The Casanova by T L Swan

ELLIOT

I sit on my deck and stare out over Enchanted. It’s late, near midnight. . . but I can’t sleep.

I haven’t been able to relax in what feels like weeks.

I’m mentally drained.

Kate’s in Hawaii. . . and all I want to do is go to her and make her come back with me, but her brother’s words keep rolling around in my head.

I know I could go to her, talk her around, and bring her home. . . but she needs to want to be here.

She knows how I feel and yet, she still left me.

How could I have fucked this up so bad?

I think over the events of that first week after she left and, to be honest, I’m glad Kate didn’t have to suffer it. I’ve had to lodge court proceedings to silence the gossip about the love triangle; it’s been a media-circus nightmare.

I lift my Scotch to my lips and sip it slowly, and the heat burns my throat as it goes down.

I’ve been sending Pinkie letters, and baring my soul, but something’s not sitting right.

I’m missing something in this puzzle.

I have no idea what it is, but as the days go by and still no word from Kate, my agitation grows.

I refill my glass of Scotch and light a cigar, blow out a thin stream of smoke into the crisp night air.

My mind goes back to the picture she had framed for me for my birthday and I smile. I go and retrieve it from inside and stare at it in my hands.

It’s a photograph of me taken from behind, in a navy suit, staring out over the lake with the ducks around my feet. It’s early morning and the mist is rolling on the paddocks in the background.

Such a simple image and yet somehow it feels so intimate—her secret view of me when I wasn’t looking.

I turn it over and look at the back of the frame, and I wonder what the photo looks like without the glass on it.

I retrieve a knife and undo the frame and I take the image out, turn it over and see her handwriting.

Happy Birthday my darling,

I love you.

Always, Kate.

My chest constricts and I read it again. . . and again. . . and again.

Always, Kate.

Always means forever. . . until it didn’t.

I lift the cigar to my lips and inhale deeply. I’m sad and forlorn, full of regret.

My hands are tied, I can’t contact her. I can’t make her come home, no matter how much I want to. I have to do this on her terms and respect her decision.

She has to want to come home to me.

And I hate it.

I tip my head back and drain the glass, then I fill it again so fast that it sloshes over the sides.

Patience isn’t my strong point.

Two months.

I write to her every day. . . and yet, no word back.

Does she even get my letters?

“Thank you,” Christopher says to the waitress as she puts a plate of fortune cookies down in front of us.

It’s Friday night and Christopher has dragged me out for dinner.

I want to be anywhere else but here.

He passes the plate over to me. “Take one.”

“Pass.”

He shoves the plate in my face. “Fucking take one, you love this shit.”

I roll my eyes and take one, crack it open.

There is no such thing as a coincidence.

I raise my eyebrow. Ha. . . once upon a time I would have believed that.

“What did you get?” Christopher asks.

I throw my note over and he smiles. “Well, if that was the case, your life is one massive fucking web.”

I stare at him.

“You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty fucking freaky that you’ve been chasing this artist for years. . . and she turns up just when you found a girl you fell for. And you and Kate meeting online. . . out of all the people in the world, you met her. The woman you were already seeing.”

I frown as I listen. “It is weird. . . isn’t it?”

“I mean, what are the chances of that actually happening?”

“Next to none.” My mind begins to tick as I read the little fortune cookie note again.

There is no such thing as a coincidence.

I always believed in it, that everything happens for a reason. No event or person in your life happens by accident and yet, here I am.

I think hard. . . for a long time.

Why does it feel off, what am I missing?

But what if falling for Kate wasn’t a coincidence at all?

What if this is all the grand plan?

I read it again.

There is no such thing as a coincidence.

Hmm.

The next day I knock on Brad’s door. He opens it in a rush and his face falls as he sees me. “Hi.”

I smile. “Hi. I was wondering if you had a minute? I have a pressing question and you are the only one who I think will know the answer.”

“Umm.”

My eyes search his. “Please.”

He steps aside and I walk in and take a seat on the couch.

He sits down. “What’s up?”

“So . . .” I pause as I try to articulate my thoughts. “I have a feeling that I’m missing something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe I was meant to meet Kate.”

He listens.

“And I also believe that I was meant to meet the artist, but for what reason I don’t know.”

He frowns as if confused.

“Do you believe in fate, Brad?” I ask.

“Maybe.” He sits back in his chair. “Didn’t think you would be the kind of man who would, though.”

“Hmm.” I think for a moment. “Is there something I’m missing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, I keep getting the feeling I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is.”

Brad exhales. “She reads your letters.”

“She does? What did she say?”

“Nothing, only that you write to her every day and that it makes her happy.”

I smile as hope fills me.

“You know, for the first time since Mum and Dad died, she sounds back to herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s working nights and learning how to cross-stitch like Mum used to do. She even started painting again.”

What?

“She paints?”

“Oh, just mucking around, she definitely doesn’t see herself as an artist. But she used to love it as a teenager.”

“I never knew this about her,” I whisper, fascinated.

“I think she’d forgotten all about it. Oahu and time alone has been good for her.”

I smile as I imagine her painting at an easel. . . hmm. “She reads my letters, hey?” I should go. I pause, thinking of what else I can say. “Well, if you think of anything, can you call me?” I ask.

“I will.”

I exhale heavily as I stand.

“I thought you would have given up on her by now,” Brad says.

I turn to him in surprise. “I’m in love with her, why would I give up?”

“You did before.”

“I never gave up. I had to meet that artist and I don’t regret it; I never touched her and returned to Kate. Given, I did take too long to return. . . but still, my intention never wavered.” I shrug. “I guess I just needed some time to get my head around it too.”

He walks me to the door, and I hold out my hand to shake his. “Well, you’ve made my day, knowing she reads my letters means a lot.”

“No worries.”

“And if you think of anything . . .”

“Sure.”

I turn toward the door and glance up and see a photo on the sideboard.

I walk over and pick it up, stare at it, my mind a clusterfuck of confusion.

What?

It’s a picture of Brad and Kate, with Harriet Boucher.

My eyes meet his. “How do you know this woman?”

“Who?” He frowns.

I point to Harriet. “How do you know her?” I demand.

“She’s our sister, Elanor.”