A Waltz In the Rain

Vivienne sat perfectly still as tears streamed silently down her face in tiny rivulets. She stared up at the pale half-moon through a hazy, partially opened bedroom window. Gone. Everything was gone now, save an ancient, defeated single chair upon which she sat, a twin mattress covered by thin, cheap sheets, and his stack of books cluttered in the corner. The only movement in the room came from some tattered window sheers that fluttered in the warm evening’s gentle breeze.

The despondent woman, nearly catatonic in her grief, hadn’t a clue as to her next move. All she knew was that the love of her life, Charles, had died today; slow and steady, as he had lived his life, holding tight to her hand, even as his own turned cold and rigid.

The searing pain of guilt and regret and terrible remorse seared through Vivienne’s veins. All those times she had pined over sparkling jewels, fast, sexy cars, elegant furniture and glittery baubles, Charles was right there. Checkbook in hand, his sparkling blue eyes shining with happiness over his wife’s delight. No matter they couldn’t afford it, it was always worth being in the aura of Vivienne’s pure pleasure.

It was short-lived though. Charles became ill. The toxic venom slithered throughout his body, ravaging his very being and stealing what little pride he had left. It went fast. And so did the money. The couple was forced to sell all they had, and this sparse one bedroom studio was all they could afford.

It was only three, maybe four days ago that they had embraced one another to dance under the window moon. Without a radio, they hummed together love songs, cheek to cheek, each breathing in the scent of the other. Both hoping to preserve the moment forever, however bittersweet its taste.

“Movin day Ma’am! Gotta get rid of the rest of this stuff and skedaddle! I’ll give ya till two, then my boys fixin to come on over and ready this here place for the new owners!”

Vivienne stood stark still. The only ‘fixin’ she needed to do was gather up Charles’s books and toss them away. She had waited until the very end to handle this last task because, quite obviously, books are heavy. And cumbersome. And she had grown so tired and weary.

Standing on tippy toes, Vivienne reached for the first book atop the entire pile, intent on flinging it out the window as fuel for a large bonfire she would light below. But she paused in her haste, curious. It was a moleskine notebook, rich in texture, buttery soft, and smelled of her husband. Its black cover so supple that Vivienne drew it to her cheek, then her nose to embrace its essence.

Carefully Vivienne opened the notebook to the first page and began to read her husband’s last words. By the end, the ivory pages were overlaid in salty droplets of tears, words smeared and smudged by her own grief.

In short, Charles thanked Vivienne for her love all these years, and despite her penchant for pretty things, expressed that he was able to save a small sum of money for her to use wisely upon his passing. An envelope, business white and unassuming, stuffed with nearly $20,000.00 was tucked into the very last page. It had been arranged that Vivienne would stay at the local Bed and Breakfast for a monthly sum of $400.00. Additionally, she would provide a warm, home cooked supper for the guests each Sunday afternoon.

As summer drew to a close and the scent of crisp dry leaves and cool night air settled upon her, Vivienne sat on the porch swing of the B and B, considering her life. Since the time she had moved into the business and began cooking, a flurry of activity arose. Suddenly, everyone near and far wanted to enjoy her Sunday Suppers which grew into Saturday Night Specials, and then Breakfast Bonanzas. It was all she and the owners could do to keep up with the “Bed” part because the food aspect was growing by leaps and bounds.

Within two years, Vivienne became the proud new owner of the town’s most successful restaurant, ‘Serendipity’. Her culinary creations were touted in several well-respected magazines, and she was once a featured guest chef on Good Morning America.

But it was never the same, and a lingering sadness settled deep within Vivienne’s soul. Although the $20,000.00 that Charles had so carefully saved for her had now grown into well over a million dollars, the anguish remained the same. No amount of financial success could soothe her aching loneliness.

The high school auditorium quieted as Vivienne stepped onto the stage. She felt pleased, yes, but also melancholy. She wanted to savor this moment. But she desperately wanted to share it with him.

Every child in the school, 950 in total, received a moleskine notebook to record their thoughts, goals, achievements and dreams. And on the back cover, each journal was secured with a crisp new $100.00 bill. For many in the small, recession-ravaged town, it was a cherished gift, and more money than they had ever seen.

Later on, Vivienne would see to it that nursing homes, libraries, day-cares, and mental health facilities would also receive a portion of the monies that Charles’s original $20,000.00 had generated.

But as the seasons changed and the years passed, Vivienne grew all the more heavy-hearted and despondent. Life without love was like living in a dessert, devoid of the things humans needed the most. It was not water or food. For Vivienne, it was love. And no other love than Charles.

One dark evening, in the midst of a fierce rainstorm, Vivienne wrapped herself in a filmy silk scarf and stood waiting on the green lawn of the Bed and Breakfast where she still resided in her tiny quarters. Suddenly she raised her arms in a dancing position and proceeded to waltz, as with a partner, upon the sodden earth, murmuring unknown songs, slow and sweet. She continued her smooth, gliding movements, as her lips parted in a slight mysterious smile, and her eyes fell half-closed. A woman transported to a world all her own; whirling and twirling with such grace that her movements drew gasps from the fortunate few who chanced to witness the ethereal beauty.

Suddenly, however, the humming stilled and Vivienne’s arms dropped to her sides. Then, running barefoot through chilly wet grass, her light cape flying behind her, flinging off raindrops like fireflies, Vivienne disappeared into the night.

After two days, they searched her meager flat. The space was barren save a small bed and a downtrodden wooden chair. On the chair sat a little black book. It appeared to contain some love letters to a woman from a fragile man with shaky hands who was slowly slipping away. An envelope fell to the floor. It contained a surprising amount of cash, $20,000.00 in fact. Perhaps rainy day money.

Unfortunately, a young unscrupulous officer newly hired to the force, surreptitiously pocketed the money and cast off the notebook deep within the forest behind the Bed and Breakfast, effectively curtailing any further understanding of the messages contained in a doting husband’s journal: kindness, everlasting love, joy and sorrow.

There was never a plaque or even a tiny monument erected to honor the generosity of Vivienne and her late husband Charles. But somewhere out there was a small black notebook that contained words of hope and wisdom. And whomever should come upon it someday, well, they will be very lucky indeed.