~BBW~BHM, Drama, Romance, Explicit ***, ~MWG two people make it clear that bigger people have a beauty just as real and as strong as anyone else
Chapter 1
William Whelan arrived in San Luzandolo on the afternoon train, as the markets were emptying and the sweet aroma of exotic fruits still hung in the air. He adjusted his substantial bulk on the faded vinyl seat to get a better view of the town square where his guide would be waiting.
William realized this was what being a travel writer was all about: the excitement of new and different locales, and the sights, smells, and unfamiliar sounds of foreign life. The train squealed to a stop and his long journey to this new land was complete.
San Luzandolo had been formed only seven years before his arrival. A former region of a Central American country, it had gained its recent independence in a surprisingly bloodless coup. Now stumbling towards democracy, it was a major tourist stop with new hotel resorts flourishing like ferns under a rain-forest canopy; William's editor had seen the possibilities and encouraged this trip.
"You'll be the first to get a great new travel scoop," his editor had told him, staring at a new map spread over his desk in New York. It was decided William would go to Guirar -- the new capital city -- and write down his impressions of this fledging country.
And so, here was William: a slightly rumpled bear of a fellow -- 255 pounds of well-seasoned traveler. His slight grey at the temples were a testament to many hours of unexplained delays and frustrations at strange airports, train depots, and seedy shipping docks. But his bright blue eyes took everything in -- little escaped his notice as he scanned his surroundings, often sweeping back his long-ish, auburn hair in a practiced yet unself-conscious fashion, clearing a view for those piercing eyes as he gazed towards some distant and interesting sight.
The train had now completely halted. William grabbed his tattered travel bag, carefully stepping down the train platform as a younger middle-aged woman approached him from across the platform. She smiled as she approached, extending a plump hand in greeting. He could see she was a most pleasant-looking, heavy-set woman with crisp off-white outfit that helped to accentuate her deep brown eyes. Her buxom, hourglass figure seemed barely contained in her lovely clothing.
"Mr. Whelan? I am Cynthia Bailow ... I recognize you from the picture on your last book, but you look somehow different ... have you lost weight?" It occurred to her as she mentioned his weight that it might be a touchy subject; but he seemed to take it in stride. She was relieved when he smiled, not at all displeased at a candid observation.
"Actually, yes ..." he replied, looking around the platform at the market bustle. "I was ill early this year, but I'm over it. You know, traveling in these foreign environments exposes one to all sorts of strange bugs and medical nasties."
He chuckled the small laugh of one used to the small (and sometimes not-so-small) dangers of world traveling; and as he shouldered his bag, he looked inquisitively towards his new host for the direction of the waiting cab.
"Oh, excuse me ..." Cynthia apologized, gesturing towards a yellow market stall, "the cab is waiting beyond that fruit vendor."
As she led the way across the market plaza, William more fully noticed her big hips and pleasantly round appearance; he was also struck by her beautiful, dark hair, long enough to reach the small of her back, just above the quite-plump buttocks that swayed as she walked.
"She must be an awfully good cook," William thought, as he watched her from behind.
He was a bit mystified by her meeting him here -- he had expected a male guide arranged by his editor. He assumed this must be the hostess of the local inn where he was to stay while in San Luzandolo.
Cynthia had known his travel advisor, a studious fellow named Ted, when they both bought and ran an inn in Paraguay. Ted had made William's lodging arrangements with Cynthia; but the guide, a local chap by the name of Manuel Reguero, was obviously delayed and so Cynthia was sent in his place.
The cab pulled up to the curb when the driver saw Cynthia approach with William in tow. William opened the door to let Cynthia inside first, then followed her into the old but shiny Renault sedan. The backseat was cramped with their bulk which filled the little taxi.
"Pedro, please take us to the cafe ... I'm sure Mr. Whelan would like to get a bite to eat after such a long journey." In a flash, the little Renault shot into the semi-controlled mayhem that was the usual traffic patterns of downtown Guirar, and William held on tight to an overhead hand-hold to keep from lurching around the back of the speeding taxi. Cynthia chuckled to herself, totally at ease with the pace, as she watched William look furtively out the window of the Renault.
"He must be bracing for some imminent collision," she thought, amused at this big fellow suddenly consumed with an obvious fear of crazed foreign traffic, "but I'll bet he's seen crazier places than Guirar."
