Page 50 of Autumn at the Willow River Guesthouse
‘Hello,’ Lily said, walking up to the table. She reached into her bag and pulled out her own wine glass. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Victoria looked up and gave a soft smile. ‘Not at all, dear. I can see you’ve been crying. Sit down and tell me your woes, and if you don’t mind, maybe I’ll tell you mine.’
Lily sat down on the wooden bench seat opposite. ‘It’s me, Lily,’ she said, unsure whether Victoria even recognised her. The writer, however, gave a slow, knowing nod.
‘Lily. From the book. I thought it was you.’
‘My ex showed up,’ Lily said. ‘He spun me a line about how he wanted to get back together, how he’d made a bunch of mistakes, blah blah, how it’ll be better next time and all that. And you know what? I was tempted. I’m still tempted. Because, despite everything, I loved him. And there’s a void in my life that needs to be filled, and he’s the closest thing to a decent fit that I can find.’
‘There’s your internal conflict,’ Victoria said, and Lily was more certain than ever that the writer had lost her mind somewhere in the distant past and actually felt like she was living inside a book. ‘You know you should walk away, but you can’t. But if you go back, sooner or later the same thing—or worse—will happen. And you know it.’
‘I do know it.’
‘But you don’t care.’
‘I don’t care. Not enough. I gave him my heart, and I let him break it, but I gave it to him so completely that I want him to glue it back together.’
‘So that he can break it again?’
Lily shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And you know he will. Only next time, it’ll be a little more fragile, and it’ll break a little more easily. And the time after that, more easily still. Until you’re living with a constant, irreparable broken heart. And the sadness will slowly eat away at you, until there’s nothing left.’
Lily laughed through a little sob. ‘I feel like one of my dad’s murals. Like something made up of little pieces of glass.’
‘What happens next? What does our Lily do?’
Victoria was talking about the story. As Lily frowned, Victoria held up her wine bottle, waiting for Lily’s glass. Lily held it up and Victoria poured her a generous measure. Taking a slip, Lily said, ‘She wants to step away, but she’s not strong enough. She can’t do it without help.’
‘What kind of help?’
‘With the writer’s wisdom. What happened to the writer?’
Victoria looked down at her hands. The wind rustled through the willow branches, and Lily almost felt like they were crossing a plane between reality and fiction. The sun caught Victoria’s face for one last moment, revealing eyes weary from the weight of expectation and some deep, long ago regret.
‘The writer made a big mistake,’ Victoria said, taking a sip of her wine but not meeting Lily’s eyes.
‘Her son’s father?’ Lily said, and this time, the reaction she got was unexpected. Victoria let out a sudden choking sob, clutching her wine glass with both hands like a comfort blanket.
‘He was not the mistake,’ Victoria said quietly, her voice barely audible. ‘But the writer thought he was. The writer, always chasing something else. Something more. Never able to settle for what she had.’ Victoria finished the rest of her wine and poured another glass. Her bottle was almost empty, so Lily took out hers and uncorked it while she waited for Victoria to continue.
‘He was a simple man,’ she said at last, still staring off into the distance. ‘Not rich, but not poor, not handsome but not unattractive, but he was kind, and when you spoke his eyes listened, and he understood everything, and he told you all the right things, and he made you feel like you were the most important thing in the world.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But the writer … she lived in this fantastical world where anything could happen, and she always wanted more. Someone richer, someone more handsome, someone who she felt reached her pompous level of self-importance. And when she started to find success, she started to meet those kinds of people. She did what she wanted, did stupid things, regrettable things, things that the man, the kind, loving man, didn’t deserve. And when he walked away, she blamed him, as though it were somehow his fault.’
‘He left … her?’
‘Yes. And she made sure she hurt him as much as possible, using her money to take away his only child. But eventually she lost the boy, too. By the time she realised she had made a mistake, she was all alone in the world.’
‘What happened to the man? Couldn’t she go back and say sorry, tell him she had made a mistake?’
Victoria shook her head. ‘It was too late. She had already soured everything, turned him into the mural of broken glass. She could never restore their relationship, but she could say she was sorry, hoping that he could find peace.’
‘So did she?’
‘He died before she had the chance. A heart attack. He was only thirty-five. And yet she goes on, and on, and on. Living with her regret every day.’
‘What about the son?’
Victoria wiped her eyes with a corner of her sleeve, and Lily couldn’t help but smile, wondering if that was where the young Michael’s habit had come from.
