Geneva's Change In Perspectives

"Is there anything wrong ... Miss Haines?" The lawyer leaned enquiringly toward her, seeing her pause, pen hovering above the legal document. Having second thoughts.

Startled out of those thoughts, Geneva glanced quickly at him, his saturnine countenance close to her suddenly making her nervous. She'd never liked him, but he was her father's lawyer, a highly respected member of the profession, and extremely competent. He looked concerned at her hesitation but she knew his concern was likely due to the fact that he was busy, wanted to get on with things, see other clients. Rather than any regard for her own uncertainty. Not certain whether she should really commit herself to this change in her life.

"No, not at all, Mr. Kampfer", she said, bringing the pen down decisively, signing the two places he'd X'd. And it was done. She was the new owner of Heritage Antiqua and the rush of sub-leasing her apartment, moving her possessions, becoming accustomed to a new way of life, would begin.

******************************************************************************
The movers knew their business and it didn't take too long to have her posssessions transported, the projected change become, if not irrevocable, then at least a present reality. The moving bill startled her, far more than the estimate. But it was explained to her by the large bluff man who'd handled her things as though they weighed nothing: "After all, Miss. You told us thirty miles out of Toronto, but you never told us the roads weren't first grade, and moving your things in here did present some problems." She had to agree. It hadn't been easy hauling her heavy pieces, things she wouldn't part with for anything - family heirlooms that they were - up the narrow winding staircase that led to the rooms constituting her new living quarters.

Looking about her now, at the huge downstairs room filled with relics of another age, she sighed. A combination of fatigue, relief, and wonder at the future. Sunlight streamed through the long narrow windows, washing the pine pieces below a lighter colour, warming the copper bedpans, illuminating the paintings lining the wall. This was the shop; the tiny kitchen behind, and the upstairs represented her living quarters. An old converted warehouse close to a sleepy little town north-east of Toronto. The former owners had shown her their books. They were well known as the purveyors of quality antiques and their reputation brought customers out here. They were retiring, the price had been affordable thanks to her father's generosity in augmenting her savings with an interest-free loan, and out here she'd have the quiet surroundings she craved. In a congenial atmosphere, yet still be working at something she enjoyed.

Then why the heaviness. Why still so uncertain? Stupid! she told herself. He's gone and that's that. And you did it yourself; sent him away. Maybe it was her fault more than his, she thought, her mind wandering over old hurts against her will. But no, those old-fashioned virtues of constancy and commitment are ones I cherish and I won't give them up for anyone.

She thought back to the final scene in the drama of their breakup. "You can't be serious, Geneva!" Glen had appealed at first, his handsome face furrowed with concern and doubt, making her think he really did care, almost forcing her to retract her statement of absolute dismissal.

"I am. I am serious. I know it sounds melodramatic to you and not at all with-it. But Glen, it's a choice of me, or all the others you want to flit with. I absolutely refuse to be one of a casual harem. If you really care for me as you say you do, the choice shouldn't be that difficult."

He'd paced her living room, his mood becoming ugly, his voice husky with anger. "Don't hand me an ultimatum, Geneva. I won't be treated like a little boy who can't keep his fingers out of the cookie jar."

"Well then", she said softly. "What are you then? A responsible adult? You've asked me to marry you and I agreed, thought we had something of solid value between us. Now I feel ... soiled. You say you want me, but you won't be tied down. I can't buy that."

"Look, I wasn't out to hurt you, understand? So I may have kept certain things from you. But when I said we'd make a good team, when I asked you to marry me, I meant it. What that has to do with my being 'faithful' I hardly know. What an archaic concept that is."

"I'm not prepared to embark on an open-ended marriage, Glen. And that's it."

"I hope you've thought about this carefully", he said, stopping his caged lion act long enough to confront her, face tight. "If I leave now it's for good. I don't intend to come crawling back chastened, like some contrite sheep. Either you accept what's on offer or we're finished."

With a sinking feeling that she might well be seeing her future happiness drift away with his furious exit, she looked down at him in the street below, getting into his car, not even bothering to look up at her window as she thought, wistfully, he might. Her gamble on challenging him hadn't quite turned out the way she imagined it might.

************************************************************************
"It's not as though I'm running away from anything", she told her best friend. "I'm tired of the same old grind. I'm ready for some meaningful change in my life. Re-align my priorities."

