Short Story : Swiss meringue buttercream cakes

 Swiss Meringue Buttercream Cakes

It was almost sunset. Serenity surrounded the girl as she sipped the warm tea slowly & absentmindedly. Morgan was lost in a train of thoughts. Her memories confused her as she tried to make sense of the news she received earlier that morning. She had landed her dream job. She had landed a job she had never applied for.

Morgan’s memories were not lying to her. They were simply hiding the truth. Or perhaps it was her who was refusing to listen to them. As the sun called the moon to take his place, it all began to come together. Mrs. Eleanor Walker. Mrs. Eleanor Walker, the grumpy and difficult lady Morgan went to meet every Thursday evening. The mother of her late friend, Antoine.

When Antoine died, Morgan had promptly taken it upon herself to care for his aged parents. Mr. Walker had adored Morgan. Up until last year, Morgan’s Thursday evenings consisted of Swiss meringue buttercream cakes, a new book from the Walker’s bookshelf & the company of a man who still struggled with the loss of his only child.

People have different ways of coping with grief, Morgan realised quickly. James Walker chose to share the experiences he once enjoyed with his son while his wife held on to her memories as if they would evaporate if she let go. She had been annoyed when Morgan arrived at her doorstep. Annoyed for many reasons but mainly because she felt Morgan had got to experience the company of the son she had pushed away.

Eleanor resented her husband. She resented her son’s lover and she resented his best friend. She resented the people who had gotten a chance to do the things her petty ego & pride had not let her. So, after her husband died seven months ago, the doors of the 8th house on Richwood lane were closed to any and all visitors including Morgan.

As the clock struck twelve, Morgan realised what day it was and what the day meant. Three years ago, this day had brought a lot of grief to her and she realised that it still did. But more importantly, she realised that she was needed elsewhere. Elanor’s olive branch had worked. Infact Morgan began to feel shame as she headed to the door. Shame that she had waited. Shame that she hadn't tried harder. And shame that she had broken her promise to her best friend.

It was quarter past two when Morgan arrived on Richwood lane. It was drizzling slightly and she felt her cheeks beginning to get wet. The door unlocked and a grey haired lady with the silver rimmed glasses let her in. After an uncomfortable few moments, the two women settled in close to the fireplace.

Silence filled the air for a long time till finally Morgan shared a story of when Antoine drove her to her favorite art gallery, two states away on her birthday. The story led to another and a another and a another. It was when Morgan informed Elanor that Antoine used to spend every Christmas with her because she had no family of her own that Eleanor broke her silence.

“I thought he never came home for Christmas because he hated me”, she whispered, her voice breaking. 

“Antoine cannot hate. He is incapable of that emotion.You must know that”, Morgan replied

“There were too many misunderstandings. Too many misunderstandings between us”, Eleanor lamented softly.

“I thought you didn't like me. You and Steve. Didn't like me for the kind of mother I was to him. The week before Antoine died, we had lunch with Steve and his parents. Steve had been very vocal about his displeasure of me. I thought you didn't like me”, Eleanor continued, her voice getting lower and lower with each word.

Morgan placed her hand over Eleanor, “Eleanor, you were Antoine’s hero. He never passed up a chance to let us know about his world famous photographer mother who had travelled the globe taking pictures of marvellous beasts, birds and fascinating creatures. The disagreements you had occupied a very small and negligible place in his mind”.

“I found the photographs you took of Antoine at his wedding among his things the other day. Made me realise that if I had been supportive of his dream, we would have had a better relationship. I hope I didn't overstep my boundaries when I recommended your name to the editor-in-chief at the Heritage Chronicles. Charles is a friend and I could help but let him know how talented you are”

Morgan realised what was happening. These were the conversations the lonely mother meant to have with her son. Conversations that never took place when they should have been. Conversations that were far too late. But conversations that still need to be had. For both of them to heal. 

The rest of the night passed in these very conversations. So would the coming weeks, months and years. For every Thursday Morgan found herself with a new book in hand, biting into sweet Swiss meringue buttercream cakes & listening to the love of a mother, sharing the love of a friend.