shadow box of hours

Alone one is never lonely: the spirit adventures, walking
In a quiet garden, in a cool house, abiding single there.
—May Sarton

Stella is early again. I picture a manicured red talon hovering over the intercom button, pushing insistently—my image of her.

The incessant buzzing, like her seductive charm, ultimately prevails, forcing me from the shower. I grab a towel and run to unlock the door.

“C’mon up,” I sing into the speaker, trying to make my tone cheery—the exact opposite of how I feel.

I hurriedly scoop up pages of The Toronto Star and tidy the coffee table, but there’s no time to blot wet footprints I’ve left on the dark hardwood floor. Damn! I hate mornings like this, but I’m not about to grab another towel and play housekeeper with her arriving any second.

I barely make it back to the bathroom when the front door opens.

“Good morning, Theo—hope you made coffee.”

“Help yourself,” I call through the door and quickly switch on the hairdryer to drown out any further chatter.

Thankfully, one of the blessings I inherited from my Greek mother is curly black hair— lately showing a little gray, but I keep it cropped in a corporate style and blow-dry it in minutes. I’m not so fortunate, however, when it comes to shaving my sensitive skin, a trait inherited from my English father.

I shake the last of the water droplets from my curls; make another quick pass with the dryer, and then I’m on to lathering my face. But the brief moments spent recalling my parents makes me grieve their passing.

Ten years ago, Mother decided she wanted to return to Greece for a visit, and managed to pry Father from his golf game long enough to accompany her. Who would have guessed he’d like the country so much he’d want to stay?

They sold their Rosedale estate, flew off to Athens and never looked back. In true fidelity, they passed within a week of each other last year leaving me bereft, although in some weird form of consolation, also making me financially independent. So here I am, all on my own at forty years old—one failed marriage under my belt, and a New York Time’s bestselling novel that’s made me famous.

In the dizzy arithmetic of fate, I’m not sure on what side of the ledger that leaves me, or how I would account for my life so far.

I wince, not at the scraping of the razor across my cheek, but at another image from the inventory of memory—I’m picturing Ari posing in her wedding gown.

I married Arianna at thirty-seven and we lasted just two years—statistically the norm nowadays, so Stella informs me, and she should know—she’s built her real estate career upon others’ failed marriages.

But statistics aside, I failed for the first time in my life, and there’s bloody little that can be rescued from that, other than a leased condo in High Park, a Bentley in the underground garage, and a white leather album of wedding photos sitting on my closet shelf.

I have to remind myself there’s no Booker prize for being successful in your career and a bust in your personal life, but if there were, I’d be a prime candidate.

Stella, clued in to the hairdryer gone silent, brings me out of my daze by shouting through the door, “It’s raining, Theo—better bring an umbrella.”

I groan, not exactly thrilled at the prospect of another day of tramping through wet gardens.

I relent and open the door a crack to see her leaning against the opposite wall, sipping coffee in the narrow hallway.

“You clean up well,” she smirks.

She’s dressed in a black, pinstriped Edith Pena business suit, her long blonde curls swept into a fashionable side pony and her Eau de Hadrien fragrance intoxicating at such close range.

Actually, she’s far too much, up-close—less than a foot away.

“Mm,” she murmurs dreamily, “do I detect the scent of Clive Christian No. 1?”

I let the door swing all the way open.

I hate coy. Flirting with her friend’s ex-husband, she’s crossing an invisible boundary.

She inhales the fragrance deeply again, and I brace for the next onslaught. I see her as a Delphic vestal virgin inhaling a hallucinogenic vapor and smile inwardly at my picture of her, except she’s hardly an oracle—certainly no one I’d consult about love. As for being a virgin—well, we just won’t go there.

Still, I’m in no mood this morning for sidestepping rushes or volleying serves, so I opt out of game mode. “You know I’m not into designer scents, Stella. It’s called Uomo—it’s a cologne I bought at the mall.”

An amused smile crosses her face. “Always the practical man, Theo.”

I doubt she could mistake mall-bought cologne for expensive fragrance, and I’m trying to make up my mind if she’s bent on enticing, or fleecing —or both. But then again, I’m no womanizer and would hardly know—fact is, I anticipated being a lifelong bachelor and can honestly say I could never fathom what Ari saw in me.

“Do you want to have coffee first and go over the listings?” Stella’s voice has gone soft and her eyes are pleading.