"Sure", Marilyn nodded. "I can see that. Besides, I know how you felt about him, the idiotic sot. It must be painful for you to be in those same places that hold memories. See our crowd with everyone wanting to know what happened. And Evelyn's big mouth doesn't help matters any."

"No, that's not it at all", she protested. "You make it sound as though I am running away. I'm not! I just wanted to make a break, start a different turn in the road. I'm sick of the .... Oh, maybe you're right", she finally admitted. They hugged and Geneva had another good cry. She had convinced herself she was done weeping and wailing.

*************************************************************************
She was startled by a loud reverberation and felt momentarily fearful until she realized it was the wrought-iron knocker in the shape of a leering gargoyle on the massive front door. Ran down the stairs to see the handy-man she'd met when she had been negotiating with the former owners. "Hello Miss", he shuffled awkwardly, impatient to be gone and turning the ring of keys she'd earlier given him. "I'm about to go out back in the shed, start on some re-finishing. That O.K.?"

He wasn't gone a minute when there was another knock, more tentative this time. She opened to see a bespectacled little woman, holding out a potted plant, a welcoming smile on her lips. "I'm Leonora Webster", handing the plant to Geneva. "Your nearest neighbour. thought I'd introduce myself. Brought you a plant. I don't bake."

And I detest plants, Geneva thought, hastily depositing the plant, a scurrilous looking thing, on a ladder-back chair. Invited the woman inside, who while chattering all the while, glanced curiously about, vetting everything, noting changes. Better get used to it, Geneva told herself. You're the latest curiosity in this little place and they're probably all like her; busybodies; nice little old busybodies. You've jumped one social hurdle to land in another one.

She eventually fielded innumerable questions from other neighbours who "just felt like dropping by", and accepted thoughtful little gifts to "make you feel at home here, my dear". She became more thoroughly acquainted with her inventory. Made a few changes with Tom's help, and she was ready for her opening.

The first thing she sold on Saturday morning was a two-tiered double-glazed buffet, and after that a pine six-board chest. By the time the afternoon was half over, she felt euphoric with success. The knocker clanged incessantly. People came trooping through the shop, some with children who banged about raucously, often with an ice cream cone in hand, bought at the village store. She refused to put the sign up that she'd earlier removed - No Children Please.

By the time six-o'clock rolled around she was anxious to see the last customer out the door, wanted to bolt it and fall into bed. But just as she was sliding the bolt there was another clang and she opened the door about to say "sorry". There, with an engaging smile on his boyish face was a tall sandy-haired man, extending his hand. Geneva opened the door fully and began to make apologies. Despite herself took his hand, wondering what she was doing. "I'm Bradford Cummings", he explained, following her into the vestibule. "I know you're probably closing up now, but I thought I'd drop over ...."

"And introduce yourself", Geneva finished for him, smiling wanly, ready to collapse. "Did you say Cummings?" she asked, a light dawning.

"Yes", he affirmed. "You bought this place from my parents. And I happen to be a neighbour; live just over the hill and down the road. I'm a free-lance writer. Thought I'd just come on over and see how you're making out."

"Oh", she groaned. "Fine, just fine. I'm absolutely beat! Thank heavens this place is only open for business on the week-ends. I'll need all week to recuperate."

"Hey, we can't have you collapsing", he laughed. Guiding her solicitously into the tiny kitchenette, so obviously at home. "Do you like cheese in your omelettes?" he asked, depositing her on a chair. Peering into the refrigerator and pulling out ingredients.

"Oh no", she protested. "Don't bother, please." As though she were a guest in his house.

She sat watching him moving around her kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl, slicing mushrooms, dipping her teaball into the Darjeeling, talking quietly to her all the while as though they were old friends. His parents, he told her, had removed to British Columbia, but he felt like staying on where he was. Enjoying the salubrious surroundings, where his literary reputation was established ... and did she want lemon, or milk?

He finally left at ten. Geneva had lost track of time. Found herself engrossed in conversation, casual and interesting. Someone with whom she felt a strangely connecting repose. As though they'd known each other always. She watched his expressive hands, moving to accentuate something he'd said. Inclining his head toward her, grey eyes gently probing, waiting for her reply as though it mattered. He left finally, not because she wanted him to, but because, as he said, she had a busy day ahead tomorrow. Should get some sleep.