In this, she was right.
William had been around the world; that is, around most of what world travelers would bother to explore. He had never been to Antarctica, for example, and that was fine with him. But most of the countries of the world had heard his large footsteps, and he truly loved his work. As his fear eased, he smiled and strained to see back into the alleyways they were passing all too quickly -- to catch a fleeting glimpse of the daily lives they were racing past, in their journey to Cynthia's favorite cafe.
Cynthia was able to observe William in a moment of boyish wonder, smiling at the strangeness of this new environment. While she was familiar with his books, this new and unfamiliarly personal glimpse of William Whelan made her aware of her own instant affection for this traveling teddy-bear, this slightly worn-at-the-cuff adventurer, this large and ruggedly handsome man with a boy's heart.
He did seem thinner than his book jacket photos -- she had seen a profile picture, taken when he was standing on a dock, where he was sporting a quite large, round stomach. While not slim by anyone's measurement, his paunch had been obviously reduced by his recent illness. Cynthia amused herself with the thought that his waistline would certainly expand with her incredible cooking -- she had won several international awards for her cooking at the acclaimed inn that William was to use as his base in San Luzandolo.
"Manuel was delayed in Mexico City," Cynthia said, answering his unspoken question, "His elderly mother became suddenly ill, and Manuel has to see to her care ... he is an only child, you see ... his father has been dead, oh ... I think it is ten years now."
She turned towards William who seemed rather unsurprised by the news. He had become accustomed to this sort of unexpected occurrence in his many travels. One had to roll with the punches.
"Well, I can always explore Guirar on my own for the first few days, that's not a problem ... I'm quite good at finding my way around unfamiliar places -- it's a gift I have: an innate sense of direction, just like a homing pigeon."
He laughed as Cynthia gave him a look of mock disbelief, then smiled back. She was starting to like him more and more. What she did not know was that the feeling was mutual.
"I'd be happy to show you around Guirar ... that is, if you don't mind having me tag along." She rummaged through her purse looking for her lipstick, wondering how he would react to this offer.
Unscrewing the cap of the lipstick, she added, "I know of quite a few interesting places not easily found on any map -- it would be a great help to your overview of San Luzandolo."
She turned to see his reaction as she put on the lipstick, and then -- BOMP! -- the Renault hit a pot-hole, causing her to make a wide smear across the side of her face. It was quite comical, but William restrained himself from laughter and remarked, "Only if you accompany me looking as truly beautiful as you do at this very moment."
"Oh! You ... you ... you impertinent Yank!" She feigned hitting him across the arm, laughing as she surveyed the damage in her compact mirror. "Oh, look at me ... I'm a wreck!"
William was intrigued with the "Yank" reference -- he had assumed she was also an American -- and there was nothing in her accent to assume otherwise.
"So, you're not a 'Yank' -- I thought you were from the 'States,' judging by your accent." He helped clean the last smear from her face with his handkerchief, as she smiled appreciatively.
"No, actually I'm Canadian," she answered, "I was born in Vancouver, but was raised in Toronto. My mother is American, so I could have applied for dual-citizenship at adulthood, but I never did. I've lived in so many different countries since I left school, anyway ... I visit my family in Canada as often as I can."
She finished an uneventful application of her lipstick and continued -- "I DO love Canada -- it is a lovely country with wonderful people, it's just that... well, all of the memories are not good ones."
Her voice trailed off with the last words, her expression suddenly turned pained; and she looked away towards the fields, now green with summer crops, that blurred past the rear window, thinking: "I've tried not to think about Mark -- I promised myself I wouldn't do this to myself."
She looked at William as he gingerly touched her shoulder. He seemed sorry to bring up any subject that caused her to think of an old and sorrowful memory.
"Look, Cynthia," he said in a lower, softer tone, "don't feel you have to bare anything you'd rather not discuss -- I understand everyone's need to have their own private area of old wounds. The good Lord knows I've accumulated my own on my way through the world. Let's just head on over to the cafe and you can show me the most interesting of the local eccentrics, while we have a drink and discuss where you'd like to take me touring ... O.K.?"
He could see there was a faint tear at the edge of her right eye, farthest from him. She didn't dab it away, and he didn't try to dab it either; or, for that matter, to call her attention to it. They just rode on in silence for awhile, the fields beside the road giving way to a most lush and quiet forest road, climbing through the verdant hills to the cafe.
