The Professional Lover
Aster stood over me, poking me with her foot. When I opened my eyes, she brushed away a bee on her shoulder. She had removed her veil. Her facial muscles were well-defined beneath taut, flawless skin which looked coated in a winter frost. No liver spots, no wrinkles; other than her white hair she appeared to be a fit, healthy fifty—nowhere near sixty-two. “These damn humbugs. You all right?”I stood. “I’m fine. Embarrassed.”
“Weren’t you a nurse overseas?”
“I was.”
“Whatever that means.” She turned and said, “Go on, then, have a look around. Make yourself at home, but don’t open any windows or we’ll never get these bees out of my hair.” She pointed upstairs. “The second floor is yours. Once you’re settled, join me in the kitchen.”
Upstairs, Aster’s guest room was small but lavish. The bees obstructed my view from the north-facing window, but when I rapped on the pane with a knuckle they jumped away for a moment, and then I saw rows and rows of lemon trees. The window curtains were white lace. The bedspread matched, and when I fell onto it I sank about a foot. There was no mattress, just featherbeds piled one on top of the next. In the corner, there was a crude rocking chair beneath a hurricane lamp hanging from an extended twig. I stood, straightened the bedspread, and went back downstairs. In the kitchen, I peeked into the copper cauldron suspended over the wood stove and saw sliced peels and chunks of orange boiling in juice. Beside the cauldron was a large pot of boiling water.
Aster smiled. “Hungry?”
I nodded.
“What?”
“Yes.”
She told me to sit. The placemats were woven from orange blossoms. A loaf of steaming, coffee-colored bread rested on a chopping block, the handle of a knife protruding like a candle. She poured gold liquid into a snifter and handed it to me. “My famous orange blossom mead.” When I sipped, she returned to the stove and used a ladle to pour the boiling juice and fruit into rows of jars. “Have you ever made marmalade?”
I shook my head.
“Mead, then?”
I shook again.
“You’ll learn,” she said. “And to speak up, too.” As I ate, she screwed on lids and with a long pair of tongs placed them into the water. “You got family?”
I shook my head. “You?”
“Not in your lifetime. Ever thought about having one?”
“No.”
“Good enough,” Aster said.
I didn’t know what else to say so I finished my mead and poured myself another, and as I sipped I began to feel as if I was moving in slow motion. When my plate and glass were empty, Aster reached for her veil. She placed it over her head and it puddled around her feet. She smiled a pretty, playful smile that made her look even younger. She clutched excess material between her fingers and held up a corner for me. As we emerged into her backyard, I imagined we looked like a camel bride in a spray of bees. She led the way down porch stairs, past rows of lemon trees and into an orange grove.