The Inside Diaries

Teahouse

Days like these, she felt like Harriet the Spy, notebook turned to the latest page, pen in hand, laptop surreptitiously hidden behind a tall potted palm frond separating her fanciful tea parlor seat from Marcella and Henry's own.

Some weeks had passed, renovations had started, and there had been a cheerful tearing down of walls. Bit by bit, pristine painted plaster went flying in droves upon droves of thickened dust cloud while, masks donned, they continued hacking and hammering as if their earthly lives depended on it. She and he. Melanija and Fernando.

But she was still a writer, and a writer she must be, this perfect, cloudless Sunday of all July Sundays, as she gaze above at the Baroque-style glittering gold chandelier, alit even though the expansive windows already provided a great deal of natural sunlit brightness already. Mirrors rectangular and compact combined to form larger ones, much like the ones of Versailles Palace hallways. Her feet squeaked as she shifted her weight atop the mustard velvet upholstered chair, the floor a pristine, possibly overscrubbed marble floor.

She studied their accoutrements—Marcella and Henry's—she saw what appeared to be breakfast mimosas, or maybe grapefruit juice? Or faux mimosas given Marcella's delicate condition? Decaf coffee too, plus a miniature three-tiered tower of tea cakes and cucumber sandwiches, not to mention berry tartlets. Likely strawberry.

Marcella bore an inscrutable expression; was she happy? Sad her life was suddenly changing as she knew it, due to the promise of life within? Conflicted? It was difficult to tell. A lump suddenly rose in Melanija's throat as she jotted down notes, sweeping a tendril of raven hair beneath an ear. Marcella suddenly emitted a short laugh to whatever Henry had said in that moment, who then reached over to stroke her belly in the next instant. And there—a glimmer of a smile.

Definitely happy. Marcella seemed content. A new husband, a baby on the way, a peaceful mid-morning brunch date at the most luxurious tea parlor of the island.

Cheers, the writer imagined the pair saying, as she watched the two clink glasses, the noise level about them rising as more customers streamed in.

I wish...

A voice began to speak within Melanija's own mind. Try as she might, she could not dispel it.

I wish...that were me.

A tear fell upon the writer's cheek as she hurriedly brushed it away. Focus—focus! Melanija remonstrated herself. She had a job to do. But alas, her own heart had a message of its own.

I wish...I had...a family.

She gritted her teeth, shoving her laptop into her duffel, followed by her notebook and pen.

But you do. Or at least, you did.

Once upon a time.

Havin completed her written description and documenting of Marcella's happenings, Melanija departed the teahouse. Winding her way past various flora and fauna, she made an inexplicable (to her) detour to the local market, where she discovered Morgana's stall replaced by a miniature stucco building, the older woman's wares prominently displayed upon fanciful garlands. Bundles of garlic too, and bunches of bananas, plantains, avocados, tomatoes, and was that—Melanija squinted—watermelon, nailed above the archway?

"Fancy seeing you here, my sweet," the crimson-haired elder exclaimed in surprise, having stepped out from the stucco shadows. But one look at the writer's face and she was beckoning her in.

Half an hour passed, with the addition of sweet mint tea, freshly brewed. "I can't tell him I want kids!" Melanija exclaimed unhappily. "He'll think I'm a stage five clinger!"

"And what of that?" came Morgana's brisk reply. "Life's too short to keep silent—"

"But we just got back together—we're renovating his kitchen—I can't just—y'know—disturb the peace—"

"Why not?" Morgana fixed her bifocals, peering down at the woebegone woman before her. "And drink up—"

"Because—because—" the writer floundered. "Maybe he's not on the same page. Maybe he doesn't want them. Then I'll be all alone, without kids or a partner—" I've lost all my family back home, she thought to herself. I can't lose him too. A tear, then another fell upon her cheeks as Morgana offered her a tissue. "Thanks—"

"My dear, what is this really about?"

Melanija reflected for the next several moments. Kids. A legacy. Family. "I want a life with Fernando. But I worry about the after—what if something happens—" she stopped short.

"And you don't have children?" Morgana tilted her visage, taking Melanija's hand in her own. "My sweet, first things first, never make a decision out of fear."

The writer exhaled slowly. Sounds rational enough. "So that's first...assuming there's a second bit there?"

Morgana nodded. "Be true to yourself. If you want kids, for heaven's sake child, say you want them!" She shook her head. "Millennials these days," she muttered. Meeting Melanija's eyes, she continued. "Wanting children isn't a sign of weakness, of capitulation, of—softness. Desiring children means having hope for the future, joy even, no matter how grim current circumstances may or may not be. Despite family, or the lack thereof. And I've often found that being honest with yourself and with others is the bravest trait there is."

But am I? Brave? "I don't want to lose him," Melanija muttered low.

"And you won't, provided he's as wonderful as you believe he is," answered Morgana, tossing her crimson silver-flecked curls. "In the way of mortal men, I do think he's an excellent match, if only you would allow yourself happiness and time to find out. Can you do that?"

Melanija nodded. Realizing she'd spent nearly an hour of Morgana's time, she rose hastily. "Thanks, Morgana—sorry I took up all your time—"

"No worries, my sweet. Always here to listen. Oh, and—" Morgana led the writer outside and pointed to a handful of overripe bananas. "Those are on sale. Seventy percent off. Great for pudding—"

"I'll buy them."

An hour later, she found herself lugging said bananas while traipsing through the sandy sienna-hued shore, brainstorming the perfect banana pudding recipe. Cornstarch, vanilla extract, mashed bananas...

Crossing into a grove of palm trees, she found a shortcut to the iron gate, gently pushing her way through, walking through the property until she landed within the somewhat chaotic-seeming kitchen. "Hey..." she called out to a familiar figure who turned. Fernando.

"Hey you," he approached, planting a kiss, then a slow, sweet hug.

What had she been afraid of, anyways?