Around a sudden bend, there appeared a small, unassuming, but cozy cafe. With a low overhanging roof over a porch-like dining area, it seemed warm and inviting. Exotic, hanging plants festooned the entire front of the place and William took in the sweet, pungent aroma of the local flora as they got out of the car.
"Pedro, we'll be here for about two hours, I'm sure ... you can pick us up then."
The driver nodded to Cynthia, then sped off down the hilly road they had just climbed. From inside, the tinkle of glasses and the inter-mingled sound of English and Spanish, coupled with gentle laughter greeted their ears.
"I like this place," William commented, surveying the tables on the porch area, lit by the hazy glow of small table lanterns struggling against the growing darkness. "It reminds me of a place in Madrid -- a clean, well-lighted place that was a magnet for both locals and ex-patriate American types as well ... boy, you could find out more local news there in an afternoon than in a hundred Spanish papers."
They decided to sit alone on the porch to watch the evening light fade through the forest trees. Within a minute, a young girl appeared to ask for their drink preferences.
"Buenas noches, Senora Bailow," the young girl greeted, "Como esta usted esta noche?"
The young girl quickly put down drink coasters after a table cleaning, using the bright yellow cloth tucked into her well-worn apron.
"Very well, thank you. Maria, this is Senor Whelan -- William Whelan, who is going to write about San Luzandolo. But first, I want to show him some of my favorite places ... and of course, this is one of them."
Maria was pleased by Cynthia's praise and grinned broadly, revealing a missing front tooth.
"Gracias, Senora Bailow," the girl chirped, "I hope Senor Whelan likes the cafe as much as you do ... what would you like to drink?"
Cynthia thought for a moment. "I'll have a scotch on the rocks ... and do you still have those crunchy snacks?"
Maria nodded.
"Good, that will do for me ... William, what would you like?" He was still recovering from the surprise over her drink selection -- he had expected a more tame order from Cynthia -- but quickly added: "Make that two, Maria."
"Bueno. I will bring these right away."
Maria disappeared into the lights and laughter, as Cynthia and William sat looking at the last light fading from the surrounding hills. William played with his drink coaster in the faint, cozy light of the lantern. "
What brought you to San Luzandolo?," he enquired, "It's not exactly at the head of the list for ex-patriate Americans."
She started turning her coaster with her plump fingers, and looked down as she answered.
"After my divorce in Canada seven years ago, I had an opportunity to buy the inn you'll be visiting ... it was a great thing for me at the time, but I didn't yet realize how much work I'd end up putting into it. Of course, that's always the case." She glanced up and smiled sweetly in the warm light; and William could see how beautiful her deep, rich, almost chocolate-like eyes were in the glow of their little lantern.
"Yes, that's what I've always heard," he agreed. He lowered his gaze again and repeated his coaster turning. "It's something you just have to expect." His mind was already on the question of the divorce, and somehow she must have sensed
that.
"Yes, that's true. But it was something I wanted to do ... and something I had to do -- I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't had the inn to focus on after my divorce with Mark. And, look -- now I've gotten several awards, so it's not as though my hard work has gone unrewarded. Actually, I'm a very lucky woman."
She looked at him with a certain stoic look -- the look of someone who has persevered, who has fought against a certain demon and won.
Maria came back with their drinks, nodded at their thanks, and once again disappeared back into the cafe. William could now not help but ask the question she already knew he would ask next.
"What happened with the divorce? I mean, why didn't things work out with Mark?" He regretted the question as soon as he asked it, but he also knew he could not stop this line of questioning. For a moment, he hated himself for suddenly turning the conversation into a highly-charged, revelatory, and too-personal detour, but he sensed she wanted to tell him.
"It's really very simple: as I became accomplished at cooking, winning acclaim from every master chef I ever learned from, my weight increased. When I was pregnant with my daughter -- who is in college now -- I gained even more. I never seemed to be able to lose the weight, although I tried a number of times. As I got older, I just seemed to add a few more pounds every year ... and Mark HATED it."
She almost choked at the end of her sentence -- she hadn't counted on the intensity of these returning emotions, strong feelings of an old despair that flooded and washed over her soul. Before she knew it she was crying.
"Please ... I'm SO sorry -- I didn't know ... I, I ..."
