Scott Andrews lifted the mug of tea from his kitchen counter and slurped it back. The warm, comforting liquid poured down his throat and the heat radiated to his bones. It seemed that every single day was just like the day before: tea, words, phone calls, words, more tea, meetings, more words, sleep. With the exception of the steady stream of income, not much was different from life before his first book became a bestseller and, though he didn’t wish to appear ungrateful, Scott was bored. People he’d met seemed more enamored of the idea of being an author than the actual business of being one and he always cringed when they’d say ‘I’d love to write a book’ as if it were as uncomplicated as ‘I’d love to order a pizza’. He put on his coat and grabbed an umbrella. “Be good, Monkey!” Scott said to his cat as he walked out of the room. He hurried down the stairs from his flat and out the front door, bracing himself against the wind. It was a cool Spring day in Manchester and he had a trek to yet another meeting with his agent in Deansgate.
A few shallow puddles splashed underfoot and the gray sky only seemed to be getting darker despite being headed toward midday. Scott flipped up his collar and rounded the corner of Quay Street passing Another Mann’s Treasure, his favorite bric-a-brac shop— the last vestige of a lost trade, really; a rarity even in Manchester. He glanced down at his watch. Still a half hour before his meeting; plenty of time to pop in and browse. He pushed the heavy wooden door and a bell jingled overhead.
“Ah! Mr. Andrews! How are you today? How are you?” the shopkeeper, Morris Mann, addressed Scott as he walked through the door. Morris was a rotund, jolly little man with fluffy white hair, wire spectacles, a rather unique fashion sense, and a penchant for repeating himself. He was wearing a red, ruffled shirt, canary yellow waistcoat, and matching trousers.
“I’m well, Morris, thanks. And you?”
“Can’t complain. Can’t complain.” Morris replied as he shuffled out from behind the counter. “What can I help you find today?”
“I’m really just here to say hello. On my way to a meeting. Any interesting bits and bobs this week?”
“Ooooh. Well… Let’s see…Let’s see... I did have something I thought you might like.” Morris disappeared around a shelf and then reappeared holding a pair of brass cats. “They’re bookends. I thought they resembled Monkey.”
“Lots of books but no more shelves to put them on, I’m afraid. I think the only space left in my whole flat is one blank wall in my lounge but, like me, it’s rather uninspired at the moment.”
“I’ve got just the thing for that!” Morris shuffled around the corner again and shuffled back holding an old frame. “My brother sent me this from his antiques shoppe up near Whitby. Said he was told it was done by a student of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, but nobody could verify its provenance. One day, he found it soaking wet, soaking wet, in his storeroom. Figured there must’ve been a leak in the roof. Couldn’t sell it to his clientele in that state, not in that state, and shipped it off to me.” Morris turned the canvas to face Scott and Scott felt his breath catch in his chest. It was a simple scene just a pond with some reeds, pink waterlilies, and willow trees on the periphery, but the water was a shade of greenish-blue he had never seen before. And something about it made him feel like he couldn’t breathe.
“What- what is it called?” Scott stammered.
“Nymphaeum. My brother said if you squint, some people say they see a naiad in the water. Though nobody agrees where.” Morris peered at the canvas, did a trombone slide with his spectacles, shrugged, and chuckled. “Nobody agrees where.”
Scott squinted too and, for one second, near one of the waterlilies, he thought he saw a face. Suddenly a cuckoo clock on the wall chimed, loudly, breaking the trance and Scott smirked at himself. Faces in paintings of unknown origin— he really was going off the rails.
“I’m so sorry, Morris, I’ve got to run. I’ll come back another time though.”
“Of course. Of course. Your meeting. Go. Go.” Morris smiled and waved Scott toward the door.
Scott hurried down Quay Street once more, past the Opera House and toward Deansgate. His literary agent, Miss Turner, kept a small office above a sandwich shop. He climbed the stairs and opened the second door on the left.
“Hello, Mr. Andrews!” Miss Turner’s assistant, Alex, greeted Scott. “Go right in. She’s expecting you.”
“Thanks, Alex!” Scott took off his coat and hung it on the rack near the door and crossed the room to Miss Turner’s office and rapped twice on her door before opening it.
“Scott! Come on in! Have a seat!” Miss Turner was American and rather casual about most things. She was younger than Scott though, he imagined, not by much. “This latest version of your manuscript! I adore it! You’ll have your publisher in your pocket with this one. You’ll be the next Rowling!”
Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He liked the praise of his work but, in typical English fashion, was never sure how to reply— especially to this enthusiastic American version.
“That’s nice to hear,” he managed. “Thanks.”
