2

The next morning Spencer’s text blinged just after 11 AM.

Hey Spencer, Eva here, great to meet up yesterday, interesting and fun. Let me know if you want to grab a walk on Kits beach? Or a bike ride in the next while.

Oh! Great. Interesting. Fun. Walk. Bike ride.
And the offer to come to his area, presumably because he had come to hers in Mount Pleasant for their first meet.

Equality.

Ritual.

Feed the connection.
And there’s this thing of her perhaps wanting to see where he lives? How many servants and horses does he have? But it was too early to invite her in given her reserve although he had no problem with it if that’s what she wanted, just for tea of course, though he let himself enjoy the fantasy of wild sex. Come in, please come in to my home (my rented condo), I want you to see it, I’m proud of it, I think you may like what I’ve done, and I think it will confirm that I’m someone you want to get to know more. Curiously, he didn’t know how to dress himself with much style, but his home was adorned with good taste.

He took his time carefully crafting a response. It needed to be casual and relaxed as opposed to what he felt: I would love a walk with you, how soon can you be here?

Hey a walk on the beach on Thursday would be nice if that works for you.

A specific day indicated he had a life and ‘if that works for you’ made him appear unassuming and respectful.

She arrived near 11 AM on Thursday and texted:

Here

He looked out of his ground-floor living room window, again surprised by her height, the bob of black curls caught the breeze and looked like they might take flight. She milled about beside her shiny black Honda Pilot, looking around at nothing, careful not to meet his eyes through the front window – he could feel she knew he was there – and betray decorum, show interest and excitement too early like a child waving wildly at her new acquaintance with a huge smile, no filters. No, emotions at this point should be held in a tight choke. Appear normal and mature! Boring, but necessary, women didn’t like clowns.

Hurry, she’s waiting! something cried out, despite his being ready an hour before, his place completely cleaned and ordered just in case she were to come in. He deliberately slowed his movements and put on his jacket carefully to avoid a frazzled, overly excited vibe. A second meet was a big deal, it meant there was a chance and how many of those were left? They were hitting 60. All the more urgent in his heart because he wasn’t on the fence with regard to his affection for her. Make this go right, can you handle that?
He stepped outside greeted her with a big smile, which she returned quickly, both said ‘Heys’ and he wanted to hug her but restrained the impulse and stepped strangely sideways to indicate the direction toward the beach. It was chilly and grey, he zipped up his jacket. It was three blocks to Kitsilano Beach.

They chatted: family, work, travels, dating, the arts. He listened carefully so as to always have a response or a question at the ready to avoid any awkward silences, for which he always blamed himself. They both had professional fathers, hers a real estate entrepreneur, and his, an architect.

“I wonder if they ever crossed paths,” said Spencer.

“Did your Dad play golf?”

“No.”

“Probably not, then.”

“What do you mean ‘entrepreneur’?”

“He bought and sold real estate.”

“He didn’t build things, he wasn’t a developer?”

“No.”

“He did well, I imagine.”

“Yep.”

They arrived at the beach, the smell of seaweed and salt. Seagulls were caught up playing in the hard gusts off the ocean or mindlessly scavenging anything resembling food.

“Do you want to stick to the seawall or hit the beach?” he asked.

“Let’s try the beach.” They made their way to where the sand was hard-packed closer to the water’s edge and headed west. The rising and retreating waves soothed his nerves.
She was born in London, U.K. The family moved to Vancouver in 1973.
“Your parents are passed on?” he asked.

She nodded. “Mm-mn.”

“Mine too. You have siblings?”

“I had an older sister. She’s gone too.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” she said, so softly he barely heard it. “You? Siblings?”

He spoke louder to indicate the level he hoped she would match so he could hear her over the wind and waves. “Two older brothers, one’s retired in Bali and the other in Calgary with his wife. My Dad was born in the U.K. as well. He came here after the war, met my Mom here, she was Northern Irish.”

“Protestant?”

“Yes. We had to go to church as kids. Was your family religious?”

“Yep. Well, what does that mean? Not really in practice but we went to church and my parents preached or quoted things from the bible, but I think that was just the things they remembered from their own upbringing – I never saw them reading a bible, I don’t even recall there even being one in the house. Oh, hold on, there was one on the shelf, I kind of remember that, but maybe that didn’t happen. Do you ever have that?”

