Everywhere In A Day

On the corner of left Melby Lane was a small vintage shop where the stained glass windows cast patterns on the dusty wooden floors. Inside, a young boy sat in a crushed velvet chair, trying to disappear into the burgundy cushions. His corduroy pockets were stuffed full of mints and pennies. Across the room, an elderly woman held a record against her chest. The boy whistled uncomfortably, wishing with everything he had that he could just disappear. Earlier that day, his mother had sent him to pick up her blue brooch, but he had gotten guilted into a whirlwind of stories by the owner of Evelyn’s Antiquities. 

The gray-haired woman paused with the record, then crossed the room to sit by the boy. “Son, what’s your name?” She asked with a voice that sounded like a creaking door. He shifted even farther back in the chair, thinking maybe the cushions would swallow him whole. “I’m Frederick.” The woman pulled her chair closer to him; Frederick gulped. “Boy, my ears aren’t as young as you, speak up.” With a trembling voice, he said loudly, “My name’s Frederick.” “Ah,” she smiled and leaned back into the wooden rocking chair. “Well it’s lovely to meet you, Sedgwick. Funny name for a young boy though- your parents must have been quite interesting.” Frederick didn’t have the confidence to tell her she heard him wrong.

“All these parents with their strange names these days,” she continued. “It’s like eight names have combined to become one. If you ask me, they should stick with the classics.” Frederick shoved his hands into his already full pockets, itching to leave. “Back in my day, the only names you ever heard were Charlotte, Alice, and Margeret. But those are for girls. It was Benjamin, Charles, and James for the boys. Have you ever considered changing your name, Sedgwick?” He shrugged. “Well, while you’re in my store, I won’t have you be called something silly like that. While you’re in my store, your name is Charles.” 

“Um,” Frederick stood up. “I better leave.” He briskly walked to the exit, a slight skip in his step. The elderly woman looked hurt as she watched him head to the door. “I’ve never had someone leave the store without a purchase,” she said quietly, her voice cracking with every word. At the sound of her voice, he stopped. Frederick looked at her, then the door. He returned to his seat.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him. “I never told you, Charles,” she said. “But my name is Evelyn.” He nodded. In the silence, she placed the old record on a player. A soft melody with valiant trumpets enveloped the store and everything within it. As Patti Page began to sing, Evelyn closed her eyes. 

“It was 1949. I was 18 years old at the time, full of wonder and curiosity. The world felt like an endless ocean that I longed to explore. Every country, every city, every location held thousands of possibilities. Staying in one place for a long time made me restless and impatient. I wanted to experience everything Earth had to offer… but my parents forbade me from going alone. Nobody I knew understood my need to travel; I had no volunteers to go with me. I was devastated, down in the dumps for weeks. The only thing that brought pleasure was the caramel latte from a local coffee shop. It was a gloomy day; the sky looked as if it had been washed of its color. But then, a girl my age sat down next to me. Her dark hair was cut into a neat bob, but she wore slacks and had charcoal smudges on her cheek. I was appalled… but still so curious. When she ordered a caramel latte, I took it as a sign and struck up a conversation. 

Her name was Rosemary, which I thought was the most interesting name I had ever heard. I told her I liked it. She smiled. From that moment on, we were best friends, practically joined at the hip. After a few weeks of laughter and getting to know her, I asked, “Would you like to travel the world?” She was taken aback at first, but responded, “I’ve always wanted to! How did you know?” My grin stretched ear to ear.” Evelyn sighed, a far off look in her eyes. The song continued to weave its sound in and throughout the woman and the boy. With a deep breath, she began to speak again.

“The first place we traveled to was New York, which was full of bright lights and excitement. There was a buzzing energy in the air and throughout every resident, as if they all had a shot of espresso. We visited midtown Manhattan, the heart of the American music industry. My favorite song was the Tennessee Waltz by Patti Page. I had that song added to a blank record I bought- it was my travel journal, you could say.” 

The sweet melody ended, and another began. This one was lively and energetic, sung by the Kingston Trio.

 “Ah,” Evelyn said. “This song is from California. That was a lovely place. I remember walking down Sunset Boulevard and listening to the singing of the birds. Rosemary was very fond of the nature nearby. Instead of the streets, she preferred to hike in the nearby mountains. When we first heard the song “Tom Dooley” by the Kingston Trio, we were sitting in Hody’s coffee shop, laughing as we sipped our caramel lattes. She told me about her hometown, and how she wants to go back one day. She also mentioned a young boy who she found herself fond of before we left. His name was William. She used to talk about him as if he were her stars on a clear night.” As the music drifted to silence, Evelyn glanced at the record, waiting for a new song to start. Frederick had gotten comfortable and was caught by surprise when he found himself excited to hear her next story.  

When the next track on her record began, Frederick felt the music flow through him in a familiar way. “Hey wait,” he said. “I know this one!” Evelyn looked at him with interest. “Is that so?” she asked. He nodded. “Well how wonderful,” she said, smiling. “I discovered this song on our biggest trip of all- Paris.” 

