Winter in Full Bloom (5 page)

A sign on the counter, publicizing one of their services, caught my attention. Evensong—perhaps I could attend at some point. I had never been Anglican, so I didn’t know what the word
evensong
meant, but it seemed as pleasant as a spring breeze, and because my sister may have had some connection with the church I wanted to experience the worship she’d known here. I would participate in evensong and I would imagine where she always sat and sang or took communion or read from the prayer book.

Rowan raised his hand. “You never did say how you and your twin got separated.”

“I don’t know really. My mother didn’t explain it to me.” I squeezed back the tears, determined not to shed a single drop until I was on my way.

“Oh?” He scratched his head.

“Thank you again.” I left Rowan standing there and fled out the door before he could ask any more questions.

I felt a need to walk off my disappointment, and the folks at the hotel had mentioned a garden not far from the cathedral. As wearied as I felt I couldn’t seem to slow down. I kept up my brisk pace in the direction of the gardens, crossing the Yarra River again and the busy streets. The church bells rang out in the distance. Perhaps it was a reminder for me not to give up.

I passed a group of men playing the bagpipes of all things, a museum on the other side of the street, and then I came to a sign that read The Royal Botanic Gardens. I slowed my stride to an amble as I gazed around. The city’s playground of greenery turned out to be grand, full of exotic trees and flora unknown to me. I’d caught the gardens in the midst of embracing spring and every shade of heaven.

A pathway curved its way here and there through gasping beauty. My favorite—eucalyptus trees—grew everywhere. The leaves chattered like children. I had no idea what they were saying; I just breathed in their scent and strolled on. Julie would have loved these gardens. I fingered the bracelet she’d given me and wondered what she was doing. Was she eating enough? Had she made college friends yet? Did she miss me as much as I missed her? I hoped not, since I didn’t want her to live like I had—as if her wings were clipped.

The wound of my lonesomeness, though, felt gaping and ready for more salt, and I was usually the person with the shaker who could do the job thoroughly. I couldn’t imagine anything softening the pain, except maybe finding my sister. And yet now my hope dangled on a rope so thin it felt like a worn thread.

A bird let out a mad shriek in a nearby tree, startling me, and then a young woman brushed by me, wearing a balloon-bottom skirt, fishnet hose, and a floppy hat. Interesting attire. I imagined myself in an outfit like that and chuckled.

After I passed another flower-laden hedge of yellow, a lake came into view with a vast lawn in the foreground. The pond glistened like diamonds strewn on the water, and swans—black and sinuous-looking—glided across the surface as if they were duchesses in search of their tiaras. People were scattered like random bits of confetti on the green, where they played and chatted and soaked up the sun. And in the distance a couple decked out in their wedding clothes posed for cameras. Lovely.

I removed my jacket and sat down on one of the wooden benches. The tears I’d saved were on the verge of spilling over, but instead of weeping I opened my purse and pulled out a bag of marshmallows. On a defiant whim I stuffed a big puffy confection into each cheek. Pillows of sugar. Ahh. They were sweet and soft and amiable, and all the things that empty nest was not. Of course, if I kept eating wads of them I’d eventually resemble one. For some reason that thought opened the floodgates, so as I chewed, tears streamed down my full cheeks. I lived a sad little life that no longer made sense. What was I doing here? Was I on a fool’s errand?

“Want to talk about it?” someone said from behind me.

I jumped at the male voice near my ear and whirled around to see who spoke with such familiarity. “Excuse me?” My voice got muffled through the sugary fluff.

“My friends say I’m a good listener. Yeah.” The man sat down on the other end of the bench even though the park appeared to be full of empty spots. Then he set some sort of music case down on the seat between us.

I finished chewing. “You’re a stranger, so—”

“And your mum told you never to talk to strangers.” He gave me a decisive nod. “Good advice, Love.”

