A Symphony of Cicadas

One

I could feel the sunlight against the back of my eyelids trying to ease me out of sleep, but I wasn’t ready yet. I was still trying to hang on to the last few strands of a dream where John and I were past the point of planning our wedding and enjoying wedded bliss on our honeymoon. I could almost taste the salt in the air, feel the spray from the ocean, and hear the plaintive questions from seagulls soaring overhead. Opening my eyes would only succeed in ripping me from the light grasp of tropical serenity, throwing me headfirst into the reality that I had only a few weeks until the big day and so much left to do. And I just wasn’t ready.

But my valiant efforts to stay embraced in the warmth of my dream were already starting to fail, the details becoming more skeletal by the minute. Reality tapped at my resolve, scattering the seagulls from my ears and replacing them with the sounds of traffic outside our San Francisco apartment. I breathed in the familiar scent of laundry detergent and sweat, the salty sea smell a mere memory as real life glared through the sunrays that streamed through the window of our bedroom.

John moved next to me, murmuring as he rolled over and settled under the blankets once again. I eased my eyes open to get a glimpse of him before it was time to face the day. The pillow had left light lines on his face, standing out against the mostly pepper scruff that left a shadow against his upper lip and cheeks. He moved his jaw while pursing his lips. It had been a year since he had placed an engagement ring on my finger and I had moved in with him, waking up to his face every morning since. It amazed me that it still felt so brand new. I was certain that even after a million mornings had passed us by, when we were in the twilight of our years, this very first vision of the day would continue to feel like a fresh experience.

He was still asleep, but I couldn’t help scooting over and positioning my body so that I fit against him like a puzzle piece. He gave a deep sigh of contentment as he woke, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and drawing me closer to him. I nestled happily into his arms.

“Mmm, good morning, Rachel,” he said against my ear before brushing his lips against it. The morning stubble of his face grazed my skin, sending shivers through my body.

“Good morning, darling,” I whispered. I rested under the weight of his arm, even as my skin grew damp with heat from the closeness of our bodies. Although it was my tendency to prefer a mountain of blankets all year round, the briefest amount of cuddling reduced my body to a melting puddle of sweat. In response to my skin’s reaction, John pulled away and traced his finger along my damp skin, making a solitary trail down my spine. I felt him pause at the scar from a suspicious mole I had removed years ago, touching it with curiosity before continuing his explorative journey.

“You’re hot,” he chuckled. He started to roll away a little more, but I moved with him so that we stayed connected in a spooning position. He laughed, drawing me closer.

“I don’t want to get up yet,” I complained, pushing my list of things to do out of my head just a little longer in my deliberate procrastination.

“I can see that,” John murmured. He proceeded to move again, this time to maneuver on top of me.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet!” I objected with a laugh. In spite of my halfhearted pleas, the danger of dragon breath didn’t stop him from placing light kisses on my lips while positioning inside of me as our bodies woke up together with the gentle movement. I ran my hands across his back, feeling his muscles ripple with each motion. He left a flurry of kisses on my neck, my ears, and my cheeks before settling against my mouth once again. Any lingering worries over morning breath disappeared as our tongues mingled against each other in a sensual promenade of passion. I pulled his hips even closer and felt him groan against me.

Moments like these were a rare occurrence. Most mornings he was awake before I was, out the door to his construction job before I’d even had my first sip of coffee. Two weeks before, he had started a project on the outskirts of the city, building an elaborate home that made our modest apartment look miniscule in comparison. His free time was filled with painstaking work on the house he was building for us across the bridge in San Anselmo. It wouldn’t be finished for close to a year, but I could already picture the greenness of the garden in the backyard and the stone path that would lead to our front door.

The urgency in John’s movements intensified, and I clutched him against me. My breathing mirrored his, moving my belly against him before he pushed back against mine. We didn’t hear the first knock on the door. But the second knock was unmistakable, vibrating the pictures that hung on the wall.

“I know you’re awake,” the muffled voice called from the hallway. “I’m trying to sleep, and between your racket and Joey talking in his headset, it’s kind of hard.”

John groaned in frustration. The moment was gone as fast as it had come, neither one of us getting to the point of completion before it was over. He rolled away from me and rubbed his eyes.

“You might as well stay up, Sam,” John called back to his fourteen year old son. “We have a ton to do in the yard today while Rachel and Joey are shopping.”

“Whatever, Dude,” Sam replied. “I’m going back to bed. Don’t wake me up.”