"No worry about that", she laughed. "I don't know when I've felt so bushed. If you hadn't come by I wouldn't have bothered getting anything to eat, I'd have just sat here. Dragged myself off to sleep eventually." He smiled.

"I thought I knew something about antiques; well I do. But not to the extent that I could easily answer all those questions thrown at me today. I felt so inadequate", she said.

"I have quite a few books around the house ... and magazines, as well as auction house catalogues. I'll bring them over", he said quietly. "You'll have plenty of time to learn."

"And tomorrow", she sighed, "I suppose it'll be somewhat like today? From your experience, Brad, is Sunday as bad ... I mean as busy, as Saturdays? Isn't that silly of me!"

"Not at all", he said reassuringly. Taking his leave at the door. "Any new venture is bound to cause doubts and concerns. And yes, Sunday is generally a peak day. More people out for Sunday drives ... you know. There's a lot of impulse-buying then."

"Oh", she said, hanging on to the door. "The first time I came up here ... to look around, you know ... there was a busload of people. They'd come, as I understood it, as a senior citizens' outing. It was bedlam. Does that happen often?"

"Often enough", he grinned. The heartless monster, she thought. "By the way", he said, turning at the end of the pathway, just as she was shifting the door closed "I'll be by around nine-thirty. I've got the day to kill anyway. Give you a hand."

As good as his word, and better. No busloads of people browsing through the shop, but there were, as he'd said, countless families out for a drive who stopped by. Sauntered in and asked questions, double-checked prices and occasionally committed themselves. Some knowledgeable enough so they felt comfortable in haggling for a substantial price reduction. Before she knew it, the day was over and she was drained of energy again. But at least he'd been there to share the work. Was there to share the silence of the shop after the last customer left.

This time she felt less enervated, and prepared dinner. And was sorry to see him go immediately after. She felt bereft of some gift. Realized she had been anticipating another quiet evening of conversation like the one before. But he left. And then everything was still and whenever things were like that, she began to think about Glen.

**********************************************************************************
The girls came over on Wednesday evening and they had a good look around. They'd bought her a gift; the complete Bach Brandenburg concertos and a few best-selling novels. To match, they said, her rarefied atmosphere there. "We figured you'd need some company out here. Thought the books and music might help", Evelyn observed. "Since you felt anyway that you wanted to get away from it all. All of us."

"No", Geneva corrected. "Not getting away. Just a change in lifestyle."

"And you look really fine", Marilyn stepped in hastily. Anxious to avert a scene. Evelyn and Marilyn sisters, part of Geneva's long-time circle of friends. But they were worlds apart in temperament and sensibilities. One a sympathetic friend, the other an acerbic critic and sometimes-friend. There was a nucleus of four within a much larger circle and they all; Helen, Evelyn, Marilyn and Geneva, depended on each other. Or they had. Geneva felt it was time for her to be dependent on no one.

The girls looked around. Interested in everything. Intrigued with the old building converted with such style. They loved her living arrangements upstairs. Thought the rough brick-and-pine interior walls showed her things superbly. "Actually", Evelyn said, the one exception: "I think your Aubusson rug looks out-of-place on those maple boards. Couldn't you have picked up a braided rug somewhere?" Marilyn glared at her sister.

But they had their game of Mah Jongg ,chatted about mutual friends. Affairs that were supposed to be covert. Helen and Marilyn talked about their babies. By the time Geneva served coffee and petit fours she was ready for her friends to leave. Somehow, she felt her sense of privacy, newly-acquired and treasured, was being trod upon.

Evelyn had to have one last parting shot. "And Glen's fine, just fine", she said. Studiedly casual, shrugging into her wrap. "I noticed you didn't ask, but I thought you'd like to be brought up-to-date. And speaking of dates, we are. Dating, that is."

Marilyn hung back as the others left, their voices raised in gay good-byes. "Has it been ... all right?" she asked. "I mean, you aren't still feeling ... that way about him, are you?"

For reply, Geneva shrugged. Didn't trust herself to articulate the words, wasn't certain she could get around the lump in her throat anyway. Marilyn answered the unasked question. "Yes, she's been going out with him. She feels you should have compromised. She thinks he'll ask her, now. Says she wouldn't mind terribly if it takes him a while to settle down. She can wait."

Marilyn frowned, fiddled with the car keys. "She's my sister, but she's a fool. And Geneva, forget him. He isn't worth it. You deserve better." Geneva nodded, grateful Marilyn didn't expect a response. "Call you tomorrow", Marilyn called back as she slid into the driver's seat.