He wanted to let her know he hadn't been trying to pry, but he had been, and they both knew it. Cynthia wasn't upset with William -- she had offered up her pain freely -- and hastened to make him aware of this. She took the handkerchief he offered, the same one he had used with her smeared lipstick. She stopped sobbing, and sighed deeply -- a long, resigned sigh that seemed to exhale much of the wicked and hateful memories that had suddenly haunted her.
"No ... it's alright, I'm the one who wanted to mention it. These major life-changes are part of your history -- you can't run away from what has happened to you in your past. God knows, I've tried ... but it doesn't do any good. I've learned you have to face them and move on. Do you know what I mean?"
She looked into his eyes, imploringly, almost pleading for his understanding in this difficult moment. It occurred to them both: why had she bared this very private pain to someone she had known for such a brief time? It had seemed so natural; and as she looked over towards William, her mascara a horrid, black landslide down her cheeks, it occurred to him that she seemed somehow more beautiful. Not because she looked lovely despite the disaster of her make-up -- that was a given -- but because she had that brave, noble look of a person unwilling to be ruined by the cruel circumstances of life.
She sipped her scotch and her mood seemed to improve as the drink warmed her insides. William drank several sips rather quickly, feeling a bit guilty.
"Boy, I really feel embarassed," Cynthia admitted, "It's been quite a while since I've had an outburst like that -- you probably think you've gotten hooked up with a loon for a host ... or at least someone with WAY too much baggage."
She took another sip as he paused, the drink glass just inches from his lips. The drink seemed stronger than he had expected, but maybe it was just the way everything seemed at that particular moment -- every sense, every mood, greatly heightened. He often drank scotch, and his head felt much too light for any reaction to only several sips of scotch.
He must have looked odd, almost frozen in his drinking motion -- an unnaturally long pause that caused Cynthia to ask if he was all right.
"You O.K.?" she asked, nervously,"You don't look too well ... you look kind of pale." William started to answer -- he wanted to reassure her, then realized his surroundings were spinning, a loud buzzing in his ears. He was vaguely aware of the screams of alarm from both Cynthia and Maria as he toppled out of his chair, knocked over the table next to him, and then .... blackness.
The Perfect Guest
By Big Chris
(A 1997 WR Fiction Classic retrieved from the depths of cyberspace)
By Big Chris
(A 1997 WR Fiction Classic retrieved from the depths of cyberspace)
Chapter 1
William Whelan arrived in San Luzandolo on the afternoon train, as the markets were emptying and the sweet aroma of exotic fruits still hung in the air. He adjusted his substantial bulk on the faded vinyl seat to get a better view of the town square where his guide would be waiting.
William realized this was what being a travel writer was all about: the excitement of new and different locales, and the sights, smells, and unfamiliar sounds of foreign life. The train squealed to a stop and his long journey to this new land was complete.
San Luzandolo had been formed only seven years before his arrival. A former region of a Central American country, it had gained its recent independence in a surprisingly bloodless coup. Now stumbling towards democracy, it was a major tourist stop with new hotel resorts flourishing like ferns under a rain-forest canopy; William's editor had seen the possibilities and encouraged this trip.
"You'll be the first to get a great new travel scoop," his editor had told him, staring at a new map spread over his desk in New York. It was decided William would go to Guirar -- the new capital city -- and write down his impressions of this fledging country.
And so, here was William: a slightly rumpled bear of a fellow -- 255 pounds of well-seasoned traveler. His slight grey at the temples were a testament to many hours of unexplained delays and frustrations at strange airports, train depots, and seedy shipping docks. But his bright blue eyes took everything in -- little escaped his notice as he scanned his surroundings, often sweeping back his long-ish, auburn hair in a practiced yet unself-conscious fashion, clearing a view for those piercing eyes as he gazed towards some distant and interesting sight.
The train had now completely halted. William grabbed his tattered travel bag, carefully stepping down the train platform as a younger middle-aged woman approached him from across the platform. She smiled as she approached, extending a plump hand in greeting. He could see she was a most pleasant-looking, heavy-set woman with crisp off-white outfit that helped to accentuate her deep brown eyes. Her buxom, hourglass figure seemed barely contained in her lovely clothing.
"Mr. Whelan? I am Cynthia Bailow ... I recognize you from the picture on your last book, but you look somehow different ... have you lost weight?" It occurred to her as she mentioned his weight that it might be a touchy subject; but he seemed to take it in stride. She was relieved when he smiled, not at all displeased at a candid observation.