“Now, to the reason I called you down. Here are the voice samples for actors to do the audio version of your current book. Just give them a listen and let me know who you like best.” She held out a flash drive. “They need to know by Friday to make simultaneous pub dates with the print edition.”
“Thanks,” he said again, taking the flash drive from her hands. He felt distracted and not quite present. His mind kept going back to the painting. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to see it again. “Forgive me, Miss Turner, I really need to be going.”
“No worries. I’ll follow up with you again later this week. Unless you hate all of the actors, then let me know sooner and I’ll request more samples.”
“I’m sure one of them will be fine. Thank you, Miss Turner,” he said, walking through the door and grabbing his coat. “Goodbye, Alex.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Andrews!”
Scott hurried down the stairs and back down the block. The sky that had been darkening earlier finally broke open and rain began pouring down just as he rounded the corner to Quay Street. He hurried the few blocks down to Another Mann’s Treasure and through the door. The bell jingled overhead and Scott heard a woman’s voice.
“I’m so sorry! That was so clumsy of me,” she said.
“Oh! It’s nothing at all. Nothing at all!” Morris replied.
Scott could see a woman who had obviously been caught in the downpour. She was kneeling with Morris next to a naked mannequin and mopping up a puddle on the floor.
“I didn’t mean to knock it over— or get everything all wet! I’m sorry.”
“It’s been soaked before; a little more water won’t hurt it. Besides, I’m saving it for—” Mr Morris looked up, “Mr. Andrews! I was just talking about you!”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve ruined your painting,” the woman said, standing as she apologized. Her skin was pale and her damp hair looked to be some shade of auburn. “I was just admiring it. I love waterlilies,” she said. Scott caught the faint scent of waterlilies in the air and presumed she must also wear them as perfume. “It was sitting here on the floor and when I bent down to look closer I must’ve bumped it.”
“If Morris says it’s fine, I’m sure it will be,” Scott said, smiling. The woman smiled back.
“Mr. Scott Andrews, this is—” Morris began, but the woman interrupted.
“I’m Lily.” she said, extending her hand.
“Like the—”
“Yes. Just like that,” she said gesturing toward the canvas and smiling again.
“Alright then.” said Scott, smiling. “Did Morris tell you about the naiad?”
“The what?” She looked puzzled.
“No, I hadn’t. I hadn’t yet,” said Morris looking a little uncomfortable. “People say you can see a naiad in the water if you squint.”
Lily laughed, a loud, joyous laugh. “You don’t believe that nonsense, do you?!” Everything about her seemed like that laugh, bubbly and unrestrained; not at all like the women Scott was used to meeting, and yet, there was something so familiar about her.
“Would you like to have tea?” he asked, completely avoiding her question.
“That would be lovely.” She smiled at him again.
“I will take the painting, Morris. Can you have it wrapped and sent to my flat?”
“You didn’t even ask how much it was!” chuckled Morris.
“I don’t think it matters. I know you’ll give me a fair price. You always have.” Scott handed over his bank card.
“As you wish, Mr. Andrews. As you wish.” Morris chuckled to himself as he shuffled off toward the sales counter.
Twenty minutes later Scott and Lily were sitting in the Chop House on Cross Street, sipping tea and telling stories.
“So you have a brother?” Lily asked.
“Yes, just the one though. What about you?”
“I have sisters. They all moved away from home; they’re all over the world now.”
“Do they all look like you? Maybe I’ve met one. You seem so familiar.”
“Oh, no, you’d definitely know if you’d met one of my sisters. No question about that.”
“I absolutely believe you.” Scott laughed.
“You chuckle but you seem like there’s something under all of that. Is anything bothering you?” Lily was not one to mince words.
“Honestly? No. Life is pretty great— apart from being a bit dull at times. But I just met you, so that’s something.”
Lily smiled and reassured him, “That happens all the time. People get comfortable in their lives and forget to notice the magic all around them.”
“What happened to ‘you don’t believe that nonsense’,” he teased.
“Well, I may have been testing the waters.” she laughed again.
“Ok,” Scott said, “I’m interested. Give me an example.”
“Fair enough. Take this lemon slice, for instance,” she said, lifting one from the saucer and holding it to the light. “Really look at it. Have you ever seen anything such a perfect shade of yellow? Or noticed the way the stark white pith perfectly separates the fruit from the peel? And the geometry of it! And the fragrance! All of that is magical in its own way.” She noticed he was staring, entranced, and she blushed and quickly tossed the lemon back down. “Sorry. I talk too much.”
“No, you don’t,” he said. “I really never had looked at it that way.”
“I spend a lot of time just observing… I notice things,” she said.
“Yes, you do. I’d love to hear more.” he told her as he marveled at the flecks of pale green in her eyes that seemed to glow and match the tile of the Chop House archway.