Well, Geneva thought, that's that now, isn't it? How stupid can you get, my girl. thinking he'd miss you. Change his mind and decide it's you, only you he really wants. And why, why are you crying Geneva? Marilyn is right, he isn't worth it.

**********************************************************************
In the weeks that followed, a pattern established itself. As autumn became a fact and the trees began to turn brilliant colours, Brad insisted on Geneva going out hiking with him, and he showed her around what he called 'the neighbourhood'. The neighbourhood consisted of hardwood stands interspersed with ravines, rivulets, and the occasional time they went further afield, they'd walked into a coniferous forest a few miles distant from the town.

Brad was an enthusiastic amateur naturalist, delighted in discovering peculiar fungal formations, malformed tree trunks, and began to teach her how to identify trees by their growing shape, their leaves and their bark. Geneva found herself going right along, becoming truly interested in the various birds they spotted, trying to recall their names.

"Brad", she laughed, throwing herself down on a grassy slope above a stream. "Being with you is like being a kid all over again. I don't know when I've had so much fun. You're like the brother I never had."

"Am I?" he replied pensively, throwing pebbles into the swiftly running water, disturbing some frogs. He shifted the knapsack off his back, and Geneva doled out the sandwiches and fruit. They ate in a companionable silence punctuated by the occasional slap as Brad hit another mosquito. They laughed unrestrainedly at the antics of a squirrel duo frolicking high in the branches above.

The squirrels, two impudent black bundles, leapt impossible chasms from one branch to another, swinging determinedly on the ends of branches, while Geneva was certain with each leap that it would be the last for the little acrobats. After each successful leap, the leader would scramble to the safety of the inner branches and there, switch its tail in a provocative challenge to the other, hanging back. Brad watched her, touched and amused by her concern.

"Don't worry", he said, leaning over, touching her upper arm, making her jump with the thrill of his electricity. "They know what they're doing. It's their element, after all, and they know their limitations."

They sat on, Geneva feeling drowsy, the trill of nearby cardinals a delicate counterpoint to the quiet of their surroundings. She felt she wanted to stay there forever. Stretch out on the grass and just drift along. Brad beside her. Finally, he stretched, gathered the debris of their lunch, and rose.

"It's been four weeks now, Geneva", he said, pulling her to her feet as they prepared to continue their walk. "Think you're getting a handle on the business now?"

"Why, yes", she said, turning to him in surprise. It was the first time he'd mentioned the shop on any of their excursions. Usually he was boyish and carefree, kept up a running commentary on their surroundings, forever explaining the various elements that made up the whole of their bucolic environment. Now, she noted for the first time that he had a serious side to his personality. Was, in fact, regarding her intently. In a manner that momentarily flustered her.

He brought his hands up to her shoulders, moved her closer toward him and spoke her name. She might have known, she should have known. But she wasn't ready, not yet. Heaven knew, he was no Glen with his startlingly good looks, his air of forceful masculinity, his domineering attitude - all to his favour.

She was certain her eyes said no, but he drew her closer, finally folded his arms around her, then dipped his face to hers, and kissed her. An unbrotherly kiss. It did not distress her as she thought it might. He wasn't, after all, her brother. She felt puzzled ... if she loved Glen as she was convinced she still did, then why did she feel that pulse, that quickening in Brad's arms? She pulled away, turned from him.

"Geneva? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Brad. There's nothing wrong. Can we start back?"

They walked back in silence, Geneva slightly lagging Brad's effortless stride over the narrow passageway through the woods. She studied his wide shoulders, his well-formed head, appreciated his competence, his oh-so-obvious interest. What was wrong with her? Glen was all in the past ... wasn't he? Was she so completely wedded to his memory that the possibility of a future involvement was removed from her? Why that overwhelming sense of guilt? Above all, the conflict of Brad's physical pull and her heretofore perception of him as a companion ... what, a brother?

By the time they reached town she had made her decision. It's not fair to you, Brad. There's just no point."

"That kiss?" he said dismissively. "Forget it, it didn't mean anything."

He called on Friday to let her know he couldn't make it as usual on Sunday, to help out. Suggested she let Tom, her handyman, help out. "Tom's quite able", he said, his voice distant, crackling on the poor line. "He often helped out when my parents had the shop."

