the woman was her name and date of birth at the beginning of the conversation. She contemplated the psychic’s advice, recounting Madame Rose’s words. “Your number is a five with an undercurrent of four. You love the drama.” Her voice was hauntingly husky as though coming from the deepest reaches of Vivian’s own soul. “You want…no, crave adventure, but the four keeps you to home. You’re loyal, fiercely passionate, yet you are holding back. You must feel that craving deeply on the inside. That craving of adventure is here in your cards over and over. You want to be spontaneous yet you restrain. Why are you holding back? What are you waiting for? You have so much to give.” Madame Rose paused and nudged the glasses on her nose with her forefinger. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?”

The polished woman stared at Vivian with a question in her magnified eyes, but didn’t offer to discuss the question. She simply took Vivian’s hand, and then read her palm. Brushing her fingers lightly over Vivian’s right palm, the psychic smiled. “You will find what you seek.
It
is out there. The answer to the question you ask is,
yes
. Do you know what that means?”