The man probably expected me to grin over his Aussie endearment, but I daubed at my eyes and blew my nose instead. The stranger didn’t appear to be hideous, now that I’d had a chance to give him the once-over. He seemed to be early forty-ish, and he had a nebulously attractive thing going—sort of an older James McAvoy look with a scruffy five-o’clock shadow. Not too bad. But I was in no mood for banter. “I’m not used to perfect strangers being so familiar.”

“Well, I’ve never been called perfect before, so I thank you.”

I frowned. How could he possibly think that was funny? Hmm. I was a breath away from getting up, but before I left he needed a lesson in manners. “If a woman looks sad and she’s sitting by herself, conventional wisdom says you should walk on by because she wants to be alone with her thoughts.”

“Yes, true, but I’m not all that conventional.” He rested back on the bench with a lounging manner and then crossed his legs at the ankles.

Still I didn’t gift him with my smile, since it was obvious that he’d benefit more from a good smack on the head. Being the fine Christian woman that I was, though, I restrained myself.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye again. Even though he looked wrinkly, his shirt and slacks weren’t too shabby. Maybe I’d stay for a moment longer. It was the first real conversation I’d had with an Australian man, so I hated to get a dull view of the male population right off. “You’re not representing your Aussie countrymen very well.”

“You’re American, aren’t you? Guessing from the accent, you’re from Texas. You’re on your own, but you’re not here on holiday. Something else entirely has brought you to Melbourne. Yeah.”

“Yes, it is something else entirely … and it’s entirely none of your business.” Like the box turtles I befriended as a child, I pulled back inside my armor.

“Maybe it would help my cause if I introduced myself. I’m Marcus Averill. Although some people around here tend to call me Avers. Aussies like to shorten things up.”

The only thing that needed shortening was the conversation, but since I didn’t want to be thought of as a rude American, I shook his hand. “I’m Lily Winter.”

“Lovely name. Yeah. By the way, the lily is an emblem of beauty and virtue.”

“Thank you.” I cleared my throat from all the sticky sugar. “You didn’t pronounce the city as Mel-born like I did. Why is that?”

“Because here we say Mel-bun, not Mel-born.”

“I’ve noticed that people pronounce things differently, especially the word
yeah
.”

“True. It’s like Aussies invented some new vowels just for that one word.”

Exactly.

He gazed over the gardens. “Soon the park will be in full bloom. You’ll see colors that even artists have trouble re-creating on their canvas.”

“Oh?”

“You know, every winter it’s hard to imagine how it will be … all those tightly closed buds just waiting for a little spring. And a bit of love and attention.”

Time to amend the conversation. “So, what are those yellow flowering trees I saw all along the freeways? They’re everywhere. I saw one of the blooms up close, and it made me think of tiny fuzzy tennis balls.”

Marcus grinned. “It’s the wattle, the national flower. In fact, that’s where we get the national colors … green and gold.”

“Oh.” I loosened the grip on my purse. “You said you had a cause. What did you mean?”

“Well, it was my personal campaign to meet you.”

“Oh.” Well, at least he seemed consistent in his audacity. “So, I’m wondering … are all Australian men so forward and rude?”

“I reckon. Truthfully, they can be a bit rough around the edges sometimes, although you’ll see more of that in the bush than in the city. But then I’m not from Australia. Or as they say here … Stralia.”

“If you’re not from here, where are you from?”

“Texas.”

“You’re kidding. Right?”

“Born in Dallas.” He stared up at the sky as if there were some revelation written there. “Just look at those clouds off to the west … a wash of Prussian blue near the horizon. It’s the color of deep twilight or … the color of a storm brewing.”

For a moment I saw the layers of blue and coasted with my own thoughts. Before I could catch myself, I murmured, “I wonder what’s just beyond the horizon.”

“Well,” Marcus said. “We’ll just have to use our imaginations… won’t we?”

Back to reality, I pushed on past the weather report. “You don’t seem to have any Texas accent.”