"Actually, yes ..." he replied, looking around the platform at the market bustle. "I was ill early this year, but I'm over it. You know, traveling in these foreign environments exposes one to all sorts of strange bugs and medical nasties."
He chuckled the small laugh of one used to the small (and sometimes not-so-small) dangers of world traveling; and as he shouldered his bag, he looked inquisitively towards his new host for the direction of the waiting cab.
"Oh, excuse me ..." Cynthia apologized, gesturing towards a yellow market stall, "the cab is waiting beyond that fruit vendor."
As she led the way across the market plaza, William more fully noticed her big hips and pleasantly round appearance; he was also struck by her beautiful, dark hair, long enough to reach the small of her back, just above the quite-plump buttocks that swayed as she walked.
"She must be an awfully good cook," William thought, as he watched her from behind.
He was a bit mystified by her meeting him here -- he had expected a male guide arranged by his editor. He assumed this must be the hostess of the local inn where he was to stay while in San Luzandolo.
Cynthia had known his travel advisor, a studious fellow named Ted, when they both bought and ran an inn in Paraguay. Ted had made William's lodging arrangements with Cynthia; but the guide, a local chap by the name of Manuel Reguero, was obviously delayed and so Cynthia was sent in his place.
The cab pulled up to the curb when the driver saw Cynthia approach with William in tow. William opened the door to let Cynthia inside first, then followed her into the old but shiny Renault sedan. The backseat was cramped with their bulk which filled the little taxi.
"Pedro, please take us to the cafe ... I'm sure Mr. Whelan would like to get a bite to eat after such a long journey." In a flash, the little Renault shot into the semi-controlled mayhem that was the usual traffic patterns of downtown Guirar, and William held on tight to an overhead hand-hold to keep from lurching around the back of the speeding taxi. Cynthia chuckled to herself, totally at ease with the pace, as she watched William look furtively out the window of the Renault.
"He must be bracing for some imminent collision," she thought, amused at this big fellow suddenly consumed with an obvious fear of crazed foreign traffic, "but I'll bet he's seen crazier places than Guirar."
In this, she was right.
William had been around the world; that is, around most of what world travelers would bother to explore. He had never been to Antarctica, for example, and that was fine with him. But most of the countries of the world had heard his large footsteps, and he truly loved his work. As his fear eased, he smiled and strained to see back into the alleyways they were passing all too quickly -- to catch a fleeting glimpse of the daily lives they were racing past, in their journey to Cynthia's favorite cafe.
Cynthia was able to observe William in a moment of boyish wonder, smiling at the strangeness of this new environment. While she was familiar with his books, this new and unfamiliarly personal glimpse of William Whelan made her aware of her own instant affection for this traveling teddy-bear, this slightly worn-at-the-cuff adventurer, this large and ruggedly handsome man with a boy's heart.
He did seem thinner than his book jacket photos -- she had seen a profile picture, taken when he was standing on a dock, where he was sporting a quite large, round stomach. While not slim by anyone's measurement, his paunch had been obviously reduced by his recent illness. Cynthia amused herself with the thought that his waistline would certainly expand with her incredible cooking -- she had won several international awards for her cooking at the acclaimed inn that William was to use as his base in San Luzandolo.
"Manuel was delayed in Mexico City," Cynthia said, answering his unspoken question, "His elderly mother became suddenly ill, and Manuel has to see to her care ... he is an only child, you see ... his father has been dead, oh ... I think it is ten years now."
She turned towards William who seemed rather unsurprised by the news. He had become accustomed to this sort of unexpected occurrence in his many travels. One had to roll with the punches.
"Well, I can always explore Guirar on my own for the first few days, that's not a problem ... I'm quite good at finding my way around unfamiliar places -- it's a gift I have: an innate sense of direction, just like a homing pigeon."
He laughed as Cynthia gave him a look of mock disbelief, then smiled back. She was starting to like him more and more. What she did not know was that the feeling was mutual.
"I'd be happy to show you around Guirar ... that is, if you don't mind having me tag along." She rummaged through her purse looking for her lipstick, wondering how he would react to this offer.
Unscrewing the cap of the lipstick, she added, "I know of quite a few interesting places not easily found on any map -- it would be a great help to your overview of San Luzandolo."
