The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Thirty-Eight
A Guitar, Strawberry Kisses and a Discouraged Chico
Over
in a secluded corner, Roux played the last refrain of a ballad to his
small circle of avid listeners.
“And that, my dear friends,
that is the story of the day, how this guitar, his guitar,” Roux
made an upward gesture, “that is how this guitar was christened
Cristin Aileen.”
A round of applause broke out, drawing
attention to the group for a brief moment. The gypsy smiled at the
pleasure the story had given them. Their lives were so limited within
the Room that lately they hungered for any new entertainment.
Raoul’s accordion playing had become repetitive and stale.
Edward was great at making paper chains to decorate but one could
only hang so many before the place started looking like a
kindergarten room on steroids.
Ichabod drew a crowd with his
new inventions but he never let anyone touch his creations for fear
they would be ruined. Sam was always a bright spot with his antics,
but he was regimented to the kitchen most of the time.
So
Roux had begun to play ballads, telling stories and finding a new way
to add spark to the Room during their elongated stay.
“Again,”
Wade wiped away a single tear. “Will you tell the story again
sometime?”
Roux nodded. “I promise, lad. But please, no
more tears. This was a happy story.”
“I know,” Wade
agreed. “That was a tear of happiness.” The young man turned and
walked away, humming the last chords of Roux’s song.
The
kitchen door swung open and Sam turned in circles to the center of
the room, balancing silver trays on both hands, stopping dead center.
“Taa-daa! Mid-day snack!” he announced. He brought the
trays down to eye level to reveal a lovely arrangement of the most
gorgeous baked pastry tarts brimming with plump juicy strawberries
and topped with a spring of mint.
The men pushed and shoved
their way to Sam trying to lay claim to the tiny pie-like
confections. Some of the men, like Jung and Lerner, shoved the
dessert straight into their mouths, without taking a single bite. The
sight of opened mouths chewing away disturbed Sam as he felt his
masterpieces were not being fully appreciated.
Others, such
as Gilbert and Axel, munched down quickly; the tarts gone before they
returned to their seats, wiping their mouths clean upon their
sleeves, despite the fact that Sam had offered napkins.
A
select few choose to carry their choices back to their tables, with
forks and napkins, to enjoy the delicate treats. Roux and the
Frenchman were among them.
They sat at separate tables and
Roux caught the Frenchman’s eye, who in turn saluted with a forkful
of tart before placing it in his mouth. Roux watched as the
Parisian’s eyes grew wide, his mouth chewing ever so slow as he
took in the sugary sweetness of the berries and the buttery taste of
the sheer perfect pastry.
“Mon Dieu! Ceci est recette au
goût âpre de fraise de Sarah's !” he exclaimed.
“Jeune
homme, comment avez-vous obtenu à mon maid's français
la recette au goût âpre ?”
Sam shrugged his
shoulders at the Frenchman, indicating he did not understand what he
was asking.
“If I may be of assistance?” the Earl offered
his translation skills.
“Please,” Sam nodded, wanting to
know what the man had said, hoping he was not disappointed with the
tarts.
The Earl asked the Frenchman to repeat. After the man
repeated his question to the Earl, Rochester turned, flipping the
long, brown curls over his shoulder, setting down the King Charles
Spaniel so he could readjust the fine English wig with both hands.
“If I am not mistaken, he is asking…Master Samuel, is
it?”
Sam gave a slight nod.
“The gentleman is asking how
did you get the strawberry recipe. He claims it is a recipe that is
only known to his French maid, Sarah.”
On hearing Sarah’s
name, Roux quickly took a mouthful of the tantalizing strawberries.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet fragrance of the berries,
letting the mix of tart and sweet melt onto his tongue. The sensation
brought back a memory of a late spring day, a picnic down by a river,
a French maiden named Sarah, and a bowl full of strawberries.
Ah,
yes, he thought. To be back in France…along that river…with
Sarah…and those luscious strawberries. He smiled to himself as he
remembered the kisses that followed.
A commotion brought Roux
from his precious memories.
“Get your damn dog off Chico!”
Mort was screaming at Rochester.
Across the room Roux saw the tussle
going on between the two canines. However, the Earl’s dog seemed to
have the upper hand as he hung on for dear life…growling and
snarling…his jaw clamped shut on the screwdriver protruding from
Chico’s head.
“Get him off before your dog finds himself
on the short end of his own screwdriver!” Mort screamed.
Chico
continued to run in circles, trying to shake the spaniel off. It
wasn’t a pretty sight.