I was at another table with the other wives and we were discussing the latest book assignment from the Book Club. As if on cue, the men joined our table still discussing serious stuff. There was a hush as the main proponent remarked, "It’s beyond our control. We just have to wait. These bureaucrats have to get their act together." Not knowing whether I should offer a comment or not, I decided to stay mum. Sensing that the womenfolk were feeling uneasy, Bruce, owner of the biggest fleet of cargo ships, heaved a big sigh and before our startled eyes, broke into an old favorite standard, "Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, I gotta love one man ‘til I die, can’t help loving that man of mine."
The song dispelled the apprehension. I saw stiff shoulders relax and guests loosen up. We laughed to see Bruce dancing a la Fred Astaire. Suddenly, Joselyn, Bruce’s no-nonsense wife, picked up the song and led Bruce to the middle of the room to waltz. The rest of us provided the background music, singing a capella. After a few minutes, Bruce led Joselyn back to our table but not before planting a short kiss on her forehead. More than a sign that they understood each other, it was a private gesture that one is stronger with the other. They were a team.
Joselyn is the second wife of Bruce. When Bruce became a widower, Joselyn was there to ease his pain and make him continue believing in a world where love – pure and simple – does exist. Their marriage produced a beautiful daughter who is gifted in the performing arts. Joselyn is 25 years younger than Bruce. They built a happy and affluent life together, shared the ups and downs that married couples are apt to experience and took each day as a bonus for the time spent with each other.
Richard collected vintage cars that he restored and sold. He was so passionate about this hobby that he turned it into a lucrative business where he traveled and crossed continents to attend auctions and bid for prized automotives. His clients belonged in Fortune’s who’s who, those from the so-called "born into the purple league," categorized for their incredible wealth and influence.
Richard sat at the most prestigious and august company boards but like a fine gentleman, the trappings of wealth never stained him. He was at his happiest and in his element, in fact, when he was in his brushed denim pullover, under an old jalopy, tinkering and making that engine purrr like a smooth and nonchalant Cheshire.
Gael, his wife, is undoubtedly the better half of this union. They live on a farm that is about an hour’s drive from the city. Gael is perfection personified. She is skilled in the kitchen, has a green thumb when she works in their vast field of fruit-bearing trees, a mean tractor driver and a fierce volunteer of the fire brigade. But put her on stage and she can sing like a nightingale if not a seasoned diva and make you roll in laughter with her hysterical imitation of great stand-up comedians. She raised two talented and incredibly beautiful children and is now a doting grandmother to a growing brood.
When the moon turns into a warm shade of golden amber, Richard opens a vintage wine from their well-stocked cellar. They cross fluted glasses and Richard looks into Gael’s eyes and whispers, "For you, my love."
When Richard met Gael, the words "Nothing but the best is good enough for me" took a more personal meaning. He was drinking from his saucer, so to speak, because Gael made his cup runneth over.
"I saw your picture in a ribbon-cutting ceremony," said my cousin. "It was in a pile of old photos that were being sold in a thrift shop." My friend could not believe it. She thought hard and could only surmise that the photo must have been part of the estate that was sold en toto when her late husband moved office.
We decided to accompany her to the dealer but when we got there the photo could not be found. She was disappointed. "Just like bursting a pretty balloon," I remarked. My cousin felt guilty, "I should have just bought the picture for her. Why didn’t I think about that?" My cousin decided to go back to the shop, not once but again and again. Finally giving up the search, she fell asleep and had a strange dream. "Go to the back of the shop," a handsome man urged her. "You will find the photograph stocked with other old photos, the fifth from the first row." My cousin woke with a start. "This is unreal," she babbled. Not wanting to forget the information, she rushed back to the storeowner. This time, she insisted, "Don’t bother about escorting me around your shop. I know where and what I’m looking for." Opening the curtain that separated the show room from the stock room, she panned the room and quickly recognized the row of pictures. She felt a rush of cold air as she shivered. It was just like in her dream. She knelt slowly and counted, "One, two, three, four, five." Trembling now, she turned the picture around and her jaw dropped. "Oh my goodness," my cousin exclaimed. "It’s the ribbon-cutting ceremony and there she is."
She dialed my number and blurted, "I found it, I found it." I cautioned her to sit down, relax and draw a breath lest she collapse from the tension and excitement. "I will bring this tomorrow." What a surprise this is going to be.
When our friend saw her picture, she opened her mouth but nothing came out. Tears welled and flowed. The man in the dream was her late husband. Even in death, he was looking after her. He never left her.
Her husband was 28 years her senior. More than the privileged and charmed life he gave her, he appreciated the safety and comfort of her world. With her, he could be a farm boy again, in spirit and posture, yet feel like royalty. She was the jewel in his crown.
Three love stories.
Sound like fiction? Too good to be true?
That or I am a wild, foolish and hopeless sucker for romance.