An Enchanting Spirit.

The overhanging sycamore canopy at the entrance to Claremont encapsulates you. Like boneless, endless arms wanting to pull you up into the clouds above. A thin furrow of grass illuminates like lime neon in the centre of the narrow avenue. The headlights of my rental throw shafts of pale straw light through the tiny gaps.

Exiting the oppressive entrance, I see an eighteenth century white paneled, manor estate house. Louvered sash purple windows contrast the crispness of the pebble-dashed walls. Manicured lawns, lush green and maroon shrubbery adorn the exterior.

Loose gravel crunches under my feet. A faint autumn breeze tickles my cheek as the sun fast is losing its heat. I pull my baggage from the trunk as a young lady with long dark hair greets me at the front door.

“Mr. Stevens, I assume?”

“Yes, but please call me Gerry.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you Gerry. I’m Irene, the owner. Can I give you a hand with those?”

“There’s no need. They’re not even heavy. Nice night out, isn’t it?”

“The calm before the storm. The wind is supposed to pick up tonight. Heavy rain expected too.

We walked through mahogany front doors where a wide sweeping staircase filtered to the first floor on both sides. A royal blue carpet lined the imposing entrance all the way up the stairs. The small reception desk lay on the left, with the kitchen behind it, under the stairs. Irene informed me that was where breakfast would be served.

Irene checked me into a room on the first floor. It had a beautiful view of the bay beyond the house, she assured me. I caught her glancing my way as I signed in. She was trying to figure out how she knew me. Irene also said that only one other room was occupied, at the opposite end of the hall.

I asked if there was a room in which I could write my speech and to enjoy a stiff drink. She pointed me toward the Great Room, which was located to the right of the main entrance. She said that the fire was starting to dwindle but that she’d keep it going for me.

The view from my room was spectacular. The red and orange tones of the sinking sun contrasted the blue underwater lights illuminating the waters’ edge. A rowing boat lilted to and fro along a slim jetty. Birch and oak trees lined the wide expanse leading down to the lake. The wind was starting to pick up.

Washing away the tedium of meetings, I felt reinvigorated. Putting on tracksuit bottoms and a loose fitting t-shirt, I went downstairs. The Great Room was ostentatious in its grandeur. I took a few moments to inhale its splendor. I could smell dust rising amongst leather bound volumes and dropping from the crystal chandelier.

Along the inside wall was a floor to ceiling library, replete with all manners of old and new books. A sliding ash ladder lay attached on old-fashioned rollers. I ran my fingers among them, wishing I had more than one night here. There were enough chairs, couches and tables to seat at least forty. I could imagine those being moved back for dancing.

Opposite the books the large open hearth was starting to dwindle. A large wicker basket held loose chopped logs. At the end of the room a solitary art deco droplight shone in the corner. Rain was beginning to tickle the big bay windows.

On the bureau beside the entrance, a note sat under a small lamp. A glass decanter of brandy trapped it.

“Hi Gerry! Please help yourself to a glass of brandy. Feel free to throw logs on the fire too if you’re getting chilly. This room quickly loses its heat. See you in the morning – Irene.”

I poured a large glass. Throwing two logs on the fire, I sat down in a velvet red armchair with a high back facing the fire. I swirled the brandy around in my hand, warming it. The shrill whistle of the wind down the chimney cleared my head. I closed my eyes, inhaling the odour of the room, spirit, wood and fire.

I had the outline of the speech formed in my head. I was asked to speak about my good friend Dean, who had just been given Professorship tenure at his University. It was well known that Dean and I had shared a dorm room in college, and as I was a recognizable face from television, they asked me to speak on his behalf.

Formulating it in my head wasn’t working, so I started scribbling. That only revealed that my speech was even shorter than I previously imagined. I tried to pad it out with humour, which was a complete disaster. Then I tried it aloud. A gust of wind down the chimney blew sparks onto the tiles. Even the wintry elements thought it poor. After six sermons and two large brandies, I felt it was getting better. Pouring a third, I paced, walking toward the windows.

I froze when I saw a woman’s bare toes sticking out from a chaise longue.

“Hello?”

“Your speech is truly terrible,” came the reply.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there was anyone else in here.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t want to disturb or frighten you.”

“Well you sure startled me! Good job I’m drinking something stiff! Would you, like one?”

“No thank you.”

“Please call me Gerry. And your name is?”

“Valentina.”

“Well if you think it’s terrible, would you like to help me out, Valentina?”

She rose ever so gracefully, folding her book closed with a hint of impatience. Her long black and red rose dress draped behind her as she strode elegantly toward the fire. She took a seat across from my armchair. Her thick black hair flowed over her shoulders with a tinge of grey framing her temples.