Frederick pulled a mint out of his pockets and began to suck on it as she spoke.

“Paris was a lovely place, full of life and new beginnings. Construction workers built skyscrapers, but none matched the beauty of the Eiffel Tower. We traveled here in 1968, a few years after California. This was around the age of 27, when we were still young and bright. However, I sensed something changing in Rosemary, a hesitance to continue our explorations. But because of the longing to travel that I felt within me, I decided to ignore it. 

She loved the museums, specifically the art ones. Her favorite was the Musée d'Orsay. That’s where I first heard this song- ‘Il Est Cinq Heures, Paris S’Éveille’ by Jacques Dutronc. Rosemary had such a lively and carefree spirit- and I remember she started dancing in the middle of the museum when we heard this song.”

Evelyn sighed, and with faint laughter, she said “I backed away from her, pretending I didn’t know who she was. For you see, Rosemary was not given the gift of gracefulness. I was laughing so hard, I wasn’t looking where I was going and bumped into a young man. He turned around and asked ‘Excusez-Moi?’ I blushed brighter than a tomato. He chuckled at the pink in my cheeks. ‘Etes-Vous américain?’ I stared at him like a deer in headlights- my french was pretty rusty. The hue in my cheeks went from cerise to burgundy. ‘Are you American?’ He asked in a thick french accent. ‘Oui,’ I said nervously. ‘My name is Michel. And you?’ ‘Evelyn,’ I responded. ‘Ah, très belle.’ He lifted my hand and kissed the back of my palm. ‘Nice to meet you, Evelyn.’ I giggled, and Rosemary yanked me back over to her. 

‘What are you doing?’ She asked, a hint of anger in her voice. ‘W-what?’ I was appalled. ‘I can’t believe you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come on, we need to talk.’ Rosemary dragged me out of the museum as Michel watched in confusion.”

Frederick shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t know this would be a love story,” he said, disgust in his voice. Evelyn laughed. “How old are you?” “Ten.” “Ah, that’s why. You don’t understand, at least not yet. May I continue?” Hesitantly, he nodded.

“Outside of the beautiful museum’s doors, Rosemary began to shout. ‘How could you do this to me?’ I was shocked, and so confused. ‘What do you mean? Am I not allowed to talk to anybody but you on these trips? Because last time I checked, that’s up to me, not you!’ Her cheeks turned a deep red in anger. 

‘That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, I keep talking about William and wanting to go home to see him! But you keep saying we have to travel now, while we’re young. Then all of the sudden, you’re flirting with a french guy?! Well news flash, I didn’t even want to come on this trip! I wanted to stay home, get to know William, and maybe even start a family. But you had to drag me along. Guess what? We’re not young anymore! It’s been ten years of travel, and I think it’s time we stop.’ 

I stumbled backward, tears brimming in my eyes. ‘Oh,’ I said, voice cracking. ‘Okay then.’ Turning, I began to walk back to our hotel to pack, but I only made it halfway there before having to stop and sit down. My lungs seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Tears flowed down my face in a river; I could barely see. 

‘Miss!’ Someone exclaimed. ‘Are you okay?’ A figure ran up to me and sat down on the metal bench. I looked at him, still choking and sobbing. ‘Evelyn?’ He asked. I paused, recognizing the voice. ‘Michel?’ He nodded, watching me wipe away streaks of mascara from my cheeks. ‘Are you okay?’ He asked tenderly. I shook my head, looking at the pebbles beneath my feet. ‘Can I help?’ I shrugged. He took my hand and pulled me up. ‘Come on, let’s go get you some Tarte Tatin. It always makes me feel better.’ With a faint smile, I followed him to a nearby bakery.”

The song from Paris ended; Evelyn took the record off the player. “Isn’t there more?” Frederick asked. “There has to be more!” She shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid not. When I got back to the hotel in Paris, her luggage was gone. I didn’t hear from her until almost 15 years later.” Frederick huffed. “That doesn’t make sense! Every story is supposed to have a happy ending. Where’s yours?” “Not every story,” she said. “By the time I got a call from her in 1983, we were both 42 years old and married. She told me she wanted to talk.”

“ ‘Hello?’ I asked, answering the phone. ‘Hey,’ a familiar voice said. ‘Rosemary?’ ‘Yeah, it’s me. Listen, can we talk?’ I shifted uncomfortably and stared at the phone. ‘Um, yeah sure. When?’ she sighed in relief. ‘Oh, good. Can you meet me at the old coffee shop next Sunday at three?’ I flipped through the pages of my calendar before responding, ‘Yeah. That sounds good.’ ‘Wonderful, see you then.’ She hung up. I stared at the phone in disbelief. 