In my mind I see us together on the couch, she leaning in provocatively pointing out properties.

‘I’ve had my morning jolt,” I smile.

A shadow flits across her face like a wisp across the sun. Sometimes I think there’s discernment there. I can tell she’s pondering my nuance. Regardless, it has the desired effect—it backs her off a bit.

It’s barely perceptible but I see her shoulders slump slightly, and almost feel guilty.

“Well then, perhaps we should get going,” she says lightly, “and maybe stop for a takeout coffee en route.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I reply breezily, matching her tone. I’m already putting on my coat, elated at checking her Queen, even temporarily— and I’m taking a pass on her umbrella suggestion, feeling too much like Prufrock already. She does that to me.

It’s funny how life is. Ari was the thread that led me to Stella—although I had my doubts about employing one of her friends, but it worked out superbly in the end.

It was Stella’s idea we take a short-term lease on a High Park condo, rather than the Victorian palace in Rosedale Ari wanted.

I’m not sure how far Stella’s perception extended, if she spotted storm clouds on our horizon, but because of her cautious advice, she minimized the fallout from our divorce.

I was reluctant, of course, to rehire Stella, especially knowing she was flirtatious, but Ari and I split on good terms and she gave her blessing to the affair—which is probably an indelicate way to phrase it, but I thought I should be mature and rise above my feelings of discomfort. Besides, I have to admit Stella is very good at what she does—all coyness aside, and I owe her for sparing me the burden of unloading an expensive mistake.

In a way, Stella’s ties to Ari offer me a kind of protection—it would be indelicate considering my recently failed marriage for her to press in too much—although how much more she’d press otherwise boggles even my imagination

Besides, at the moment, our working arrangement works to my advantage. I’m leery of personal involvement, wanting to keep things straight business—and to be frank, have no intention of falling for a career woman again.

The wind and rain make a chilly start to the day, but it is early April after all, and ought to be expected.

Behind the wheel of her Mercedes, Stella’s back in control, adroitly steering both car and conversation in the right direction. We weave back and forth through a maze of streets with Stella showing me several sub-par listings. I have little patience for her marketing ploys this morning, yet she persists even though she can see I’m slowly getting vexed.

The drizzly streets create a moody, brooding background. I feel like Dante being led through hell by Beatrice, as we circle, loop back and re-navigate an unending labyrinth of crescents. Maybe it’s my fetishistic nature but I sense something mysterious about to unfold. My mother was superstitious and I seem to have inherited this gene from her. Mother was raised Orthodox, but still believed in the old religion—I mean the pagan religion of gods and goddesses and a thousand local deities of everything imaginable. And yes, I blame her for this morbid side to my personality.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Stella smiles. She can probably hazard a fairly accurate guess at why I’m feeling distracted.

“I doubt my thoughts are even worth that,” I say sullenly, staring out the rain-streaked passenger window.

The sad smile on her face tells me she understands, even cares—not that she isn’t interested in pursuing her own interests here—but the girl does have a heart.

“Are you sure you want a large detached? You know I could find a real charmer for half the asking price of these huge barns.”

I shake my head. How many agents would willingly forego a huge commission?

I see her point, but want something with character and huge grounds where I can retreat from the world. My book is still creating a buzz, and I’m tired of the signings and predictable interview questions. I need to get away, be alone with myself and heal.

“How about a Thirties Craftsman’s cottage?” she asks, navigating Rosedale Valley Road, “they have character and there are a few of them around.” I know she’s not just referring to houses, and is still trying to steer me in a sensible direction. I appreciate that, but also know where it’s leading.

“I know all about arts and crafts,” I say.

She flushes, understanding my implication.

“I like the idea of a house being part of the landscape, oriented to the garden and taking advantage of natural light—but all the ones I’ve seen are too small.”

“Touché,” she grins wryly.

I grin back. I like her—I really do, but am not interested in another career woman.

I guess I’m simply looking for enchantment.

“Well maybe, just maybe, I’ve got the dream for you,” she says finally, “since you’re so bound and determined to spend big bucks.”

“That’s me,” I chuckle wryly.

“Hey, Big Spender,” she laughs.

We pull up in front of a huge Arts and Crafts style house with an imposing façade. It’s an unusual design in that the front gable extends high over the roof—a device used in medieval times to prevent winds from lifting roof tiles.

