The Concept of Now

Before. 

I cherish the concept and stop in front of the old, oak table where one of the pieces my mother had painted is hung above the center of the wood. I lift my hand, allowing my fingertips to bump over the places where my mother let the oil paint dry thick. The painting is of the ocean with deep blues and hints of greens. It’s an unfamiliar place to me, but it was the world to my mother. 

The clink of china. I drop my hand at my side and gather myself into the presence of now. It’s just dinner, I swallow, with people I don’t know. Strangers. 

I lift my skirts as I walk down the darkened hall, the light coming from the candles that sit in the three crystalline chandeliers that are perfectly spaced along the ceiling. My shoes are silent against the thin, red and black carpet that leads to the front door, to where the wall of the hallway opens to the dining room. I take a deep breath before stepping into the room that will determine my future. 

The dining room looks as beautiful as it did on my thirteenth birthday, my last birthday with my mother. Five years ago was the last day that the room ever looked beautiful, and now, I’m certain that it never looked better. The center pieces, the golden candelabras my mother and father received from my friend’s parents, have been shined so that the light from the flickering flames reflects off of them, making the room glow. I take a deep breath, instantly greeted by the pleasant smell of the rich food Marcus, our family chef has prepared for such a big night. 

“Edrie!” I’m greeted by the forced smile of my father as he stands from the head of the dining room table, rushing to my side. His expression reads concern and anger. “Perhaps the maids kept her too long, I mean, look at her!” He gives me a twirl and I laugh. It’s a show my father and I have never rehearsed, though I think we are doing well because our guests’ heads are turned, smiles upon their faces. 

The guests are two men who seem to be around my age, maybe a year or two older, but gentlemen nonetheless. From what I can see, they both wear cravats with vests and black coats with buttons that were sewn at the level of the waist. 

My father takes my hand and leads me to the other side of the table so I’m directly sitting across from our guests. He pulls out one of the chairs. The backs of the chairs are tall and the seats are cushioned with red cloth. I gather up my dress and sit down. 

“Edrie,” my father says from beside me, “this is Laurance Keane and his friend, Jack Allaband.” 

From the place setting in front of me, I pick up the red napkin that was folded to resemble a rose, and lay it on my lap.

I nod at the two of the men, “It’s very nice to meet you both.” 

Something flutters against my ribcage when my eyes meet the blue eyes of the man sitting across the table from me. I swallow hard.

"Miss Whitlock, your father has been telling us about how you enjoy the art of writing. What genre do you specialize in?" Laurence, the blond haired man with the blue eyes, asks. 

"Well, Mr. Keane, I do love fantasy." 

"Ah, you can never get too much of that," he smiles. 

"And realistic fiction," my father adds. 

My father isn't one who supports the imaginary branches of fantasies. Yes, writing is all that, but father prefers if I read and write about more realistic matters. There's a pang in my gut, one that brings the feeling of guilt about bringing up the genre of fantasy in front of my father and Laurance Keane.

"I'd really like to read some of your pieces, Miss Whitlock. Jack and I both share a love for literature, and I'm fascinated that a young woman of your age enjoys creating it as well." 

"I can have Mary gather your pieces for you," my father lays a hand on mine. 

"That would be lovely," I place my other hand on the top of his, turning back at our guests, "Mr. Keane," I look over at the kind, dark skinned man next to him, "Mr. Allaband, what other arts do you enjoy?" 

"Well, Jack here," Mr. Keane takes a hand and brings it to Mr. Allaband's back, "a natural born artist!" He says this with triumph and we all smile.

My head darts to my father. "Mother's artwork." 

"Her old paintings?" He laughs. 

I narrow my eyes at my father, disappointed at his ignorance for the beautiful creations the paintings really are. 

"Your mother was an artist?" Mr. Allaband asks, amazed.

I nod. "A very good one as well. Father, may I escort these fine gentlemen down the hall so they can see mother's painting?" 

"You may. And don't be long. Marcus will be coming to present the main course soon." 

I stand up from my seat, lifting my navy blue gown from the red cushion, then smoothing the few creases that wrinkle the fabric. Mr. Allaband, seeming to be a composed man, also stands from his seat, practically beaming from ear to ear. It makes me smile. 

"Mr. Keane, will you be joining us?" 

"I'm afraid not, Miss Whitlock. I have some important matters to discuss with your father," he looks to his right, to where my father sits at the head of the table with the view of all the place settings and untouched appetizers. "If that's alright with you, Mr. Whitlock." 

"Of course. Hurry along now, Edrie," my father says with urgency. 

It concerns me with what my father and Mr. Keane are going to discuss. Perhaps it's my future that my father needs to plan or the proposal Mr. Keane will put off to the side until we know more about each other, or perhaps it's a business deal? I hurry from the room, Mr. Allaband's footsteps following me from behind. 

"What kinds of paints do you use, Mr. Allaband?" I ask as we walk side by side down the hallway. 

"Whatever I can get my hands on, really. I prefer acrylics…" he drifts off when we get to the painting. 

"She loved the ocean," I take a deep breath. "I've never been, have you?" 

Mr. Allaband doesn't take his eyes off the painting. "It's where Laurance and I live." 

My heart thrums with excitement. "Really?” Perhaps I will cooperate in this marriage arrangement for father’s sake and my own. “What’s it like?" 

Mr. Allaband raises a finger to the painting. "Miss Whitlock, your mother wasn't that far off. This is practically it." 

I look down at the floor trying to hide the sudden feeling of contentment that was brought by Mr. Allaband's comment. I've read books and heard stories of the ocean, but they were never as descriptive as my mother's painting. 

I feel Mr. Allaband's gaze shift from the painting to me. I look up into his clear, brown eyes. 

"You long to see the ocean." 

It's a statement that is far too correct. "I need to see the ocean. It was the place where my mother grew up and the place where she was buried. I've only ever dreamed of its power and its authority over nature. I've written stories and poems about the majestic concept of its depths, only guided by this one picture." Mr. Allaband blinks and I continue, "I want to go to the ocean, to where this picture was painted. Mr. Allaband. I want to see my mother."