‘Hey honey, who was that?’ Michel, who was my husband at the time, came up behind me. ‘Rosemary,’ I said, the words coming out in a whisper. ‘Wait, the Rosemary? The one who abandoned you in Paris?’ I nodded. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’ 

Looking up at him, I said ‘Yeah, I think so. We’re meeting for coffee next week.’ He was surprised. ‘Okay. Do you want me to come?’ ‘No, that might make her mad.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Well, the reason why she left was because she was upset at me for talking to you. It probably wouldn’t make her too happy to know I ended up marrying the french guy.’ He nodded. ‘I understand. But if you need anything, I’ll always be here for you.’ He gave me a tight hug, kissing the top of my forehead. 

On Sunday, I drove eight hours by myself to the coffee shop. Michel was watching our daughter, Jessica, for the day. When I arrived, I was shocked to find that the shop was empty and abandoned. Rust crept its way down the old metal window frames, and the flowers in front were wilted and brown. I called Michel; he picked up almost immediately. ‘Hey sweetheart, is everything okay?’ ‘No, I don’t think so. The coffee shop she said to meet at is abandoned.’ ‘Oh, that doesn’t sound good. Do you want to head home?’ I sighed, looking around the busy streets. ‘I want to wait for her.’ There was a long pause. ‘Okay,’ he finally said. ‘Call me if you change your mind.’ ‘I will. Love you.’ I could hear the smile in his voice as he replied, ‘I love you too.’

A few minutes later, another car pulled up into the gravel parking lot. Out stepped Rosemary. I had imagined seeing her before, but nothing could have prepared me for this moment.”

Frederick sat on the edge of his seat. He listened intently to her worn-out voice. “What happens next?” He asked.

“Well,” Evelyn began. “Her skin was pale and thin as paper. Her eyes were faded and lifeless. When she stepped out of the car, she stumbled, catching herself on the door. I was shocked, and instinctually ran to her. ‘Rosemary,’ I whispered. ‘What happened?’ She reached her hand out, and I guided her to a nearby bench. We sat. 

‘I was diagnosed with Myasthenia Gravis about a year ago. It’s an autoimmune disorder that weakens your muscles. The doctor says I don’t have much longer,’ she trailed off, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘Evelyn, I’m so sorry. I never should have run out on you like that. You were following your heart and I got jealous.’ The tears spilled over and she sobbed. ‘Is there any way you can forgive me?’ I took her hand, looking into her cloudy eyes. ‘Rosemary, not a day has gone past that I haven’t missed you. I forgave you a long time ago. I was just waiting for you to come back into my life,’ I said. There were streaks down my cheeks too.

‘How much longer do you have?’ I asked hesitantly. She sniffed. ‘A few months. But I came here to talk to you about something else too.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘My daughter, Nicole, she’s three years old. Her father left when I was diagnosed. I want to introduce you to her, and I was hoping you would adopt her when I’m gone.’ I looked down at the ground, my vision so blurry I could barely see. ‘You… you want me to have her?’ Rosemary nodded. ‘Even though we haven’t spoken in fifteen years, you were the best friend I’d ever had. I trust you with my life, and hers.’ I wrapped my arms around Rosemary, weeping on her shoulder.”

Evelyn paused, then stood up. “Wait,” Frederick said. “That’s it?! What happened to her, and Nicole? What about Michel?” She smiled. “You’re a restless young man, aren’t you? Quite curious too. Unfortunately, there’s not much else to say. Rosemary died four months later, and Nicole came to live with us. Michel accepted her with open arms.” Evelyn wiped a tear from her cheek. “I see more and more of Rosemary in her every day. She’s a blessing to us all. And in remembrance of her mother, I restored the old coffee shop to be what it is today- my antique store. Everything within these walls reminds me of our days together. If she were still here, I know she’d laugh and say I’m being too sentimental.”

Evelyn took a shaky breath and placed the record back on the shelf. “Is that for sale?” Frederick asked. She nodded solemnly. “I can no longer afford this place. Everything must be sold, even memories.” With an idea stirring in his head, Frederick said, “Wait here!” and ran out of the store.

He returned thirty minutes later with his mother and father. “You were right, son,” his dad said. “This is a pretty place.” Evelyn walked to the door and welcomed them. “Hello,” she said. “Hm, you seem completely normal. Well, to each is their own I guess. Anyways, your boy Sedgwick is a wonderful listener,’ she said. His parents glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes. He shrugged, and Evelyn continued. “He let a poor old woman like me tell the story of a beautiful adventure and reminisce on the good old days.”

Frederick looked at his parents and then back at her. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Evelyn. Your story’s not over yet.”

“That was eight years ago,” Frederick said, dressed in black. “I was only ten years old at the time, and had no idea how big of an impact that burgundy chair and small antique store would have on me. My family bought Evelyn’s Antiques that day to keep her legacy going. And now, here we are, gathered to celebrate the life of this beautiful woman.” He stepped out from behind the podium, a small bouquet in his hands. With glistening in his eyes, he lay down the roses. “Rest in peace, Mrs. Evelyn. Your story shall never be forgotten.”