I whistle softly. “This is impressive.”

“Wait until you see the gardens, Theo—the grounds back onto a ravine—it’s really lovely. I think this house has the kind of character you’ve been looking for.”

I’m thinking the same thing. I keep staring at the triple chimney stacks that tower high above the slate roof. It certainly does have character.

She takes me on a tour of the house and grounds and it’s everything I’ve been hoping for.

Inside its walls, I feel peaceful and serene. It seems time itself stands still here, locking in the ambiance of the Thirties, and shutting out the harsh world outside.

It’s magnificent.

“The house has an interesting provenance,” she remarks casually as we return to the car.

I’m so enthralled with the property that I’m barely listening. I stop to look back and admire it again. The rain has just ended and the slate roof tiles are shining in the sun.

“What kind of provenance?” I ask off-handedly.

“It was owned by Blythe Summers – the poet – she lived here from 1921 until her death in 1975. Have you heard of her?”

I have. We have a history of sorts. That’s why Stella’s casual revelation shakes me. She has no way of knowing about my passion for the beautiful deceased poetess.

“Blythe Summers? You’ve got to be kidding,”

I say it calmly, trying to feign nonchalance, but Stella doesn’t miss much and she can tell I’m excited.

“What’s going on, Theo? You act as if you knew her but surely you’re much too young for that.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. It just so happens she’s one of my favourite poets. Besides, I’m interested in the house.”

Her face lights up. “You are?”

“I am,” I smile.

We put in an offer that afternoon and by evening the house is mine.

I’m in favour of an early closing—the house is vacant and surprisingly, even a few of Blythe’s original furnishings still remain and I see that they’re negotiated into the offer.

I’m scheduled to take possession in two weeks, which will be the last week of April, and so I make an uncharacteristically impulsive decision to sell off all my furnishings and start over fresh in the new house.

Somehow the genius loci, the spirit of the place, captivates me and I end up acting compulsively, driving over at odd hours of the day and night and sitting outside, sipping takeout coffee and musing about how to decorate. But strangely, not one idea pops—it’s as if my mind has gone blank ever since the moment I decided to make the place mine.

Stella has arranged a day when I can go and visit the house and take measurements, but even still I find myself reluctant to touch a thing. There are one or two vacant spaces where furniture had been, and I spend my time pondering what could have filled that space back in Zelda and Fitzgerald’s era—back when Blythe was more sought after than a film starlet.

In a burst of inspiration, I have this brilliant idea to let the house decide, and when I do, I begin to get images inside my head.

I rope Stella into going antiquing and we spot two pieces in two different stores miles apart that I intuitively sense belong in the house. Both articles are from the Thirties—one a carved cedar chest and the other a Singer sewing machine.

She shakes her head in disbelief. “Who are you, anyway? Where is Theo Wesley and what have you done with him?”

I smile blissfully. “To be honest, I’m a walk-in usurping his body—the real Theo died of boredom and is now idling in Limbo where he belongs.”

She loops an arm through mine and giggles as we walk back to the car. “Well, I think I like this new version of Theo a lot more, even if he is a bit old-fashioned.”

“Comes with the territory,” I laugh, thinking of the strange aura that still clings to the bricks and mortar of my new residence.

She stops suddenly and grips my arm.

“Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you—your house has a name.”

I look at her, fascinated. “Really? That’s so awesome!”

Her eyes are dancing. “It is romantic, Theo. I saw the name, Sombra, engraved on the cornerstone and looked it up online—it’s Spanish and the full name is Casa de las Sombras—House of Shadows.”

I turn the name over in my mind—Casa de las Sombras—I like it. It has dignity and weight.

“Well, the play of light in the house is unique,” I remind her.

But it’s really not until later, when I live in the house that I become fully aware of all the intriguing nuances and haunting implications.

A few days after moving in, I find an original copy of Blythe Summer’s final book of poetry entitled, Spring and Other Beginnings. It’s in a trunk in the attic and I’m particularly excited because it contains marginalia—hand-written pencil notes and observations by the author.

Blythe referred to her notes as Segues—an appropriate term since I can find no way of relating them back to the text, nevertheless, I spend many hours sitting before the fire trying to divine some purpose behind the mysterious jottings.

