She had promised herself long ago that she would never get involved with an alcoholic. But rather than face that possibility head on, she actively suppressed all the little, niggling doubts that were bubbling to the surface, for truly, she wanted to believe that their love would conquer all.
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,” she thought, citing Shakespeare as a talisman against her fears. She believed Gabriel’s vices were borne out of loneliness and despair. But now that they had found each other once again, their love would be enough to rescue both of them from their respective darknesses. Together they would be far stronger and far healthier than they had been separately.
As Julia pondered these things in her heart, she went through the cupboards of Gabriel’s excellently stocked kitchen. She wasn’t sure if he would want breakfast, given his hangover. Sharon had always eschewed food in favor of a breakfast libation such as a Seabreeze, which Julia had (sadly) learned to make with aplomb at age eight. Nevertheless, after she finished her own breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee, she prepared the same for Gabriel.
Not knowing if he would need the hair of the dog that bit him, but wanting to give him that option, she made him a Walters cocktail. She found the recipe in his bartender’s guide, having chosen (she hoped correctly) the decanter on top of the sideboard that held his least favorite Scotch, not wanting to sully his finest single malt with juice.
In sum, Julia was ecstatic at having the opportunity to spoil Gabriel a little, and so she took extra care as she prepared his breakfast tray. She clipped a few small sprigs of parsley from his countertop herb garden for a garnish, which she placed alongside the orange sections that she’d cut up and fanned next to the bacon. She even wrapped his silverware in a linen napkin, which she folded somewhat clumsily into the shape of a pocket. She wished she was clever enough to make something more substantial than a pocket, a peacock perhaps, or a fan, and she decided to investigate those options the next time she was on her computer. Martha Stewart would know. Martha Stewart always knew.
Then Julia bravely walked into Gabriel’s study and found a pad of paper and a fountain pen on top of his large, wooden desk. She wrote a note:
October 2009
Dear Gabriel,
I’d given up hope,
until you looked into my eyes last night
and finally saw me.
Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra.
Now your blessedness appears.
Your Beatrice
Julia propped the note up against the wine glass she used for his orange juice. Not willing to wake him just yet, she placed the entire tray, cocktail and all, in his large and half-empty refrigerator. Then she leaned up against its door and sighed with satisfaction.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Julia’s domestic goddess routine was suddenly interrupted by someone banging on the front door.
Holy shit, she thought. Could that be—?
At first she didn’t know what to do. Should she wait and see if Paulina let herself in with a key? Or should she run back to Gabriel’s arms and hide? After waiting a minute or so her curiosity got the best of her, and she found herself tiptoeing quietly to the front door.
O gods of all just-been-reunited-with-my-soul-mate-after-a-really-painful-six-friggin’-years-graduate-students, please don’t let my soul mate’s (soon to be) ex-mistress mess things up. Please.
Julia took a deep breath and gazed through the peephole. The hallway was empty. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something on the ground. Hesitantly, she opened the door just a crack and darted a nervous hand out toward the something, exhaling deeply in relief when her hand closed on the Saturday morning Globe and Mail.
Smiling again, and relieved that her blissful reunion with Gabriel had not been ruined by his erstwhile mistress, Julia picked up the paper and hastily locked the door. Still smiling, she poured herself a glass of orange juice and curled up in the red velvet wing-backed chair that was angled next to the fireplace, with her bare feet resting on the matching ottoman. She sighed in contentment.
If you had asked her over two weeks ago when she was visiting Gabriel’s apartment with Rachel if she ever thought she’d be sitting in his precious chair on a Sunday morning, she would have said no. She hadn’t thought it possible, even with Grace’s saintly intercession. But now that she was here, she was very, very happy.