Sam had just come back from his mother’s house the night before after two days away. The house was always calmer in those days he was gone, especially for me. While Sam had never claimed he didn’t like me or my son, Joey, I was unsure how he felt about our presence in this home, a place that used to hold just him and his dad. I often felt like I was walking on eggshells around him, trying not to offend him in any way. But in truth, I was unsure of what he would deem offensive. He was at a stage in his life when everyone around him was unclear on the concept, and his sole purpose in life was to set them straight. This meant he was often correcting me in a tone that was reminiscent of a parent exasperated with their child. Soon I stopped fighting him on his attitude altogether, keeping my mouth shut and stuffing my growing resentment towards him. But still, I was exhausted by always being in the wrong.

John stood up and pulled on his pants, smiling at me in apology.

“What’s your plan for today?” he asked.

“First, to get Joey off his videogames,” I said, giving in to the morning as I searched for my robe that lay on the floor beside the bed. “And after breakfast, we’re heading out to the bridal shop so I can get him fitted for the wedding. I might take him out to lunch after that, depending on our timing. You?”

“I’ll probably let lazy bones sleep for another hour or so, but I have to get the yard at Sara’s house prepared for the rehearsal dinner. I’m thinking mums and marigolds would go well in that corner by the birch tree, but you’re the expert. What do you think?”

I nodded my head and hummed in agreement, but my mind was already a million miles away. Just the mention of gardening reminded me that I needed to check if my sister had ordered the flowers we needed for a few extra arrangements. Being that Sara and I owned our own flower shop, the indoor wedding would have the feel of being inside a fragrant garden, yet without the San Francisco chill casting its icy breath on us. But if we didn’t order them soon, we would be stuck adding carnations and baby’s breath in between the lavender and white ranunculus.

I looked at the clock. It was almost eight, proving it wasn’t as early as I thought it was. My appointment was at 10:30, and the shop was at least forty-five minutes away from our apartment.

“I better get a move on!” I exclaimed, jumping up while tying the sash on my robe.

I left the bedroom and padded down the hall to Joey’s room. From outside the closed door I could hear him loud and clear as he chatted away with whoever else was up at this hour on a Saturday morning to play video games. Even though Sam’s door to the right of me was closed, I was sure he could hear every word as well. I knocked on Joey’s door. The talking paused for a moment before starting up again. Not wanting to further bother Sam, I chose to just open the door rather than knock again. The door clicked but refused to budge.

“Josiah, open up,” I called in a muffled tone against the door. I heard him get up from his bed to open the door. “Since when did you start locking your door?” I asked him, moving past him into the room so I wasn’t talking in the hallway.

“Since everyone likes to barge into my room,” he pointed out.

He was only a year younger than Sam, but at times his seriousness made him seem years older. If it weren’t for his lack of height or his youthful face, it would be hard to tell who was the older of the stepbrothers.

Joey still stood an inch or two shorter than my five foot four, although his shoe size had passed me up years earlier. He looked somewhat like me with his light brown hair and wide amber eyes. But the similarities stopped there. Beyond that, he looked just like his father, a man I hadn’t seen in many years, and didn’t plan to ever see again.

Tony had stepped out on me when I was still pregnant, visiting just a few times after Joey was born before disappearing altogether. It seems he decided that fatherhood just wasn’t for him, something he stated in a letter he sent me weeks after his last visit, explaining that he couldn’t handle the responsibility of parenting. At the time, I was grateful for even just a note. That feeling of gratefulness was later traded in for rage at a man who left me to shoulder the responsibility all by myself. However, time proved that things happen for a reason. Had I stayed with Tony, life would have been very different for Joey and me. Because he was out of our lives, I was free to raise Joey in a healthy environment, allowing my family’s values to be the primary influence on my son’s young life. And, of course, my new path in life led me to John, a man who showed me what love was supposed to feel like.

I began to view Tony for who he was: the man who was meant to create Joey, and nothing more. For that, I would always be thankful for his part in my life.

“Sorry for barging in,” I apologized to Joey. “But you didn’t answer. Besides, you know you’re not supposed to be on the headset until after eight o’clock,” I reminded him, citing the rule we had agreed upon to ensure he wasn’t waking the house with his early morning videogame play.

“It’s after eight now,” Joey pointed out, nodding toward the clock that lay on the floor beside his bed. Even upside down I could tell it was only two minutes past eight o’clock.

“Fine, it’s eight now. But I know you started playing much earlier than you were supposed to. Sam has already knocked on our door to complain.”

“Well, I figured since you guys were already awake, no one would mind,” he said. I blushed, ducking my head. Was everyone aware of what John and I had been doing that morning? I was embarrassed that Joey would be scarred by images of his mom in an intimate moment. But when I looked back, his attention was once again diverted by the images on the screen.

