I'm like Theseus in the Greek myth pursuing a quest, but for what, I'm not exactly sure—and as for Stella, well, she has her sights set on me, again, for what, I'm not exactly sure.
I may be a successful author but at the moment I'm damaged goods of no use to anyone, especially to me.
I'm needy and desperately seeking something to feel up the emptiness inside. I made a mistake once marrying a career woman and sadly for Stella, I'm not going to make that mistake again.
The wind and rain make a chilly start to the day, but it is early April after all, and ought to be expected.
Not great weather to be out house hunting, but such is my lot today.
Behind the wheel of her Mercedes, Stella’s back in control, adroitly steering both car and conversation in the right direction. We weave back and forth through a maze of streets with Stella showing me several sub-par listings. I have little patience for her marketing ploys this morning, yet she persists even though she can see I’m slowly getting vexed.
The drizzly streets create a moody, brooding background.
I feel like Dante being led through hell by Beatrice, as we circle, loop back and re-navigate an unending labyrinth of crescents.
Maybe it’s my fetishistic nature but I sense something mysterious about to unfold.
My Greek mother was superstitious and I seem to have inherited this gene from her. Mother was raised Orthodox, but still believed in the old religion—I mean the pagan religion of gods and goddesses and a thousand local deities of everything imaginable.
And yes, I blame her for this morbid side to my personality.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Stella smiles. She can probably hazard a fairly accurate guess at why I’m feeling distracted.
“I doubt my thoughts are even worth that,” I say sullenly, staring out the rain-streaked passenger window.
The sad smile on Stella's face tells me she understands, even cares—not that she isn’t interested in pursuing her own interests here—but the girl does have a heart.
“Are you sure you want a large detached? You know I could find a real charmer for half the asking price of these huge barns.”
I shake my head. How many agents would willingly forego a huge commission?
I see her point, but want something with character and huge grounds where I can retreat from the world.
My book is still creating a buzz, and I’m tired of the signings and predictable interview questions.
I need to get away, be alone with myself and heal.
“How about a Thirties Craftsman’s cottage?” she asks, navigating Rosedale Valley Road, “they have character and there are a few of them around.”
I know she’s not just referring to houses, and is still trying to steer me in a sensible direction. I appreciate that, but also know where it’s leading.
“I know all about arts and crafts,” I say.
She flushes, understanding my implication.
“I like the idea of a house being part of the landscape, oriented to the garden and taking advantage of natural light," I tel her, “but all the ones I’ve seen are too small.”
“Touché,” she grins wryly.
I grin back. I like her—I really do, but am not interested in another career woman.
I guess I’m simply looking for enchantment.
“Well maybe, just maybe, I’ve got the dream for you,” she says finally, “since you’re so bound and determined to spend big bucks.”
“That’s me,” I chuckle wryly.
“Hey, Big Spender,” she laughs.
I've got this strange feeling I'm about to be bewitched, and curiously, I'm eager to succumb.