Phebe

“Katherine struggled to get out of bed; visions of that haunting encounter lay thick in the air, transposed from her memory, a now beguiling daydream, stuck on repeat.

As she stirred in bed, the night’s lily-white cocoon elegantly unravelled itself, revealing toes melted into a euphoric curl, the bright orange lacquer she had chosen the day before, now exposed, reflective of the aura surrounding her….”

Letting out a deep sigh, Phebe dropped her pen and slammed the book shut, the rose- gold nose of a bookmark peeping through that hallowed page, perhaps as traumatized by the sudden reaction as the remnants of a lightly buttered croissant which fell to the floor. She was almost at her wits end, her mind swirling with ideas, the instant action an attempt to quell the whirlwind of thoughts. Phebe had been writing for weeks, she had almost had enough of lacquered toes and wafting visions, so much so that the tenants of her mind now captured in script danced across the page, seemingly a mockery of her best efforts.

“Damn it!”  she retorted, scurrying off to a coat rack, bundling an emerald-green jacket around her, heading through the front door. She would not venture far off though, for she utterly enjoyed the comfort of her cozy cabin loft, tucked away in the hills of Mackinac Island. Phebe had most reluctantly moved away from the fatigues of life; far from bustling city streets, rowdy neighbours and the blaring of horns, giving up that hamster’s wheel in lieu of the view and quiet she now beheld; a decision which seemed well worth it. The previous version of herself had long been exhausted, Mackinac Island she had hoped would give her the space to write, the space to begin again.

It was slightly chilly now, and as a net of lights became strewn across the night sky, slowly strung as though connecting her thoughts, she marvelled at the beauty before her. Mackinac Island was paradisiacal. The ebb and flow of the sheer expanse of black velvet which surrounded the island, befell her, hugging the terrain, a myriad of lakes, the soft waves a shiver, having been gently kissed by the evening air. In the quaint town below her sat many a couple, tourists no doubt, charmed just as she now was, though there temporarily, enjoying the ambience of restaurants; dimmed lights, filled glasses, haughty conversation coated in light music, seducing the ears of listeners. 

A crackle from the rustic fireplace interrupted her thoughts and as she ventured inside, she was greeted by her weekly reminder. “This week we’ve got your favourites. There’s caramel, buttered chocolate and tiramisu. Oh! and we’ve included an orange cheesecake option, that’ll remind you of home!”  It was Carol. Carol ran an intimate coffeehouse which served not just the most exotic coffees, but the most decadent array of fudge. One of the first friends Phebe made when she’d come to the island, Carol, as promised, called her weekly to ensure she never missed the treat. Having dutifully recited what interested her palette though scowling at the thought of reminders of home, she uttered, “…are you doing scones or croissants this week? uh-huh, ok, I’ll also have half a dozen croissants and three scones. See you tomorrow!”  Strangely enough, croissants helped her to write, she’d never have to leave an immediate protagonist too lost and lonely, prematurely escaping her mind, distracted by the thought of lavish eating, a chore of which her mother never failed to remind her.  Cynthia never completely understood why her daughter left her lofty city job to move so far away for the sake of writing. For Cynthia, Phebe was at the height of her career and what Phebe felt to be the fatigues of life were in fact standard nuances. 

The phone rang, jolting her out of a daze. “Good morning Hun, are you awake? Have you had breakfast already?” Cynthia chimed. She was right on time with the daily admonition. Phebe had barely slept. With a deadline fast approaching she had attempted to continue Katherine’s story, and as she would soon realise, accompanied by half a litre of a tart oaky Sicilian wine, a part of the city life she could never give up. “It’s only 7a.m. Mum,” Phebe uttered after a brief but silent sigh. “I’ll have something soon, I promise.” “Are you going to Mrs. Greene’s today Mum?…ok…tell Andre and Peter I’ve asked for them. Oh! and wish George a happy birthday for me.”

