Last Stay

XIII. Just Ben

Darkness is growing. With each passing second, the light continues to die. In the rear-view, a coal-stained mist begins spilling from the clouds like a rain of ashes. My foot presses harder into the gas pedal; letting the black fog catch up to me isn't an option at the moment.

Eventually, the creeping mist fades into a small, dark smear, and I ease off the gas. In the distance, a solitary house begins to take shape on a snowy hillside. Tall evergreen trees dusted with white powder line the bottom of the hill in neat rows. I slow down and turn off the highway onto a nicely ploughed road flanked by leafless trees on either side.

Soon, I come to within a few metres of a large rectangular gate and pull up next to the intercom on my left. As I roll down my window, preparing to speak, a clank cuts through the silence in the air. The gate splits down the middle, opening towards the inside, allowing me to drive up the hill.

Near the top, an elegant, wooden mansion comes into view. It has three different sets of slanting roofs. Numerous windows and a few stone accent walls grace the front of the house, and a winding pathway leads up to the front door. The natural wood colour of the house gives it the air of a modern log cabin.

I park just off the pathway and make my way up to the front door with a lump forming in my throat. I ring the doorbell and wait. Moments later, I'm greeted by an attractive older woman with straight platinum blonde hair that's shorter in the back and longer in the front; she introduces herself as Heather.

"Were the roads okay?" she asks, as we walk into the living room with a high cathedral ceiling and exposed beams. "The weather looks crappy."

"Yes," I reply. "I think I just managed to escape the worst of it."

"That's good," she smiles.

We pass a large, stone fireplace before Heather leads me into a wood-inspired study with a stunning view of the frozen lake in the distance.

"Ben will be right with you," she says, gesturing to a comfortable-looking leather chair in front of an elaborately carved desk.

"Thank you very—"

"Would you like something to drink?" Heather asks, gently putting her hand on my shoulder. "Coffee, tea, alcoholic coffee?" she winks.

I smile. "Coffee would be fine, thank you."

"One non-alcoholic coffee coming right up," she says and disappears through the doorway.

As I ease down into the cozy chair, my eyes are drawn to a small, model sailboat on the desk. Two triangular sails crown the varnished, brown hull of the handsome little boat.

I wonder if Mr. Travail made it himself.

Turning my head to the right, I scan the tall wooden bookshelves flanking a small fireplace with orange flames swaying behind the glass. Beautiful red, leather-bound books featuring gold designs and letters stare back at me from the shelves.

Everything from the Canterbury Tales to the History of Rome; there must be easily one hundred different volumes or more.

On the left side of the room, three small paintings of butterflies hanging on the wall catch my attention. Without thinking, I get up and walk towards them to examine them more closely.

They're not paintings...they're real.

Two frames contain butterflies with bright, blue wings; the other has a butterfly with pitch-black wings.

"Lovely, aren't they?" says a voice from the doorway.

I turn my head and see Mr. Travail seated in his wheelchair wearing a grey-blue cardigan over a white polo shirt.

"Yes, they are," I smile.

"My late wife, Emily, loved butterflies," Mr. Travail beams, pushing the knob on his right armrest forward. "When it gets warmer, the greenhouse in the back will be full of them. Emily loved blue ones the best; she framed them both herself—welcome to chez Travail," he extends his arm.

"Thank you," I shake his bony hand. "I really appreciate you meeting with me on such short notice, Mr. Travail—especially under the—"

"Just Ben, please," he waves his free hand. "Mr. Travail sounds elderly," he adds with a glint in his blue eyes.

I chuckle. He reminds me of my abuelo.

"Please have a seat," he says as his wheelchair rolls around the other side of the desk.

As I resume my seat, a pit begins to form in my stomach.

Breathe. Hold it together.

"Here's your non-alcoholic coffee, honey," Heather says, setting down a steaming red mug on the desk.

"Thank you," I say.

"Oh, don't mention it, honey," she smiles, pulling up the sleeves of her black turtleneck sweater. "Would you like something to drink, Ben?"

"Yes, please. Make mine alcoholic, but hold the coffee," he grins.

I can't help smiling.

"Alright, Brandy it is," Heather says before leaving the room.

"So, Señor Márquez," Ben says with a perfect Spanish accent. "Or would you prefer if I called you by—"

"Señor Márquez is my father," I interrupt with a grin. "My friends just usually call me Green."

Ben furrows his brow. "That's different," he chuckles. "Why, Green?"

"I picked it up in college," I reach for the mug. "My friends said I liked Guinness and bagpipes more than Irish people, so they started calling me Green."

"Nothing wrong with Guinness and bagpipes," Ben smiles.

"I concur, of course," I say before taking a sip of coffee.

"So how long have you lived in the city, Green?" he leans back in his chair.

"About six years now," I reply. "I came for school, and got a job shortly after graduation."

"Excellent," Ben beams. "I assume you met your wife at college as well," he nods to my left hand.

"No, actually," I exhale. "We met at the grocery store around the block from our apartments—or rather we got to know each other on the way home. It was a snowy day in late October, and Angela's bags broke while she was walking home. I was trudging just behind her and offered the assistance of my reusable bags and 'strong arms'—her words."

Ben chuckles.

"So, I took her groceries home and ended up getting a first date out of it—"

"That's adorable," Heather cuts in, causing me to turn around. "Sorry to interrupt," she adds, walking past me. "Did you guys have a big wedding or just something low key?" She sets a glass with an amber coloured drink in front of Ben.

"It was on the smaller side," I reply. "My friends and family from Colombia weren't able to make it here for the wedding."

"That's too bad," Heather frowns.

I nod. "We couldn't get the visa situation sorted out in time. But we're planning on heading down there so she can meet my family and see where I grew up."

Well, that was the plan up until recently.