when we can regret all the flaws in our human relationships:
it is the feast of failure, sad but consoling.
― Graham Greene
I spent my Christmas Eve battling a country blizzard to chauffeur Beth Browning to her family’s so-called ‘at home’—whatever the hell that is.
Yeah, I’m bitter. I’ve had it with the way her rich parents look down their noses at me—a poor Bay Street bond salesman, who’s only risking life and limb to rescue their precious princess.
And I’m also resentful of Beth—doing her rich heiress thing by volunteering at Stickley House and now getting us stranded in a blinding snowstorm.
I gaze out at the road I just drove up ten minutes ago. I can’t see my tire tracks. Hell, I can’t even see the road itself.
“I don’t believe it—how could that happen so fast?”
She looks at me as if I’m new. “C’mon Slick, we’re in the country—wide open spaces—country breezes.”
I look glumly out at the swirling flakes.
“Some breezes—more a blizzard. So what do we do now?”
She shakes her head slowly, “Wait it out,” she whispers.
There’s a strange tone in her voice, a timbre I haven’t heard before, and it makes me a little uneasy. It crosses my mind she’s less than delighted at spending the night with me.
I push the thought aside, but am surprised—it’s an eventuality I didn’t consider. Why is that?
It occurs to me I’ve been pushing ahead, pursuing my agenda, my wants and needs, without referencing hers.
Have I ever once stopped to consider her needs? What if being Mrs. Spencer Sloane was not on her radar?
Have I even really looked at her, or, is the way it’s always been—all about me?
“I’m really sorry, Spence—making you drive all the way out here—and now we’re stuck.”
She looks really vulnerable and I feel a selfish heel.
“Hey, don’t look at it like that—we’re not stuck—this is an adventure.”
“An adventure?” she smiles quizzically.
“Yes, an opportunity to really talk—to really get to know each other.”
“That’s an interesting point of view,” she laughs, “as if the past few months didn’t really mean very much.”
I grab her hand and look deeply into her eyes, “maybe they didn’t, Beth—I mean, I was so busy taking you places, doing things, I don’t recall one time we actually sat down to talk.”
“Oh, sure we did,” she protests, “I told you all about me—my plans to take history courses in the fall, and I told you about my volunteering.”
“Yes, you told me about those things, but you didn’t tell me why. For example, why do you volunteer here—are you bored?”
“Bored? No, Silly. I love working here. I’m fascinated by the past—I’ve always been. For as long as I remember I’ve had this yearning for a simpler way of life—like the kind the Victorians lived.”
“Really? I can’t imagine you and your family without modern conveniences, living like this.” I sweep my hand around the room.
“What’s wrong with living like this?”
“You’re kidding, right? Take these decorations, for instance,” I laugh, pointing to the Christmas tree. “Popcorn strung on the tree—paper cut-out decorations, and in place of scented candles, a few cloves stuck into an orange?”
She goes sullen and quiet, and then, says in a voice so low, I can hardly hear, “at least it’s real.”
I feel as if shot through by an arrow.
I underestimated this girl. All this time I’ve been doing a slow boil resenting her parents’ wealth and I’m the one who wasn’t real.
I hadn’t seen the real girl standing right before me.