"Yes, yes of course", she responded dully. What, after all, had she expected?

Meeting him later in the little store, he was his old self, bright and chivalrous. And they talked briefly about her business, his writing assignments. She invited him over for dinner and he turned wary, distracted, begged off. Leonora Webster was there, with her sharp nose sniffing the air, wanting to know what was going on. After Brad left the store and Geneva began placing her order, Miss Webster enquired: "Had a falling out with our Mr. Cummings?" It was just too much, Geneva thought, making her excuses and stumbling up the road to home. There was no privacy anywhere.

***********************************************************************
"I'll be leaving early this evening", Evelyn announced. Everyone looked at her in surprise. Marilyn slapped her cards down on the table. "I'm not prepared to drive back before the rest of us are good and ready to go", Marilyn said.

"Don't get all excited", her sister responded loftily. "I'm not driving back with you", Evelyn said, a ghost of a smile on her face. She addressed Geneva directly: "Glen's coming by to pick me up. Said he owed you a visit anyway, wanted to look the place over."

There was silence as the others sat embarrassed, their eyes glued to Geneva's face, gone white. There would be no running now. He'd be here, and she would have to see him. Come to terms with herself finally. He was coming to pick Evelyn up, and secondarily to see her. There would be no great moment, as she had fantasized; Glen driving out here expressly for the purpose of seeing her, announcing his intention to devote himself entirely to Geneva, to their love.

When he did arrive, and she answered the door, she was newly surprised. No, taken aback at his effusiveness, his obvious pleasure in seeing her again. He swooped down on her, lifted her at the elbows to twirl around with her, finally planted a kiss on her lips, then stood back to inspect her. "Heey! This country living really agrees with you Geneva. You look great!"

His handsome face beamed down at her, that black lock of hair she used to twirl around her index finger hung as it always did, over his forehead and ... why was he so delighted to see her? And me, she asked herself, what do I feel. Nothing.

Nothing! She laughed aloud, felt like hugging herself for joy. She'd been in love with a mirage, not a man!

"Glen", she said coolly, permitting a smile to flit over her lips, suppressing the triumphant laughter she felt. "How good to see you! Evelyn is upstairs with the rest of the girls. Come in and have a look around. Or, are you anxious to be off? I understand you have a previous engagement for the evening; you and Evelyn."

"No hurry", he said, moving toward her again, hands outstretched. She neatly sidestepped his intent and began to talk, to explain about her shop, what it was like, living there.

"You mean you like it here?" he asked, disbelievingly. "This is no act, playing hard-to-get?"

"I adore it", she said, laughing now at the quizzical expression on his face, his all-too-obvious disappointment.

*********************************************************************
The following day, Thursday, she telephoned Brad's house but there was no answer. She felt upset, wanted to see him as soon as possible. To try to re-establish trust, an understanding; various scenarios running through her head, as potential openings. Well rehearsed during a night of fitful sleep. She needed to make amends for her earlier stupidity. Most of all, she wanted to be near him, to feel his reassuring presence, to know he really did care.

Perhaps, she thought, he was away on an assignment somewhere. She desperately raked her mind, tried to recall if he'd mentioned that he'd be going away somewhere, briefly, in the near future.

Finally, feeling restless, hoping to recapture some of the happiness she had felt on her long walks with him, she started off in the direction their hikes generally took them; passed the trees steadily losing leaves. A flock of chickadees called, teasing her for her blindness.

Oddly, the beauty of her surroundings seemed lost on her, she wasn't able to appreciate anything, felt depressed and wondered why she was bothering, why she just didn't go back to the shop and do some work there. But she walked on, finally stopping at the very place where they'd shared lunch on their last hike. Sank to the grass, and began to weep.

She heard a harsh sound and looked up to see a blue blurr through her tears; knew a bluejay was winging through the treetops. Then another sound impinged ... someone calling ... her name! She turned, saw Brad striding toward her, his face creased in a welcoming smile.

Geneva pushed herself up from the grass, then stood there, feeling foolish, wiping the wet from her cheeks. She didn't want him to see her like that, wouldn't be able to explain. He was approaching closer, began to run toward her and for a moment she was transfixed, couldn't move. Something built up inside her. She called his name and ran toward him, arms outstretched, just as he lifted his arms to receive her.

Finally, Geneva realized, finally I've run toward life.