Summer had not yet really begun but today made one imagine how it would be in a month or two's time. The sun had risen early and only occasionally taken a moment to hide behind one of the scarce fluffy clouds that leisurely moved across an uncommonly azure blue sky. Parks and gardens were exceptionally lush and green, spotted with colourful dots in various shades of yellow, red, lilac, and orange, walking through the late spring's offerings a sweet and subtle scent greeted the perceptive wanderer and inspired dreams of sunshine and holidays that still lay ahead.
Towards this picturesque scenery a pair of hazel coloured eyes longingly blinked through the glass of a broad window in Edmund Street. Much rather had they been out there enjoying the extraordinary beauty of this pre-summer day than being stuck indoors focusing on plenty of photographs depicting what they always preferred to absorb and admire on the spot. But those needed to be sorted out and arranged in the most appealing way, meaning to catch the eye of a person merely passing by and at once creating a temptation to visit the place where these wonders could be found and arrested by the art of photography. Therefore these particular hazel coloured eyes just now lowered their gaze directing their professional focus back onto the three pictures Aoife had placed in the centre of the entire collection. What would represent Bridgeborough and its surroundings the best? Low green hills were to be found everywhere across Suffolk, nothing distinctive about that. A small flock of happy sheep showing anything but their faces - no, one would imagine it was taken in Wales. A narrow creek dreaming of being a strong river once it was grown up just wanted an ancient stone bridge to be perfect, but so... Aoife sighed and leaned back pushing herself away from the scattered photographs. She did not know what to do. They all were pretty, some even beautiful, well lit, nicely composed and showing adorable motifs but they weren't special, distinctive, fit to represent the town she now called home for so many years. Trying to fight off the upcoming desire to stare out of the window once again she stretched her long athletic arms and thus glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to four. Ten minutes still. Ten minutes she would probably spend sitting and staring, rearranging and changing perspective, considering and eventually discarding. She saw no point in it. So she grabbed the brown paper envelope and carefully put the photographs back, deciding to deal with them tomorrow. She had to be ready for print by Friday afternoon, still half a work day to go and it would not do any good to force things. The solution to this problem would certainly present itself at the moment she least expected it. It always had.
She spent the last minutes of her day at work cleaning up her desk which took about thirty seconds and then checked her post. Two letters, one from their partner agency up north requesting her to visit and take some pictures for their own season's guide, the other was postmarked in France and therefore much more interesting. She quickly skimmed the first one and then, excited, opened the second. It was by a Paul Depuy, a name she recollected though she had met him only once a few weeks ago, courier of a French travelling agency who had brought a group of tourists to Suffolk in April and partook in an alpaca tour through the hills surrounding Bridgeborough that was situated in slightly lower ground, kind of a broad and very flat valley. Letters of thanks were not unusual but they usually were addressed to the agency and a kind of business matter. She herself had never received one directed to her personally. This surprised her a great deal. True, she had been the one to guide the alpaca tour, help the less (to be honest not at all) agile tourists climb the few steeper sections on the hills without falling or slipping, and entertain the more weary participants by calling their attention to nature's smaller beauties otherwise entirely unperceived by them, but this! A letter to her. It was written very well, in good, clear English, not too familiar, but not businesslike at all. She did not decide to understand what it might mean. Instead, she let her eyes rest on the letter a moment longer, folded it, and put it back into its envelope. Now it was four o'clock, time to go home.
Aoife picked up her worn backpack, put the letter into the left back pocket of her jeans, and left the office. Pauline at the reception desk looked up as she passed her in the hall and gave a cheerful bye, obviously anticipating a restful evening herself in half an hour. She raised her hand in a greeting gesture and left the building. The sun was still quite high in the sky and the afternoon comfortably warm. A perfect pre-summer day. And a Thursday. Aoife's rather tight lips curved into a smile. It was Thursday. What a happy day. She took a small key out of her pocket to unlock the security lock on her bicycle, a second-hand average bicycle painted moss green, with perfectly functioning brakes, lights, and bell. Aoife was very correct about these things. After unlocking the black chain and safely storing it away she put on her helmet, fastened it tightly, and swung onto the bicycle. In a few minutes she would be home. Pan was certainly already waiting.