She turned to see his reaction as she put on the lipstick, and then -- BOMP! -- the Renault hit a pot-hole, causing her to make a wide smear across the side of her face. It was quite comical, but William restrained himself from laughter and remarked, "Only if you accompany me looking as truly beautiful as you do at this very moment."
"Oh! You ... you ... you impertinent Yank!" She feigned hitting him across the arm, laughing as she surveyed the damage in her compact mirror. "Oh, look at me ... I'm a wreck!"
William was intrigued with the "Yank" reference -- he had assumed she was also an American -- and there was nothing in her accent to assume otherwise.
"So, you're not a 'Yank' -- I thought you were from the 'States,' judging by your accent." He helped clean the last smear from her face with his handkerchief, as she smiled appreciatively.
"No, actually I'm Canadian," she answered, "I was born in Vancouver, but was raised in Toronto. My mother is American, so I could have applied for dual-citizenship at adulthood, but I never did. I've lived in so many different countries since I left school, anyway ... I visit my family in Canada as often as I can."
She finished an uneventful application of her lipstick and continued -- "I DO love Canada -- it is a lovely country with wonderful people, it's just that... well, all of the memories are not good ones."
Her voice trailed off with the last words, her expression suddenly turned pained; and she looked away towards the fields, now green with summer crops, that blurred past the rear window, thinking: "I've tried not to think about Mark -- I promised myself I wouldn't do this to myself."
She looked at William as he gingerly touched her shoulder. He seemed sorry to bring up any subject that caused her to think of an old and sorrowful memory.
"Look, Cynthia," he said in a lower, softer tone, "don't feel you have to bare anything you'd rather not discuss -- I understand everyone's need to have their own private area of old wounds. The good Lord knows I've accumulated my own on my way through the world. Let's just head on over to the cafe and you can show me the most interesting of the local eccentrics, while we have a drink and discuss where you'd like to take me touring ... O.K.?"
He could see there was a faint tear at the edge of her right eye, farthest from him. She didn't dab it away, and he didn't try to dab it either; or, for that matter, to call her attention to it. They just rode on in silence for awhile, the fields beside the road giving way to a most lush and quiet forest road, climbing through the verdant hills to the cafe.
Around a sudden bend, there appeared a small, unassuming, but cozy cafe. With a low overhanging roof over a porch-like dining area, it seemed warm and inviting. Exotic, hanging plants festooned the entire front of the place and William took in the sweet, pungent aroma of the local flora as they got out of the car.
"Pedro, we'll be here for about two hours, I'm sure ... you can pick us up then."
The driver nodded to Cynthia, then sped off down the hilly road they had just climbed. From inside, the tinkle of glasses and the inter-mingled sound of English and Spanish, coupled with gentle laughter greeted their ears.
"I like this place," William commented, surveying the tables on the porch area, lit by the hazy glow of small table lanterns struggling against the growing darkness. "It reminds me of a place in Madrid -- a clean, well-lighted place that was a magnet for both locals and ex-patriate American types as well ... boy, you could find out more local news there in an afternoon than in a hundred Spanish papers."
They decided to sit alone on the porch to watch the evening light fade through the forest trees. Within a minute, a young girl appeared to ask for their drink preferences.
"Buenas noches, Senora Bailow," the young girl greeted, "Como esta usted esta noche?"
The young girl quickly put down drink coasters after a table cleaning, using the bright yellow cloth tucked into her well-worn apron.
"Very well, thank you. Maria, this is Senor Whelan -- William Whelan, who is going to write about San Luzandolo. But first, I want to show him some of my favorite places ... and of course, this is one of them."
Maria was pleased by Cynthia's praise and grinned broadly, revealing a missing front tooth.
"Gracias, Senora Bailow," the girl chirped, "I hope Senor Whelan likes the cafe as much as you do ... what would you like to drink?"
Cynthia thought for a moment. "I'll have a scotch on the rocks ... and do you still have those crunchy snacks?"
Maria nodded.
"Good, that will do for me ... William, what would you like?" He was still recovering from the surprise over her drink selection -- he had expected a more tame order from Cynthia -- but quickly added: "Make that two, Maria."
"Bueno. I will bring these right away."