“What are you playing, anyway?” I asked him, settling on the edge of the bed. Joey’s face lightened at my sudden curiosity in his game, and he moved so we were sitting next to each other.

“It’s a game where a bunch of friends and I have to create a world and all that we want in it. Do you want me to show you what we have so far?” he asked. I nodded, amused by his enthusiasm. He went on to take me through the various neighborhoods he’d created in the town, complete with homes that were similar, holding only slight differences to set each home apart from the others. The roads were all in line, embellished along the sides with bushes and trees. Some held a seasonal theme, and I smiled when I saw one street dedicated to Christmas, his favorite holiday. A large lake stood off in the distance, and the screen traveled towards it at lightning speed, revealing the wildlife that surrounded the body of water and a small cabin he had placed next to it.

“This is where I live,” he explained, and he opened the door to the home. The inside was bigger than the outside had indicated. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and I marveled at the detail that included favorite titles of books we had in our real-life home. A large kitchen stood off to the right. From the black and white checkered floors to the kitchen island with copper pans hanging overhead, it appeared similar to the type of kitchen I had always dreamed of having. There was even a picture window overlooking the lake. I glanced at him sideways and he gave me a sly wink. “Hey, I hear things too.”

“You’ll have to show this to John before he starts working on the kitchen in our new home in San Anselmo,” I said in all seriousness.

The center of the house held a large spiral staircase, and Joey led us up to the second floor. We passed through a large room with a fireplace and a huge bathtub behind glass walls before we continued our ascent to the third floor from the staircase. At last we reached the top floor. The outer walls were all glass, allowing a panoramic view of the whole world he and his friends had created in its entire expanse. Close by was the lake, rippling under the electronic sun while mirroring the green of the surrounding hills. The entire town stood off in the distance beyond the serene country. I could almost imagine all the activity that existed in the industrious city he had created. But I was puzzled as to why Joey chose to keep his home separate from the town, placing his house far away instead of in the midst of all the excitement.

“When you’re inside the world, you can only see what’s right in front of you. But on the edge of the world, you can see everything that’s going on in it,” he explained.

He began to get lost in tinkering with a few improvements in his virtual home until I reminded him that we had an appointment for him to try on his suit that morning. Joey groaned, ready to give a fight, but I stopped him before he even spoke.

“I’m not going to argue with you. We set this date weeks ago and I let you know about it then. There’s only so much time before the wedding, and I’d appreciate it if you would just go along with all these plans instead of fighting me on them. Can you just start getting ready?” He closed his mouth and nodded, placing his game controller on the bed. I snatched it up at once.

“But, Mom! Come on!” he protested.

“I’m not taking it away.” I headed out the door to go get myself ready, and called over my shoulder, “I’m just holding on to it as motivation for you to get ready. You can have the controller back when we get home.”

With just a few weeks left until the wedding, I was feeling crunched for time. I had snatched up the controllers and high-tailed it away from Joey—now sulking in his room—in an effort to avoid a long and drawn-out argument, and to manipulate him into moving fast. It wasn’t the first time I’d resorted to such measures. It seemed as though every one of my thoughts and actions needed to be rushed, to the point where I felt like a million jumbled ideas were electrocuting my brain in tiny shock waves. I just didn’t possess the patience for hesitation.

Yet, in the midst of the stress over how much was still left to do in such a short amount of time, I was also aware of my excitement about being married to John in just a few short weeks.

The dress lay hidden in my closet, a size four ivory lace gown with a slender fit past my waist, hugging my hips while flaring out towards the bottom. I had been afraid to try it on when I first saw it at the bridal shop, certain that I needed something to hide the natural curves of motherhood no amount of exercise or diet could reduce. But the gown complimented the curves of my body, reminding me of one of those brides in the magazines who were airbrushed into perfection.

That is, if they used more mature brides to model their wedding gowns.

Being in my mid-thirties, I’d developed a sense of reality about my looks. I wasn’t getting any younger. While time had been kind to me, I could still see where gravity was starting to rear its ugly head and how my younger years of sun worship were appearing in fine lines around my eyes. Even a few sparklers were manifesting in my tawny brown hair, resulting in monthly treatments of hair color to hide what I considered premature signs of aging.

But I had accepted that I wasn’t going to be one of those child-like brides that showcased their doe-eyed innocence under a veil of white. This was a second marriage for both of us, and we were trading in the naivety we’d possessed the first go-around for a union of equality and mutual respect—and love. I’d take my slightly older appearance any day if it meant I could marry a man who loved me like John did.

And he did love me, caring for me in a way I had never been treated before. From the moment I first laid eyes on him, I knew he was different.

* * * *

He had walked into my flower shop, lost among the cases of roses and lilies behind the glass.