“Remember something that wasn’t?” He inhaled through his nose and felt the salt pass through, clearing his head. “Hm, I don’t know, whatever I do remember is pretty jumbled, that’s for sure.” He kicked a piece of driftwood that landed directly in her path. “Sorry.”

She stepped over it without a word.

“What does being British mean to you?” he asked.

“I’m not British.”

“I mean, having British ancestry. The proper way and all that. My parents operated from that whole paradigm and it really clashed with the 60s, 70s drugs, rock n’ roll.”

She laughed and nodded. Without another word they understood how that connected them – the ‘proper way’ and such of the English, of work ethic, responsibility, and respectful behaviour and all the associated airs and proprieties and how that clashed directly with their time of awakening in the world, the 1970s – rock n’ roll, drinking, drugs, teenage sex, to which their parents reacted with shock, anger, and withheld love until approval was met and if not, they were punished.

Their mothers filled roles of care-taking. His a teacher and hers a charity fundraiser, but their primary role was to support their husband, even if he was unreasonable or wrong, even stupid – the good and devoted and strong wife was at his bidding in addition to organizing and rearing the kids, but under his direction and approval. Their father’s reactions were stiff, stern, sometimes raging. To question him was a violation. And whatever he did, the wife had to tell the children, no matter how it seemed otherwise, it was an unassailable truth, like gravity, that he loved them.

The wife was also fully responsible for attending to her husband’s mental and sexual needs before her own. Hers were to be satisfied with the privilege of being his wife, which afforded occasional flowers and dinners out every so often. If the wife fulfilled her duties to his satisfaction, she might be allowed to engage in such modern pursuits as having a part-time job or serving the community and count herself lucky to be married to the kind of forward-thinking man who limited his objection to grumbling about it. He did, after all, work hard, make lots of money, and didn’t cheat, drink to excess, or take drugs. He was, in his mind, the pinnacle manifestation of modern man.

“How’s your play going?”
She was struggling, not just creatively – which she fully accepted as part of the work – but with the identity of being an artist, namely its acceptance or rejection by others and, significantly, herself.

“I’ve never actually published anything or had a play produced,” she confessed. She delivered this to the sand in front of her, but with a quick look, Spencer could see her cheeks had flushed despite the frigid air. It was part of why she chose not to have a job at the moment so as to commit to the playwright identity and have it envelop her to a point of no return, forcing everyone and herself to do the same. At her age, it seemed to matter all the more to make a success of it, having endured askance opinions regarding her acting and artistic efforts over the years.

The name change from Angie to Eva was part of the identity shift, her given name was Evangeline, she’d lived her whole life as Angie and after her divorce, switched to Eva – to become the person she wanted to be, someone new to everyone else but well-known in her heart.

Her honesty was attractive, but he loathed the idea of sharing his struggles. His protestations of having no regrets but instead being grateful were a pathetic spin on a tale of selling out. A talented and courageous boy with good looks, expectations had been high and very little had come to pass. He had attended theatre school at Vancouver Community College in his early 20s, but at the age of 30, he couldn’t bear the thought of identifying himself as a full-time waiter, which he was, despite summer stock theatre and three national commercials. He dumped being an actor and got a job at an advertising agency as a junior copywriter. He was surprised to find he felt good about himself, useful, a valued member of the team for his contribution. The account managers discovered he had a knack for unearthing the deep needs and desires of a market and how exactly to hook their attention to drive sales. It wasn’t long before he had his own accounts and the money rolled in.

Instead he showed Eva the positive: He was healthy, active, had enough money, and worked for himself. A kind and sensitive man, a good listener. Those were the things that mattered to women anyway, why dredge up the past? I’m a real catch!

“It takes a lot of courage to do what you’re doing,” he said. It sounded pedantic coming out of his mouth, but she appeared to appreciate it. Or was she being polite like private school had taught her? White suburban manners obfuscated reality. It was unkind to burden anyone with distressing feelings, especially loved ones. Both had been taught not to complain and felt ashamed when it became too much and did so, bubbling over. But something had stripped a decorous layer off her that still remained on him, she wanted to be seen.

He was not yet clear, however, what brand of support she was looking for regarding her creative work. This was tricky. Questions about her creative endeavours might be taken as invasive. Some partners wanted blind support, others wanted honest feedback, but most wanted both, but in unknowable proportions depending on the day, or the speed of the breeze. A voice in the back of his mind muttered the notion that he wasn’t actually interested in her play, at least not now, it probably wasn’t any good, but he should perhaps ask about it anyway.

