~ Lavender and Love ~

by

Rosemary Goodwin

"Creep," she said under her breath and followed him down the flagstone path. How could she still love this man? she asked herself. He took every opportunity to hurt her feelings yet she kept coming back for more. Rummaging in her big bag, she found her quarry and pulled out a huge old brass key, inserted it in the large, timeworn keyhole, turned it in the lock, and the door swung open.

It was four years ago that Jon’s grandmother had died, leaving him the charming cottage. He was brought up in the village. As a little boy he loved to spend time with his gentle Granny who kept him spellbound with stories of long ago. It held his fond childhood memories, and he vowed he’d never sell the place.

Granny’s part-time housekeeper, a woman from the village, had stayed on. She’d been in earlier that day and aired the feather bed and arranged the teapot and cups on the kitchen table. Jon switched on the electric heater set into the old fireplace, and it soon heated up rosy red and filled the room with cozy warmth.

"Let’s make a nice cup of tea, then we’ll talk." Angela said trying to be complaisant. Changing the subject sometimes jerked Jon back to his sense of civility.

"Is that all the English ever think about? Whenever there’s a crisis or something, they pipe up ‘let’s have tea’," he sneered.

"Well, if you want to get into stereotypes, let’s go Welsh. Would you like to swill back a pint o’ beer instead?" she snapped back.

"I’m not going to let you drag me into an argument." Jon moved some pillows around on the soft sofa and flopped down on it. "So, Polly put the bloody kettle on and we’ll all have tea!"

"No need to be sarcastic." She plugged in the electric kettle. "We’ve been terribly British and stiff-upper lipped up to now. I think we can keep it up for a few more days."

Angela walked over to the other end of the sofa and sat down with her knees drawn up, hugging one of the pillows to her body. She felt so vulnerable. For most of her adult life she’d had Jon to depend on, both as a friend, and as her lover. Over the past few months, he had separated himself physically and emotionally from her. She missed him so much.

"Will we still be friends? After this mess, I mean," she said biting her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

"I hope so. I honestly want us to be friends." And he really meant it.

They had grown up together over the past five years and, he confessed, he alone was responsible for their present situation. If only he didn’t have this seething urge to plow ahead with his career--without any ties. But he did have this need, and he was determined to follow this new path. Angela would have to step aside.

"I really don’t want a divorce. You know that." Angela got up and went over to the old, cracked wooden counter and unplugged the kettle that was crackling and about to burn. She’d forgotten to fill it with water.

"Can’t we try to work things out?" Angela plopped back onto the couch.

"There’s nothing to work out." He stood up and walked over to the kitchen cabinets and reached for a glass, which he filled from the water tap. "I’ve made up my mind. I want to be free. I feel like an old man tied to one woman. It’s nothing against you--it’s me. I’m going to the States in a few days, and I’m starting a new life."

"Don’t pull that stale line on me, Jon. ‘It’s not you--it’s me’ bullcrap."

"But it’s the truth." He leaned against the sink with folded arms. His stance was resolute.

"We’ve been married since we were nineteen," he went on. "We never had any teenage years. We both worked--you days--me nights. What kind of life is this? We hardly ever see each other. No--it’s over."

Angela squeezed the pillow to her breasts, holding on to it like she was trying to hold onto Jon.

"It’s not the end of the world you know. Millions of people get divorced every year."

"Yes, but they’re not us. We could see a marriage counselor, or a minister. Someone to help us over this hump."

"Absolutely not," Jon shouted. "I want out of this--life is passing me by. I have to work on my career. I’m not getting younger. I don’t want to end up as a has-been. Washed up at thirty. I have to get this out of my system, and I have to be single--unattached. Don’t you get it?"

Angela dumped the pillow on to the couch and ran up the stairs to their bedroom--the room that had witnessed their passion on so many occasions in the past. She snatched a small blanket from off the bed and wrapped it around her waist. She sat down on the dainty boudoir chair facing the dresser mirror, picked up her hairbrush and roughly began brushing her hair.

What did I do to deserve this? She’d been passionate and warm with him, and always eager for his body. Their love life had always been exciting from the first time she saw him. She should be angry. She wished that she had a stronger personality, like her friend Gwen. Gwen wouldn’t let herself be a pushover. Why am I blaming myself, she wondered, when I’m not the one who wants to ditch the marriage? No, she felt, his wanting to chase his career was just an excuse to dump her.

She threw down her hairbrush, shuffled over to the bed, and wrapped herself in the smooth pale green comforter.

Angela was staring up at the ceiling, when Jon quietly came into the bedroom. He turned on the little milk-glass light and looked over at her in the reflection of the dresser mirror. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it sensuously down his arms. He kept looking at her to see her reaction as he slowly undressed. He unzipped his tight jeans and eased them down his slim hips, stepping out of them, not taking his eyes off her. His black briefs gradually made the journey over his thighs and puddled on the floor next to the jeans. His body fascinated her. Tanned and firm, with muscles rippling with each deliberate movement he made, she found his body beautiful.

Naked, he turned to face her as he put on a soft, maroon robe and tied the belt loosely. He padded across the room and sat on the side on the bed. God, he so loved this woman.