“Pity, isn’t it?” He looked at me over nonexistent glasses.

That time a smile crept out before I could filter it. Now he’d made me curious, so I set my purse down and stayed a bit longer to ask, “So, why Australia?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Texas is on the other side of the world. Not a random choice to come here.”

I looked at my hands, which had made a limp little vessel in my lap. “I’m here to find someone.” The last thing I’d planned to do was tell this Marcus fellow my business, and yet I did anyway. It must have been the solitude talking. And he could probably tell. I wore my lonesomeness as if it were Quasimodo’s hump.

“I honestly wouldn’t have guessed that one.”

Marcus fingered the mysterious case sitting between us, so I thought I might toss him a friendly bone of repartee. “So, what’s in the case?”

He touched the container with affection. “The Great Highland Bagpipe. It’s broken at the moment. Some things aren’t easy to mend, but when they’re precious enough, it’s worth the effort.” Marcus smiled.

The man was a walking innuendo. “So, you’re a bagpiper?”

“Among other things. But it’s only a hobby.”

Hobby.
The word seemed as foreign as the place I sat. I didn’t have any pastime interests, didn’t bother cultivating them. Julie had been so much a part of my life that I’d never taken the time for them. They’d always seemed pointless, or were they merely ill-defined like a blurry photograph? “You have to know yourself to have hobbies… be a friend to yourself,” I let slip out.

“Yes. Yes, you do.” He rested his arm over the back of the bench and leaned toward me. “I have an idea. Maybe I can assist you in your search. The person you’re looking for.”

I thought for a moment, not wanting to throw away any chance for help, especially if it were divinely sent, but I also didn’t want to engage the services of someone who seemed what my mother would call half-baked. Or worse. “I don’t know you, so, I’m not—”

“But if you had dinner with me tonight that would no longer be true. Hey, I know a place that has kangaroo on the barbie. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried it.”

The little bit of child
left inside me cringed at the thought. “It’s a nice offer, sort of, except I can’t imagine eating Roo.”

“Who?”

“You know, Roo from Pooh … never mind.” I suddenly had serious doubts about a man who’d never heard of Roo, but since he had a twinkle in his eye he may have just been kidding me. Marcus would be an interesting book to read if you didn’t mind starting from the back. “Thank you again, but I’m not here to date. I’m here to find my sister.”

“Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere. I’m sure I can help. I have a laptop.” He crossed his arms, looking smug.

“I do too.”

“But I’m familiar with Melbourne, so you could move faster with my help. Remember, a friend in a foreign land is better than a jewel in your shield.”

I frowned, puzzled. “Is that from Proverbs?”

“No, I call them Marcus-ites. You know, bits of wisdom assembled from all the rocks in my head.”

I grinned.

“I’m sure you don’t have an infinite amount of time here. You probably have to get back to your job in Texas. I’ll bet you do something inspiring.”

At first I thought he was being sarcastic, but his expression looked so earnest, I replied, “I’m an executive secretary for an oil company. I’ve never heard anyone refer to what I do as inspiring.” In fact, I hadn’t had one good day there in years, let alone an inspiring one. “But don’t you have to get back to work?”

“I’m between jobs.”

When he wasn’t looking I scooted to the edge of the bench. “So what are you, a bum?”
Hence the rumpled clothes.
My snippy retorts were building. Perhaps jet lag was creeping up on me. Maybe I just needed to eat something besides marshmallows.

Marcus winced, but didn’t look offended. “Well, I like calling myself an entrepreneur with limited prospects … at the moment. But you haven’t insulted me. So, no worries.”

“I’m not that worried.” But he had revved up my curiosity. “So, how do you live then? How would you even pay for my dinner?”

“It sounds boring, but I live on a trust fund among other things.” Marcus seemed to gauge my reaction.

“You should get a job. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried it.”

I stuffed my marshmallows back into my purse. The last thing I needed was somebody tagging along like some homeless pooch.