“May I ask what your play is about? Don’t feel obligated to tell me, I’m just curious.”

She took a few strides before answering. “It’s about me.”

He waited before responding to give her room to elaborate but she didn’t. He said, “Interesting,” and felt stupid and exposed. It felt invasive to pry further. “What’s that quote? The unexamined life isn’t worth living?”

“Hm, yeah.”

Despite this awkward moment, he felt good beside her and paid no mind to the ceaseless cold gusts of wind that ran up his spine. No one else was out walking, even the seagulls seemed to have gone home.

He forged on: “I’m grateful for my work setup. It enables me to take walks like this on a weekday, if I feel like it. The freedom of self-employment!” She said nothing but lifted her eyebrows and smiled slightly, but was that because she was impressed or something else? She didn’t ask further questions about his work, which didn’t surprise him. In his experience, most people, particularly those of an artistic persuasion, looked down on advertising. He’d never been much a fan of it himself but liked the psychology which had attracted him to acting. An acting teacher said he overanalyzed his character’s motivations to death. These days, the joy came from helping small businesses succeed. His father had his own architectural firm which had struggled and caused family stress. He saw his father in many of his current clients, just people trying to get it right and make a living to support their families. When clients did well because of strategies, it felt great.

“You have kids,” she said.

“Yes, two boys, 20 and 22, they stayed with their mother in the home, a 15-minute walk from my place. You?”

“I never had children. But there’s June, my ex’s daughter, she’s 25.”

He nodded. “You left him?”

“Yep. And you?”

“Yes, same.”

They had doubled back along the beach and were now heading up the street, only a few minutes away from his place. What now? he wondered. The visit would end, she would drive away, it felt too soon.

“Got any good dating stories?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, people you’ve met on the app. You must have one crazy story at least – the things I’ve heard from women about who they’ve met. Wow.”

“Like what?”

“Men being jerks or pigs, just disgusting really.”

“Well, nothing too bad.”

“Oh, good.”

“The first date I ever had was strange. Not because of him but what I did. He lived in Abbotsford.” This made her laugh. “So far away, but we were texting a lot, like every day, for I don’t know, probably a couple weeks. He was a Purolator driver, which wasn’t, well, I don’t know. Anyway, I went out there to meet him for coffee and I just found it funny afterwards how I’d built up this whole thing about who he might be – my soulmate or something.”

“Well, he might have been,” he said half-jokingly. A robin pecked at the damp grass ahead of them, looking for worms. “I’ve been kind of shocked. I don’t know if it’s me or the app or just women over 50.”

“You don’t date younger women?”

“No. I want someone in my world. I can’t be attracted to someone who isn’t.”

She nodded and kept a straight face. “You said shocked?”

“Yeah, all the trauma. Is it because I’m unconsciously attracted to women with traumatic pasts or is it the case that the app has a higher sample of women with traumatic pasts? Or is it that single women in their 50s, in general, have a higher incidence of trauma?” She kept her eyes in front of her. He cursed himself for bringing it up, it was a depressing subject, but then realized he’d had the intention to weed her out if indeed she was such a person, the relationships had been difficult.

They had reached her car. He couldn’t just say goodbye, poised on that question. And he wanted to invite her in for tea. “Yeah, just heartbreaking.” He looked away and shook his head, empathetic. “I found it hard to process, not easy when trying to make a connection with someone.” He interrupted himself and changed his tone. “Do you want to come in for a tea?”

She turned her body away and then back. “Okay, sure.” She checked the time on her phone. “A quick one.”

At the entrance, she pried off her green-striped sneakers and removed her jacket, which he hung for her. His place was well-lit by natural light and nicely decorated with things that kept memories alive and loved ones present, lots of framed photos of his sons, brothers, mother, postcards of fine art, keepsakes of driftwood and precious stones, and souvenirs from childhood. On the far wall of the living room was a large framed photo of rolling, deep-green, bucolic farmland in the mist, with ancient stone dwellings separated by dog-legged dry stone walls. It was obviously not British Columbia or even Canada and suddenly felt it was a mistake to invite her in because she might ask where he’d taken the photo. It was Ireland. He’d taken Jenna, his ex-wife, there in July of the previous year, just seven months ago. He quickly led her to the kitchen out of its view, where he offered her to sit at the dining table while he made the tea.
There were other framed photos from various trips to Europe, abandoned stone mansions with leafy green trees growing out the windows, medieval squares and their fountains, and close-up details of exquisite sculptures from antiquity. Visitors hardly ever commented and he figured perhaps they thought the photos were mere mass-produced prints to cover the walls. I took these, he wanted to tell her, I was there that day. I have an eye for beautiful things. But he couldn’t, he knew it would sound pathetic.

