Another Take on True

By Myanne Shelley

The pandemic is behind her, but Brooke has lost her career path, and worse, the self assurance she once had. An old friend offers a chance to manage her documentary on a film director they once knew in Italy. Taking the job means leaving her comfort zone, exploring that important time in her past, and uncovering his unexpected influence in the local tech world. Plus a chance to regain her confidence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Myanne Shelley
• Release date: Apr 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005740306

Myanne Shelley

Recently retired San Francisco nonprofit worker, SFSPCA cat volunteer, pickleball player, boxer, writer.

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Another Take on True

by

Myanne Shelley

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Myanne Shelley at Smashwords

Another Take on True

Copyright © 2021 by Anne Shelley

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

This long after the end of shelter in place, leaving my neighborhood still feels a bit frightening and wrong. As does the sensation of wind across my unshod face, and the sight of an everyday sort of gathering of people out in public. But what choice do you have, really – push yourself forward or fade into nothingness.

This morning, at the parking area near the garden center, I steel myself for interactions with strangers. With what, a few middle aged women like myself, mostly slow moving, happily browsing. Like me, I assumed, with plenty of time on their hands.

My husband Tony would be fine, would like to be out here – it’s not even an enclosed space – but he is hunkered down working in our home office. He’s the breadwinner these days. I do the housework, and errands like this one, getting stuff for the garden. Imagine if someone had told us back when we married 25 years ago that we would spend our mid-50s in such traditional roles.

That thought unleashes a hundred others, and I choose not to pursue them. Because while I might have imagined some crazy disasters befalling the world (climate change, I would have tapped first rather than a pandemic), I never could have pictured myself so stunted afterwards. I used to be the one pulling the strings, directing traffic, creating magic from low budget surprise items procured from unlikely places. Now I fight back panic just stepping away from the car.

But I purposefully broaden my shoulders, walk with confidence, and take deep breaths. No worries, we’ve all had plenty of time to learn to cope. The deep breathing yields delightful earthy and floral scents. For a moment my pretend calm is real. The garden center is lovely. Greenery everywhere. A nicely designed series of little walkways highlight the different sections – flowers, vegetables, lawn coverings, dramatic succulents toward the back.

I wander a bit, like my fellow shoppers, enjoying the sights and scents, before loading up a cart with my purchases. There is much work to be done in our tiny front yard before Saturday, and it is bracing to realize I should pick up my pace. Loading the car myself, eager as always for something different I can log as exercise, I drive back, and reverse the process in the driveway. More muscle flexing, and just the ghost of recalling when we used to scrub everything with disinfectant before entering the house.

I’m back, I call towards the back where Tony is working, casting off my light jacket. The cat wanders out at the sound of the door. Come on out if you want a break.

He grunts out something that sounds like an assent, but I hear no movement. Puff sniffs my bags, then strolls away for more napping. No interest from Tony either. Tony is a programmer who can and in fact enjoys getting mired in fixing complex problems. I guess we both know I’ve got more vested in the state of the garden just now.

Here’s why: we are having dinner guests Saturday night. Of course we’ve had people over, we’ve seen friends, been out, all that normal stuff since things lifted. But my long ago friend Issa is coming. She has never been here, and in fact we have not seen her in person for probably ten years. She has a large social media presence; certainly I feel like we’ve kept up. But where her life has careened and ballooned and whooshed up and out since that season we were friends, mine has settled, sailed a predictable narrow path, and then recently been so compressed.

I grab gloves and a shovel, and stand in the doorway looking at the yard. It has lodged in my head that a charming bright flowery entrance to our cute little house will make up for the myriad things I might have done but didn’t accomplish since those youthful days in Rome. A trace of my old control freaky self emerges, and I start in on the garden. I have a clear vision of how it will look – we have vegetables growing already, and the neighbor’s brilliant purplish bougainvillea weaves over the small trellis between our yards. I just need to expand the area with these flowers, line the walkway with low cover, and weed everything.

This much I can do, despite all the deferred dreams that never happened. I ended up with Tony anyway, and there’s our daughter Lydia. This small but ridiculously valuable house in a pretty little San Francisco neighborhood. Focus on the positive, a worthy mantra for all. I have free time to throw my whole body into this earthy task, and decently good health to get it done – I can squat, yank up weeds by the root, haul large bags of soil. We are not exactly rolling in money these days, and retirement seems like a distant dream, but we are housed and fed, share a reliable car, can afford an annual vacation.