Much promise abounded on days like these. The gentle caresses against her face glided to her neck and along her arms, shifted with every movement that she made, the warmth now perched in the small of her back. The sunlight on the island was glorious, in some way different from the city, or perhaps she never had the time to notice it was there. Nevertheless, it was a moment she lived for on her strolls to Pitcher’s Thistle, Carol’s coffeehouse. Carol had travelled widely, the Great Lakes being a task to cross off her list of adventures. She had hiked to Mount McKay and kayaked at Slate Islands and was certainly no stranger to Torch Lake. Oftentimes, Carol had enjoyed the view of Lake Erie whilst enjoying roller coaster rides at Cedar Point. Having finally decided to set up shop in Mackinac Island, Carol just simply had to find something that she saw on all, if not most of her visits, to capture it, Pitcher’s Thistle, a flower unique in many ways, was ingrained in her mind.

Aromas of caramel and chocolate tickled her nose as she stepped into this artisanal escape and in an instant, she knew that she would soon satisfy her pining for Carol’s freshly prepared fudge. In here, time stood still, intermittently flavoured by notes of cinnamon and earth, roasted vanilla beans and coffee, all bounded and lightly tossed in perfectly curated, handcrafted butter.  So engrossed was she in conversation with Carol that she forgot about the imminent rain which quickly turned from a gentle drizzle to torrents. This would have little effect on her for she now caught sight of the other reason she loved the coffeehouse, reason enough to stay a bit longer. 

He was there on every visit she made to Pitcher’s, and she often wondered if it was sheer coincidence, or if he was there for her. He always sat at that corner window deep in thought, armed with notebook and pen, a classic black Montblanc Meisterstück.

He was personable. Today, his terracotta jacket and dark brown trousers mirrored the aesthetic of the café, unrivalled by the shorts and boat shoes others wore. He could never be a tourist, she thought. He was too settled and stately, at ease, with seemingly no desire to rush off to the next attraction. He’d never approached her however, but ever so often he’d nod in her direction, subsequently stroking away a fringe of hair which always became displaced with the gesture. She covertly motioned to Carol, mouthing, “he’s over there,” to which she responded with a thumbs up and a half-muddled smile, awaiting the story of today’s encounter that she would receive later. 

“Here’s your order mam,” Chester lay a cup of coffee topped with caramel and shavings of pistachio fudge in front of her, whisking away to return with a croissant, drizzled with lemon sauce. As she enjoyed these delights, she pondered the treasure chest of thoughts his mind held, slowly and calculatedly committed to the yellowed pages before him, the answer to her contemplations. As the torrents continued, the café darkened, illuminated by the soft orange lights cast around the interior, which all bowed their heads to him, the creases on his hands irradiated, a man unmoved by the changes around him. If she could be as disciplined as he was and maybe even had him at her side, she’d surely be done with her book by now.

She loved that there were no cars, the horse drawn carriage ride back home being enigmatic. Carol’s boxes in tow, she could now retreat to her lair, complicit in the story Katherine wished to be told. “Mum arrives this week,” she thought, and she could not wait to show her all the ways in which the island had absorbed her, inclusive of this pirate who was surely stealing the very fabric of her being. A line or two on her she hoped was committed to his text.

Pitcher’s Thistle dissipated, thoughts of Carol and the exquisite gentleman faded away on her journey home. Back at Pitcher’s Thistle Carol sat, dismayed, but intent on seeing this through. “She’s done it again Chester, I can’t see a way through this.”

Chester was not only her confidant, but her eldest son. “She prefers it this way Mum,” he conveyed, leaning over to hug her. Was she to leave it be though? She recognised it when she saw it but had never said a thing about it, for there had been no rain that day, no leather-bound yellowed pages and certainly no beauty cloaked in terracotta, just her lost friend, removed from the city only to hide a slowly deteriorating mind, set in motion by the fatigues of life, unbeknownst to Cynthia.

Photo by Bookblock on Unsplash.