Overall, his place was inviting and comfy. He knew that, he liked it that way for his own sake. A teak desk faced the front window, and on either side of it, standing guard, were two large leafy plants, a Monstera and a Money Tree. That’s what visitors commented on, the big leafy plants.
“I love your plants,” she said on cue, which she could see from the kitchen dining table, as well as smaller pots in the window to her right that looked out on a tiny strip of grass surrounded by a tall wood fence, identical to the ones on either side.

“They’re good company,” he said, which was genuine.
The rugs in the living room and under the dining table were art nouveau and art deco inspired, slightly worn, a coffee table at the center of the living room grounded everything. It had been made from salvaged BC red cedar. On it were a few books of fiction and non – Alice Muro and Yuval Noah Harari. A low bookshelf lined the wall, fiction, non, travel, arts, space. The grey couch was Ikea, big and comfy with extra cushions and a blanket for naps.
The kitchen led to a narrow hall with two rooms in the back.
He sat across from her and decided to continue where he left off, feeling the need to justify bringing up the subject of trauma, but it came out increasingly awkward, hoping to learn something about her, or at least a comment or opinion on the subject, but regretting it more every second. It was like a runaway train that needed to arrive at her reaction or response, so if nothing else, he didn’t feel so alone in this world of dating over the age of fifty, which had come to feel very tenuous given the daunting prospect of connecting with a whole life already lived and stained.

“It seems like everyone I’ve dated has been through some awful trauma.” It felt like a question but wasn’t meant to be. It was suddenly stuffy so he opened the dining room window and then sat facing it with his feet up on the next chair. He thought she might get up and leave, but she straightened her back and sipped her tea with her eyes cast down. In her smallest voice she said, “I have my things but they are my responsibility.” He was a wretch for embarrassing her and humbled by how she responded with humility and grace.

“Right,” was all he could say at first, stupidly.

She looked away, into the living room, avoiding him.

“I’m sorry if that was all the wrong thing to say.”

“It’s okay.” Her face was sullen.

“Those experiences took me by surprise. I guess I’m still trying to process it.”

“Yeah.”

He sipped his tea. She sipped hers.

“I’m so glad you came up for the walk,” he heard himself say. It was true, his interest in her was in no way diminished by her admission. The contradiction puzzled him.

She nodded and gave a quick and forced smile.

“What’s the rest of your day like?” he asked.

“Some writing. Meeting a friend later for dinner.”

“Cool.” It was deathly quiet for a moment. “I wish I had some Baba Ganoush to offer you.”

“Mm, yeah. What’s up with that?” she said, mocking.

“I need to get my act together.”

She smiled, then slowly closed and opened her eyes. “I should go.” She got up, unhurried, and set her cup near the sink, which was still three-quarters full. He did the same, thinking he’d probably never see her again, and followed her to the door. “Maybe we could see something at Cinematheque if you’re into that,” he suggested.

“Sure.”

After she left, he walked through the kitchen and down the hall for a pee, feeling stupid and guilty and that he deserved every bit of the disappointment that might come from his transgression. And asking her in for tea surely looked obvious and desperate.

Of the women he’d dated, one of them had made it clear on their third date that he would have to do his part with regard to supporting her emotionally, having been molested by her father. Another had been beaten by her father but made no connection to her defensive, angry, and critical nature. Another had been raped twice in her early twenties and needed him to understand that making love was traumatic for her but felt she had no choice if she wanted to be in a relationship. Another had been molested by a family friend and later beaten by her boyfriend who had broken her jaw.

He wondered what had happened to Eva.

He went into his office and distracted himself with work emails and the list of tasks on his desk, but felt a longing for her, mixed with regret. His imagination started building an impossible fantasy: He and Eva were in their early twenties and seeing each other for the first time since being childhood friends having gone to the same school, their bond as children unbreakable, their hearts knew each other plainly without the complications of parents, culture, life, a full and complete understanding of who the other was and their hearts open, safe, and warm. He ached deliciously to see her again.