We are not wealthy the way Issa is now, though neither of us profess to care about material possessions. I gave up on acting after college, realizing even those tiny serious roles in New York were beyond my modest talent. Issa also gave up on acting, but after a decade of minor TV roles. Hers is, or was as a young woman, a sunny California girl face, the sweet background friend or funny neighbor. I never did get to pursue directing; she did and as far as I know still does. Her name pops on obscure indie work, or as one in a line of producers.

I suppose if we’re comparing, I should note she has two kids, twins, versus my one. Also she’s had two husbands. And two divorces, so it hasn’t been all roses. Still, if we were competing, she’s got me beat in the age department. When we knew each other in Italy in 1992, I was 23 and she was 20. I am 54 now, but according to her Wikipedia page, Issa is only 48.

My knees are sodden, work gloves grimy with damp soil, but the little pansies and poppies brighten the whole yard. Sitting back on my heels, admiring my work, I tell myself not to compete but to enjoy the company of old friends. I also acknowledge that I’m glad our friends Sam and Heather will be here too. Sam was there in Rome too, but we’ve stayed friends, and he’s one of Tony’s closest pals now as well. His mere presence will be soothing, and Heather is the sort of quiet but bright person who asks interesting questions.

Tony emerges later in the afternoon. Pours himself cold soda water with lime, with only a longing glance toward the beer on the shelf of the fridge. He spots the wine and smiles. I specially bought a fancy Italian bottle to start us off. The whole meal will feature Italian foods, some I will create, and more complex items bought from the import store.

If it bothers him that we’re eating cheap easy meals the rest of the week, he keeps it to himself. This dance we still find ourselves in now and then, with his full time employment and my sporadic contract work. I cede to the fairness of doing the chores, but if he really wants something special made or done, that’s on him.

Tiramisu? He asks, poking the bakery box. You don’t even like it.

I don’t mind it. Issa loved it, and so did Sam. And Barry – he would get it sometimes for the crew. Brings back memories.

Tony eases into a kitchen chair, shifting his back around. Achy from sitting all day, even in the Aeron chair that cost as much as the monthly rent on our first apartment. I don’t remember Barry providing food so much as eating everything in sight.

I don’t argue. Barry was one of those skinny guys who got away with eating a lot, and he was a sharer by nature, often overlooking people’s relative poverty compared to his own means. Also, Tony likes to point out that he was technically there in Italy too. It’s where we all met. But Tony was just a guy on vacation, briefly in our midst. While Sam and I worked on Barry’s project for months. Issa was there for her semester abroad, bursting upon us as Barry’s girlfriend and staying as pretty much the company pet.

How I wish we had better pictures from those days. I tease Lydia about the need young people have to snap and post every little thing, but oh, what a great thing a digital camera and internet access would have been back then.

Brooke? You still there?

I was just wishing we had more pictures from back there. I have like ten, and most of them are group shots of the crew, you can barely see us. And yours, I add, gorgeous portraits of ancient buildings, and the back of your angry ex’s head.

Tony smiles ruefully, and in that expression I see his younger self. Really, he does not look all that different than he did then; he was already an actual adult when we met. Same expressions, hair grayer than dark now but cut pretty much the same, compact body only slightly softer than it was. Lyd thinks we made it all up, how we met. No evidence.

I smile back, because he’s right. There was a base, immediate attraction the moment we met, and since he was traveling with his girlfriend, we had shoved it away. Pointedly hadn’t been photographed together, as though fearing it would show. Should we have invited her? I ask. This has been worrying me a bit.

She’s fine on her own. Should be doing her own thing, not spending Saturday night with the parents.

I know he’s technically right. I do worry about our daughter though, more now than when she was first asserting her independence in high school. The pandemic hit her hard, pretty much shoved her back into our care at a time when she should have been going wild in college. Instead, after a slow start, she got sent home the middle of her junior year, and she never really went back. Finished her degree from distance learning and then struggled to find a job. I think maybe all of us realized what a pleasant but unrealistic bubble she had grown up in. Little in the comfortable liberalism of a pretty white girl growing up in progressive San Francisco prepared her for rampant illness, race riots, or a massive economic downturn. It was only months ago that she was able to afford – and able to cope with – moving into a share with people her own age.

Like so many already discussed topics, we know each others’ positions. Not much to add, and he’s right, this is our thing not hers. Tony drifts back to the office to finish his day’s work. He often has some sort of lame conferencing check in late in the day, but as he regularly points out, that’s a fine trade off for his old unpleasant commute.

And I stay in my chair in the sunny spot in the kitchen, scrolling through messages and checking in. I have one or two regular clients who