“The rain has stopped. Let’s take a walk,” she suggested.
They stepped out onto the street and into the cool afternoon and began walking south. Lily tightened the belt on her trenchcoat. “How long have you lived in Manchester?” she asked.
“A few years. My family lives in Buxton.”
“Ah. Like the bottled water?”
“Ha. Yes. And you?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ve only recently moved here,” she said, “I used to live in Yorkshire.”
“I’m sorry,” Scott said, smirking. Lily laughed.
When they reached St. John’s Gardens, they found an empty bench near the memorial cross and sat down. Lily looked around. The park was populated mostly by men in suits having late lunches, but at the bench nearest them stood a woman with a young boy in a stroller.
“Now,” Lily instructed, “watch there.”
Scott watched as man in a blue suit walked up to the woman; she beamed, lifted the small child and handed him to the man who began to play peek-a-boo. That was when Scott heard it: a laugh so pure and melodious that it made his heart ache. The man in the suit smiled at the child’s laughter and continued their game and the little boy just kept laughing.
“What a great sound! I never realized...” Scott trailed off.
“Babies are just new. To us, much of life is about history and disappointment, but to them life holds promise and hope. We forget what it’s like to feel that as we get older and allegedly wiser. We spend so much time looking back that we miss all the wonderful things that we can only see looking forward.” Lily looked away from the giggling child and back to Scott, smiling. She seemed to be striking at the very heart of the thing that had haunted so many of his recent thoughts. Had he really become so jaded that he couldn’t appreciate the things that were right before his eyes?
“I awoke this morning so tired of words,” he told her, “but there is something about being with you— I could listen to you all day.”
“Perhaps we were great friends in another life.”
“Perhaps we will be in this one.”
“Excuse me.” A small soft voice broke the moment and they looked up to see the woman with the small child and the blue-suited man. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just— I love your heeled wellies. Where did you find them?”
“They’re vintage Rontani, 1960s I think, from Another Mann’s Treasure; everything I’m wearing came from there.”
“Thank you!” said the woman as she and her little family continued on their way.
“Scott, isn’t that Morris now?” Lily pointed to a spectacled, white-haired, little man in a bright purple overcoat who was carrying a brown paper package and walking up the path toward the memorial.
“Morris!” Scott hailed.
“Mr. Andrews! I was just taking this to your flat.”
“Now that we’ve run into you again, why don’t I just take it home myself?” Scott asked.
“You don’t mind?” asked Morris.
“Of course not!”
“That would help me a great deal. A great deal, indeed. My delivery boy seems to have taken an extra long lunch today. I suspect he’s got a bit of Spring Fever. Yes, Spring Fever, I’d say.” Morris smiled at them and handed Scott the package. “Have a lovely day. Lovely.” he said before turning back up the path toward his shop.
“Where do you live?” asked Lily.
“Not far from here. Just over on James Street.”
“We could pop by there; I could help you hang your painting.”
“You’re sure it won’t be a bother? I have rather monopolized your day.”
“No bother at all. As a matter of fact, it’s on my way home.”
James Street was a ten minute stroll from the park and, soon, they were walking through the main door of Scott’s building and up the stairs. Scott unlocked the door to his flat and ushered Lily in. She stopped to remove her wellies and wiggled her toes after taking them off. It was then, for the first time, Scott noticed her bare legs. "You must be frozen!"
Lily laughed her musical laugh and said, "I'm fairly adaptable. If you don't mind, I will keep my coat on though."
"I don't mind at all," he replied. “Let’s get this painting on the wall.” He untied the string, and unwrapped the brown paper as they walked into the lounge and toward the solitary empty wall. Lily held the canvas up to it; it was then he noticed her eyes— her eyes were that same shade of greenish-blue as the water in the painting and Scott’s breath caught in his chest again. He stepped back.
“What do you think?” Lily asked him.
“Two things,” he began, recovering, “First, I have no idea where my toolbox is. Second, this day calls for champagne!” Scott walked across the dining room to the kitchen leaving Lily to admire the painting.
Scott eased the cork from the Piper-Heidsieck bottle and noticed how loud the soft hiss seemed in his tiny kitchen. He poured two glasses and wondered at them for a moment.
“Lily! You should see this— the way the light glints off the crystal and how the bubbles rise and burst as if the champagne itself is throwing a little celebration.”
"Now you've got it!" Lily said from the lounge.
Scott heard a strange noise as he walked back to join her, glasses in hand. "Everything ok?" he called. There was no reply.
Monkey was perched atop the radiator peering curiously at the floor. There lay the painting, in a pool of water next to a discarded vintage trenchcoat, and Scott was certain he recognized the faint scent of waterlilies.
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