I conclude the entries might refer to something else—another book perhaps, or something mundane, because they appear to be so trite. For example, one note states: In May, walk up from the fishpond by the cobbled path and enter through the side door. That little scribbled message makes absolutely no sense, and it feels weird finding it in the margin of the book.

As I settle in, I prowl about the house inspecting every nook and cranny, and make more discoveries. I find a lovely portrait of Blythe shoved in behind the furnace in the basement. I can’t understand why such an alluring piece of art should be so callously disregarded. I dust it off and hang it over the mantel where I feel it belongs.

I then sit back with a glass of Shiraz in hand, admiring the portrait. She has an ethereal beauty, this Thirties poet, accentuated by huge eyes and cropped wavy hair. There’s something about her expression that fascinates me and I spend hours staring at her likeness and wondering what she would have been like in real life.

Stella drops by occasionally to check in on me to see how I’m adjusting to the new house, and she’s amazed that I’ve made no attempt to redecorate. She offers suggestions about modernizing the décor, but I gently decline.

“Blythe and I are happy with the house the way it is,” I laugh.

“I can see that,” she chirps “you seem to be channeling her spirit, or at least the Thirties vibe.”

“Why not? It was a very good year.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Right, and I think Old Blue Eyes wore out the grooves on that recording—you should update your music library.”

Of course, the latter jibe is aimed at a Billie Holiday record playing scratchily in the background.

“A chacun son goût,” I laugh breezily.

She looks at me quizzically at first, and then smiles and shakes her head in wonderment. “I really can’t get over the change in you, Theo, but it’s all good—you look like you’ve finally found yourself, or your niche.”

“I think I always was an old soul, and am just now beginning to discover it.”

The strange thing is, as I say it, I begin to believe it myself.

I might have continued on in this manner, contentedly lounging around the house and lazily contemplating my next writing project, if it were not for a seemingly accidental occurrence.

It was the first day of May and I had been out in the gardens. I was contemplating hiring a gardening service and was taking note of various features I wanted restored—particularly, the ornate fishpond.

I was thinking how the grounds must be magnificent in summer when the leaves were on the Maples and the grass dappled with sunlight. A sparkling fishpond full of goldfish would be delightful and relaxing.

I walked up the cobbled path and entered the kitchen through the mudroom door, and as I did, I glimpsed a shadow flit across the dining room wall.

“Hello,” I called out, “is someone there? Stella, is that you?”

I came straight through the kitchen into the dining room and found it vacant, but not quite empty. There was a lingering scent of perfume and the unmistakable aura of someone just having been there. Goosebumps stood out on my arms and I felt a tingling sensation go up my spine.

My hair stood on end.

I gripped the cane-backed dining room chair until my knuckles turned white. It was a full minute before my heartbeat returned to normal.

The strange experience unnerved me, but I resolved not to let it ruin the enjoyment of my new house. Nevertheless, I did not deny it. I knew what I saw.

Later that night as I sat by the fire a thought dawned on me— it concerned the penciled notes in Blythe’s book of poetry.

I retrieved the volume from the bookshelf and reread the words: In May, walk up from the fishpond by the cobbled path and enter through the side door.

My flesh began to crawl. What if these seemingly trite notes were in fact true segues—pathways to commune with Blythe’s spirit?

I could dimly recollect a book I read one afternoon in university, sitting in the Hart House library—it was a mystical tome written in the late nineteenth century and it described the concept of world lines—the interconnected paths people trace in space and time.

Then, another thought hit me. Stella had often spoken to me about engrams—about souls encumbered from living in the physical ream.

But it all seemed so mystical to me then and the feeling was compounded when she talked about the sense of peace she got from walking mazes and modern labyrinths.

She told me she spent an afternoon in a church garden walking these labyrinthine turning paths and found it quieted her mind and helped her enter a contemplative state.

What did Stella call her experiences? Wasn’t it, tiempo robado? Another Spanish phrase! I got out my computer and Googled the term—it meant stolen moments.

Suddenly, everything crystalized in my head. Perhaps I could use these segues in Blythe’s book of poetry as paths to take in order to commune with her. The thought seemed wild and impossible, but appealed to me in a way that made my life take on new meaning.

I had a project better than a writing project and if pursued it, I might get to meet face to face with the woman in the portrait!

My heart pounded with excitement at the possibility.

[End of Part One – Part Two is Casa de las sombras]

2016, John J Geddes. All rights reserved