“Can I help you?” I asked him. He stood with his back to me, and I ignored the distinct broadness of his shoulders that tapered down to a slim waist with a shirt tucked into his jeans. Most of my walk-in customers were men, searching for flowers because they were brand new in a relationship and wanted to impress their girl, or because they had messed up and were looking for the quickest way out of the dog house. Working in a profession that catered to already-attached men would have been rather depressing for most single mothers. But I had sworn off men and all their complications years before, and I was more than happy to help a few guys out in the love department. Because of this, I could cater to the most attractive man without stammering under his smoldering gaze.

But I wasn’t prepared when John turned around and looked me straight in the eye.

I had never been a believer of love at first sight. Having been burned by Joey’s father, I was left jaded and pessimistic that I would ever feel romantic about another man again. Each failed attempt in the dating world only solidified this feeling. But when my eyes met John’s, I felt a jolt run through me and had to look away. This was new, this feeling of electricity that traveled from his eyes to mine. My ears felt hot as my cheeks flamed red. For the first time, I felt my tongue twist up in my mouth so that words became an effort in a moment that seemed to last longer than it did in reality. But if he noticed, he was too kind to say so, only continuing his search for whatever blossom arrangement brought him into the store in the first place.

“I’m not really sure what the procedure is,” he apologized. He had an inviting face, enhanced by the helplessness in his smile as his gaze darted around the store. His dark chestnut hair held a slight wave in a style just long enough to allow his hands to run though it in frustration. I couldn’t help but find this habitual motion of his endearing. At last, his chocolate eyes rested on me with a silent plea for help.

“Well, the first step is to think of the colors she likes to wear,” I prompted. “Is she more into light pink hues? Or does she prefer colors that are a bit bolder?” I managed to get the words out breezily, even though they sounded like a squeak inside my head. He shook his head in haste, a pained look on his face.

“No, no,” he said. “I’m not getting these for a bouquet. I actually need these for a wedding, the boutonnières for the groomsmen.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, feeling foolish. I wasn’t sure why I was letting this get to me, but hearing that the flowers were for his wedding was a shock, as if the distance between having a girlfriend and planning a wedding should make a difference to me. “Congratulations!” I told him, forcing myself back into business-mode, and the reason we were even talking in the first place. “When’s the big date?”

“It’s this afternoon,” he said with nervousness.

“You’re getting married today and are just now looking for a boutonnière?” I asked him, my voice rising in disbelief.

“No, I’m not getting married,” he said. “My best friend is. And he forgot all about this until now and sent me to pick something out for him.” I shook my head, in part from the sheer relief that it wasn’t his wedding, but also at the absurdity of finding the right flowers with what I had on hand in the store.

“Why didn’t he come in here to get them himself?” I asked him as I took a quick glance at the flowers that lined the walls, searching for some miracle of inspiration. The grim look on his face was washed away with a humorous smirk, revealing the crease in his cheek. I forced myself not to look away this time, even as the heat rose once again to my ears.

“He doesn’t want to get in trouble with his fiancée,” he grinned. “Apparently he told her it was already taken care of. And then he sent me out to do his dirty work.” He took another look around before adding, “The colors are purple and white, if that helps.”

The selection I held was rather slim since most of my flowers were ordered ahead of time and spoken for. However, I did have a bouquet of white ranunculus that had just arrived that morning to be used as an inspirational display of alternative wedding bouquets. With nimble fingers, I went to work by clipping one of the large tissued blossoms down to size, adding a sprig of lilac and a few loose leaves, binding it all together and adding a pin to the back.

“Will something like this work?” I asked him, holding the flower up for inspection. The look on his face revealed his approval before he even spoke.

“You did that so fast!” he said in amazement, and this time I allowed myself to blush.

“They say it’s my job,” I teased, placing the flower on the counter and starting on the other boutonnières, giving the groomsmen a simpler white flower in matching contrast to the more elaborate boutonnière of the groom. I gave him a few basic instructions on the care of the flowers so that they’d keep until the ceremony, and then completed the paperwork with the final price.

“I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “I’d love to repay you in some way.” His eyes brightened. “I know! What are you doing tonight? I mean, if you’re free. And you’re not married,” he added quickly. This time it was his turn to be embarrassed, his face taking on the slight shade of peony pink.

“I’m not married,” I assured him. “And I’m not doing anything tonight. But are you actually asking me to be your date to a wedding?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m John Hanlon, by the way.”

“I’m Rachel Ashby,” I said, extending my hand into his.

* * * *

Three years later, I was getting ready to put the finishing touches on our own wedding. That is, if I ever got out of the house on time.

“Joey!” I called. “It’s time to leave!”