The Last of the Romantics Part 3 of 3 ...all she knows about life is that we all have to die

johnjgeddes (75)in #fiction • 7 years ago (edited)

I feel I’ve lost Tess—pursuing Sylvia like a fool when the one I really wanted and needed was right before my eyes.

“Walk with me, Gray.” Victor motions with his champagne flute in the general direction of the garages. I dutifully fall in step.

“Tess is a beautiful woman, you know. Very warm—vital, but at the same time remote. Don’t you agree?”

“Remote? I don’t think so.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he chuckles.

I’m not quite sure what his remark means. I’m turning it over in my mind, as he continues on.

“Sylvia, on the other hand, lacks mystery. Did she take you to that small cove near the peninsula?”

I’m thunderstruck—totally unprepared for this.

He reads my expression, and gives a brittle smile. “I suppose it can be awkward at times—a little indelicate perhaps, being privy to the private disclosures of older men. We do have a life you know.”

“I never doubted it a minute, Victor—but Sylvia? Honestly, I didn’t see that coming.”

He shrugs philosophically.

“She reminds me of a Hesse poem. She can speak love’s words without knowing she’s lying. She kisses rarely and deep. And all she knows about life is that we all have to die.”

A deep silence falls between us. By this time we’ve arrived at the garages, and Victor still seems nonplussed by recent events.

“I want to show you something, Gray.”

He punches in a code on a keypad by the door and we wait while the folding door rises silently.

There, gleaming beneath lights is a black 2017 Porsche Cayenne Turbo S.

“You have a demo too?” I ask incredulously.

“No, no, my boy, not a demo—a production vehicle.”

My jaw drops. “I didn’t think that possible.”

“Oh yes, money and connections, you know—with those, anything is possible”

I nod dumbly, and infer his words also apply to Sylvia.

“But is it advisable? He continues. “Yes, advisable is the operative word, Gray.”

I shake my head in bewilderment.

“I sent her away, Gray—I’m talking here about Sylvia. I sent her away. I could have had her—kept her like this lovely machine here, but what would be the point? After a day, a week, a month, the thrill is gone—and it becomes a burden. Something else to concern myself with, and frankly, I’ve adapted to being a free agent in the universe.”

“I don’t have that problem,” I say glumly.

He eyes me narrowly, and says softly, “No, you don’t. You have a real treasure—Tess, and she adores you. She’s more a woman than you can manage or deserve. But like all young men, however, you don’t know what you have.”

He turns, leaving me standing in his garage with the Porsche—the production Porsche I coveted.

And I stay there a good long while staring at it. Finally, I go out, and softly close the door.

I go looking for Tess and find her on the rocks staring up at stars.

It’s absurd. I’ve never made any commitment—never even kissed her—but there’s always been an unspoken understanding between us.

The music from the house drifts out into the night.

My heart feels blackened with guilt. It feels at is should for a man fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.

I’m almost afraid to speak, to break the stillness.

“I‘m sorry, Tess.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Gray,” she whispers.

“I do,” I say bleakly.

“Why?”

“Because you deserve the best.”

A shadow falls between us.

I begin again trying to sum up in words the thousand times I felt touches at my heart strings as I was drawn to her particular beauty.

“Look, I admit it, I laid awake and dreamt of kissing Sylvia countless times—but something happened to me one day last year—we were leaving for Christmas vacation. You came over and wished me a merry Christmas—and put your arms around me.”

She looks at me curiously.

“It changed me somehow. You’re so spontaneous and genuine. I don’t know how to say it, but you give the best hugs, Tess.”

Her face is still tilted upward. She shuts her eyes. And a tear trills down her cheek. I feel helpless and weak.

“I’ve hurt you,” I say, cupping her face and gently using my thumb to smudge away a tear.

“No—it’s me,” she protests.

The orchestra is playing a Rodgers and Hart tune and the melody fills the void between us. The orchestra singer is doing a kitsch parody of a Thirties crooner.

Isn’t it romantic, on a moonlight night
She’ll cook me onion soup.
Kiddies are romantic and if we don’t fight
We’re sure to have a troop.

“Don’t you just love these corny old songs?” I smile.

She squeezes my hand and begins to laugh.

Six months later, we’re back at Victor’s Muskoka retreat, not for a party, but a wedding.

Sylvia is Tess’s Maid of Honor with Victor grudgingly agreeing to give Tess away.

“You don’t deserve her—you lucky bastard,” he whispers in my ear.

Tom Barron’s my best man—appropriate, since he’s my only real friend.

We dance to our special song while the orchestra singer hams up his Thirties crooner impression.

By the side of the dance floor, I see Victor, moody and staring into his scotch. Is he reconsidering a future with Sylvia, scrying the murky contents of his glass to see what comes to light?

Is he still jaded?

I want to take him aside and tell him…

“It is romantic, Victor…silly, pointless and totally impractical, but by God–you were right! Just look at Tess glittering like a star in all her innocence."