Winter Fantasy ...Finale ...Double Fantasy
— Khalil Gibran
I set out to photograph a Georgian style house depicted in a Trish Romance painting called Winter Fantasy and ended up in a fantasy of my own.
When I developed my photoshoot a girl appeared who was dressed in attire from the 19th century--and what's more intriguing is that in the photos she wrote Hello in Spenserian script and waved to me.
I thought it was a joke played by my friend, Gus, but he assured me it wasn't one of his pranks.
And, to make matters worse, I ended up obsessing over the girl and wishing she were real.
I'm embarrassed to admit my love life is that pathetic.
I would have tried to put the whole sordid business behind me but that night I had a dream.
I’ dreamt I bought the Georgian house and Gus and Katie and a few friends were visiting.
It was a housewarming.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door and the girl from the photo entered with a girlfriend.
I greet her and we talk as if we’re old work colleagues.
The party goes on—we drink a lot of wine—and then, I’m alone with her. I think I’m giving her a tour of the house and we’re in the bedroom.
She sits on the bed and begins to weep. I ask her what’s wrong and try to console her. But instead of talking, I find myself softly kissing her.
It’s gentle, and one of the sweetest kisses, I’ve ever experienced.
I never want it to end.
But Katie happens to come into the room, and makes a remark about our sudden intimacy. I feel embarrassed.
Still, I can’t stop feeling drawn to the girl.
I finally wake up, just past 8:30 am—thunder rumbling softly outside. And I can still feel the soft touch of her lips.
I lie there staring at the ceiling and wondering what’s happening to me.
I decide to go back to the house . I grab a coffee and bagel at Tim Horton’s and head out west on highway 401 toward Elora and find myself pushing the accelerator pedal hard and wanting to be there.
It’s crazy, she’s not real, I tell myself—but I can still taste those kisses and they’re more tender and real than any I’ve ever had.
I feel an intense longing to be with her—or just near her.
As I drive, it rains harder. The morning seems to be turning into one of those grey days of interminable rain and mist.
My photo shoot will be ruined—I don’t care. I need to see her again.
An hour and a half later, I’m parked in the drive. The house is sombre—the bricks darkened with rain.
The overhanging leaves are bejewelled with water droplets and the lawn is covered with a silvery dew.
I get out and stand in the drizzle, feeling helpless, and staring at the house.
I glance across the circular drive at the lawn and my breath catches—there, inscribed in Spenserian handwriting in the dew is the message: Hello.
Some beautiful, invisible finger traced the lovely, flowing script. I crouch down and touch the “H” and feel a warm sensation pass through me.
When I close my eyes I can see her face. When I open them, a vaporous form is standing far off in the grey trees.
I walk toward the figure but it grows indistinct as I approach and vanishes into tendrils of mist.
I spend hours wandering the grounds, getting soaked to the skin, hoping to catch another glimpse.
Finally, I give up and go into town to the restaurant.
I take a window seat where I can see the river and the rain.
As I sip my hot coffee, a thought hits me—the library! The house must have a history.
The librarian is more than helpful. She produces material from the vertical file—old newspaper articles about the house.
In an archived issue of The Guelph Mercury, I find a history of the house and its original occupants—the Enright family—and at the end of the article a picture of Elizabeth—the girl in my photo.
I photocopy the article and the picture. My heart burns within my chest.
I drive back to the house and sit inside the SUV in the drive—staring at the house—willing Elizabeth to appear.
She doesn’t show, so I get out and begin wandering again. There’s nothing but a light rain and grey trees in the distance.
In desperation I call out her name, but my voice seems muffled as if heard through cotton batten.
I grow hoarse from straining against the clotting fog and dampness.
Finally, defeated, I sink to the wet lawn and sob out my frustration.
I don’t know how long I remain there, but after a while, I look up and see her at the edge of a yellow grassy field, beckoning.
In an instant, I’m on my feet and hurrying after.
She pauses, allowing me to catch up, and then leads me further, towards a small grove of willows.
She points to a crumbling fieldstone wall and disappears.
I approach. The very spot where she pointed is a tangle of vines.
I begin pulling, the vines away from the wall.
Then, I see it—a tall, thin limestone tablet, sticking out of the ground—a headstone.
It’s inscribed in Spenserian script – Elizabeth Enright 1835-1895 – Beloved And Not Forgotten.
I understand what she’s telling me.
I walk back to the SUV, soaked and totally dejected.
I don’t know what I expected to find, but what I did find, was bitter and heart breaking.
As I approach my vehicle, a golden retriever bounds out of the yellow field and begins running dizzying circles around me.
Despite my heavy heart, I have to laugh at his zany antics.
“Katie—stop it!”
I look up to see a blonde girl approaching, leash in hand. “I’m so sorry—she’s never done that before.”
I crouch down, patting Katie, who is now laughing—red tongue hanging out, bright, like the flame of a butane lighter.
I get to my feet and I look straight into the face of Elizabeth Enright.
I swoon, nearly faint, but she reaches out her arms and steadies me and I end up being hugged by her.
“I don’t usually meet men this way,” she smirks. “Are you all right? You look soaked to the skin.”
“I—I’m fine,” I stammer.
She puts out a hand.
“I’m Beth—and this saucy hussy is Katie.”
“I’m James Regal.” I shake her hand.
“By the way, I didn’t catch your last name.” I tell her.
“It’s Enright—we own this house. Are you the photographer who arranged with Dad to take the pictures?”
“I am.”
“You picked a bad day for photos.”
“No, actually, I think it’s turning out pretty well,” I smile.
“Can I invite you in for a coffee? You must be chilled.”
She looks concerned.
“Coffee would be great.”
We start toward the house. Suddenly, she stops and looks at me.
“What?”
She turns her head to the side and squints at me through the drizzle.
“Nothing. I just felt I needed to formally say, Hello.”
“Hello, Beth,” I smile.
Thank you!