Maria disappeared into the lights and laughter, as Cynthia and William sat looking at the last light fading from the surrounding hills. William played with his drink coaster in the faint, cozy light of the lantern. "
What brought you to San Luzandolo?," he enquired, "It's not exactly at the head of the list for ex-patriate Americans."
She started turning her coaster with her plump fingers, and looked down as she answered.
"After my divorce in Canada seven years ago, I had an opportunity to buy the inn you'll be visiting ... it was a great thing for me at the time, but I didn't yet realize how much work I'd end up putting into it. Of course, that's always the case." She glanced up and smiled sweetly in the warm light; and William could see how beautiful her deep, rich, almost chocolate-like eyes were in the glow of their little lantern.
"Yes, that's what I've always heard," he agreed. He lowered his gaze again and repeated his coaster turning. "It's something you just have to expect." His mind was already on the question of the divorce, and somehow she must have sensed
that.
"Yes, that's true. But it was something I wanted to do ... and something I had to do -- I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't had the inn to focus on after my divorce with Mark. And, look -- now I've gotten several awards, so it's not as though my hard work has gone unrewarded. Actually, I'm a very lucky woman."
She looked at him with a certain stoic look -- the look of someone who has persevered, who has fought against a certain demon and won.
Maria came back with their drinks, nodded at their thanks, and once again disappeared back into the cafe. William could now not help but ask the question she already knew he would ask next.
"What happened with the divorce? I mean, why didn't things work out with Mark?" He regretted the question as soon as he asked it, but he also knew he could not stop this line of questioning. For a moment, he hated himself for suddenly turning the conversation into a highly-charged, revelatory, and too-personal detour, but he sensed she wanted to tell him.
"It's really very simple: as I became accomplished at cooking, winning acclaim from every master chef I ever learned from, my weight increased. When I was pregnant with my daughter -- who is in college now -- I gained even more. I never seemed to be able to lose the weight, although I tried a number of times. As I got older, I just seemed to add a few more pounds every year ... and Mark HATED it."
She almost choked at the end of her sentence -- she hadn't counted on the intensity of these returning emotions, strong feelings of an old despair that flooded and washed over her soul. Before she knew it she was crying.
"Please ... I'm SO sorry -- I didn't know ... I, I ..."
He wanted to let her know he hadn't been trying to pry, but he had been, and they both knew it. Cynthia wasn't upset with William -- she had offered up her pain freely -- and hastened to make him aware of this. She took the handkerchief he offered, the same one he had used with her smeared lipstick. She stopped sobbing, and sighed deeply -- a long, resigned sigh that seemed to exhale much of the wicked and hateful memories that had suddenly haunted her.
"No ... it's alright, I'm the one who wanted to mention it. These major life-changes are part of your history -- you can't run away from what has happened to you in your past. God knows, I've tried ... but it doesn't do any good. I've learned you have to face them and move on. Do you know what I mean?"
She looked into his eyes, imploringly, almost pleading for his understanding in this difficult moment. It occurred to them both: why had she bared this very private pain to someone she had known for such a brief time? It had seemed so natural; and as she looked over towards William, her mascara a horrid, black landslide down her cheeks, it occurred to him that she seemed somehow more beautiful. Not because she looked lovely despite the disaster of her make-up -- that was a given -- but because she had that brave, noble look of a person unwilling to be ruined by the cruel circumstances of life.
She sipped her scotch and her mood seemed to improve as the drink warmed her insides. William drank several sips rather quickly, feeling a bit guilty.
"Boy, I really feel embarassed," Cynthia admitted, "It's been quite a while since I've had an outburst like that -- you probably think you've gotten hooked up with a loon for a host ... or at least someone with WAY too much baggage."
She took another sip as he paused, the drink glass just inches from his lips. The drink seemed stronger than he had expected, but maybe it was just the way everything seemed at that particular moment -- every sense, every mood, greatly heightened. He often drank scotch, and his head felt much too light for any reaction to only several sips of scotch.
He must have looked odd, almost frozen in his drinking motion -- an unnaturally long pause that caused Cynthia to ask if he was all right.
"You O.K.?" she asked, nervously,"You don't look too well ... you look kind of pale." William started to answer -- he wanted to reassure her, then realized his surroundings were spinning, a loud buzzing in his ears. He was vaguely aware of the screams of alarm from both Cynthia and Maria as he toppled out of his chair, knocked over the table next to him, and then .... blackness.