Her accent held a hint of Spanish aristocracy. A pale blue pendant on a silver chain hung around her neck. Her sallow skin revealed a demure and calm exterior. Her dark eyes spoke with a confident inner smile.

“Who is your friend that you talk about?” asked Valentina.

“He’s an old school friend. He just got tenure at his university.”

“And do you like him or not?”

“Yeah, of course I like him. We shared a dorm for four years.”

“Then why do you talk about him like he is an object? Like you barely know him?”

“Have I? I thought what I was preparing was decent, if I’m honest.”

“Your speech is okay, but it isn’t personal in any way.”

“Really? Do you think a stuffy old lecture hall is the place to reveal embarrassing things about a former college friend?”

“Maybe you don’t tell them everything, but reveal something that makes him well, human. You tell of how he helped you out of a sticky situation.”

“Okay. I’m liking that idea.”

“Take what I’m reading here – Romeo and Juliet. It’s a tale of miscommunication and the perils of not saying what you mean.”

“Okay, I see what you’re saying Valentina.”

“Do you? Pretend I am your audience tomorrow.”

Valentina motioned me up from my armchair with her right hand. I took her invitation.

I told how Dean impressed two young ladies at a frat party with a yo-yo. He was trying to impress the importance of physics in everyday life. I hadn’t a clue what he was doing. But he did – he knew exactly whom he was trying to amaze. He knew his audience and how to stand out. One of those two ladies was now his wife.

“Excellent Gerry! That’s a lovely personal touch as his wife will no doubt be in the audience tomorrow. You intertwined physics with something that everyone can relate to,” clapped Valentina.

“Thank you. Your suggestions have improved it immensely. I might even see if I can pick up a yo-yo for symbolism as a prop tomorrow. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“No thank you Gerry. It goes right through me.”

We chatted into the early hours. Valentina laid her chin in her right hand, with her elbow resting on the arm of the chair. Her eyes were deep set, flickering with life from the fire, hazel brown. The wind blowing down the chimney lifted the lower part of her dress with a brief gust.

As I rose to place another log on the fire I caught sight of the time. It was 2.05 in the morning. My head felt woozy, without a morsel in my stomach since lunchtime. Despite the entertaining and engaging conversation, I had to excuse myself. I had to be up and out of the guesthouse at 8am.

I thanked Valentina for her time and advice. Her face looked disappointed. To be honest, I didn’t want to leave. I kissed her hand as we parted for the night.

I fell asleep very quickly, as exhaustion took hold. The following morning, my first thought turned to Valentina, with her slight Spanish accent and the way she smiled with her eyes.

Descending the stairs, Irene was cooking on the four ring hot stove. The alluring smell of breakfast beckoned me in. Her supple stance and long dark hair was familiar. My tongue was dry and my head fuzzy.

We exchanged morning pleasantries as my mouth watered at the prospect of home cooked food. I gorged on boiled eggs, salted baby potatoes and bacon. Irene talked about the impact the passing night weather had on the young saplings down by the waterfront. I could tell she knew who I was now.

“Did you hear the wind last night?” asked Irene.

“Not really. I probably polished off more of that brandy than I should have. It knocked me out cold. Which you’re adding to my bill, may I add.”

“That would explain why you didn’t hear the trees breaking. The local news said it reached gale force at about 1am. I will have to replant more.”

“I was up at that time.”

“Then how did you not hear the weather? The windows in the Great Room aren’t exactly modern or double glazed.”

“Sure I was distracted. I was talking to one of your guests for hours. Really nice lady.”

“What lady?”

“The Spanish lady. Valentina?”

Irene stared at me. Her expression went rigid. Turned to ice in a split second.  

“What did you just say?”

“I was talking to a lady called, Valentina last night.”

“Follow me please,” instructed Irene.

I dropped my fork on the plate with a clatter. I had clearly insulted Irene. Leaping from the wooden breakfast barstool, I trotted after her like a bold school child.

She led me out of the kitchen, turning toward the main entrance. I walked up to a lady with arms folded. Her facial expression was one of anger and fear.

She stood, pursing her lips. It was that moment, that I realized the connection.

The fire and passion in her deep brown eyes.

Irene stood set, pointing up at a large painting. A gold framed picture that hung behind the front door, on the right hand side. Had I spotted it?

“Did the lady who ‘distracted’ you during a gale force storm, look like this?”

Valentina stared back at me in her black and red rose dress. She sat in a fireside armchair with a book in her hand. I sputtered something, but it was gibberish.

“Valentina de Rosa Sanchez was my great grandmother. She was the original owner of this house.”

The book she held was A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She obviously loved Shakespeare.