In an entirely different part of town Annabelle's Café was almost crowded and filled with a constant humming noise originating in the dozens of people both inside and especially out on its small terrace who seized the opportunity of such a splendid day to have brunch, lunch, coffee, or simply a chat at the seemingly French establishment. Since ten in the morning the waitresses had been busy carrying their sweet and savory dishes along with tea and coffee to the small iron tables on the terrace and serving brunch on the dark wooden ones inside. While students occupied the intricately formed chairs in the morning and left eventually for lectures or seminaries around noon, they were then replaced by the shopping people exhausted with running about various shops, fighting for the best offers, and carrying heavy bags and longing to sit and take some refreshment. By then, the large cooled show-cases besides the bar of Annabelle's Café were stocked with the day's sweet sensations. Muffins were to be had since the café had opened, but the real wonders of pastry only arrived around midday. Tartelettes, rich cakes, and beautifully decorated, tiered ones were placed on white plates drawing the attention of every customer passing by. Tarte au Chocolat, Lemon Curd, Strawberry Cake, Sachertorte, Salted Caramel Tarte were only a few of the delicious specimen. They were ordered as dessert after a satisfying lunch or enjoyed in the bright afternoon sun. On days like this, the café made most of its money by their sweet surprises. The hands who had been principally responsible for a lot of them, however, by now were engaged completely otherwise.
The small, elegant, strikingly feminine hands that had been busy mixing dough, measuring ingredients, and skillfully applying frosting as well as decorating fancy cakes were now holding a rather old-fashioned basket and a quilt, the equipment for a picnic. Having started work at Annabelle's Café – which, by the way, was run by a stereotypically British man called Brian who thought a woman's and especially a Frenchwoman's touch would help attracting customers – at six they had been so fortunate to retire at two in the afternoon and have the rest of this day at their disposal. This gave them the rare opportunity of making a picnic since once weather, work, and university curriculum allowed roughly an hour time to be spent together. Due to her working in gastronomy Jeanne usually had busy weekends, at least Saturday or Sunday, and a free Monday. As a student, Jeremy was at the university from Monday to Friday with breaks at rather odd intervals which unfortunately interfered with Jeanne's free afternoons and evenings. But today they had managed. His midday lecture ended at half past two and as he had half an hour's journey back to Bridgeborough, it left enough time for Jeanne to prepare the picnic basket and refresh herself before setting out for the park.
In the pastry kitchen Jeanne usually wore simple clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, over which her chef's jacket and an apron were worn, practical and unassuming. For an afternoon with her boyfriend, however, she did not consider this outfit suitable and therefore, the minute she was at home, took a relaxing shower and changed. As the weather was more than just fine she took a quick survey through her summer wardrobe eventually deciding on a silky, airy dress with short sleeves and lace at the decolleté and hemthat reached dow to her knees floating around her tiny body like a summer breeze. She dried her black hair and did it up loosely in an informal fashion with a large hairslide resembling something like a knitting needle so that a few streaks, slightly curling, fell down framing her lovely face. A pair of white ballerina shoes and fake pearl earrings and the accessories were complete. She then hastened into the small kitchen to prepare sandwiches and fruit, packed the basket, grabbed the quilt and directly set out towards the park.
It was a pleasant walk, not even ten minutes, and the light skirt of her summer dress touched her legs like caresses while she walked, a bright smile on her full lips, the dark eyes sparkling with excitement. She only had to walk down the street, turn to the left and cross another one to reach the Aurora Park. Situated to the east of Bridgeborough, it was one of the places to catch the first rays of sunshine every day and therefore dedicated to goddess of dawn. A fountain featuring a statue of cream white stone resembling her marked the centre of the park, and a few steps to the north of that monument, beneath the branches of a particularly pretty magnolia, Jeanne and Jeremy were to meet for their picnic.
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As she wandered along the narrow paths through blooming flowers and green trees, she already was on the lookout for his tall, athletic figure, handsome and always appearing more formal than necessary, and when she reached Aurora's fountain she could perceive him leaning against the pink-blossomed tree awaiting her arrival. Her steps took up pace and within a moment she was in his arms, the quilt flying about and the picnic basket falling to her feet. She had almost sprung at him and her feet actually were taken off the ground in his embrace. She kissed himin the most romantic fashion to which he responded with even more passion. After some long seconds, which nevertheless were over too soon, they parted and got about preparing the picnic. Having come straight from his lecture, Jeremy had hastily packed his things and started for Bridgeborough, still in his quite formal outfit consisting of a well-pressed light blue shirt and straight jeans with dark shoes, no sneakers, but actual lace-ups. At least he had rolled up his sleeves since it was that warm. He smiled affectionately as they sat down, took her hand, and listened to all the amusing nothings Jeanne regularly had to share, before feasting on orange juice and sandwiches, and relating the uninteresting happenings of his own day. Talking was only to hear their voices and had no purpose in giving information, it was conversation for conversation's sake and they enjoyed it, often interrupted by kisses, for about an hour, when they both had to go again. With a last tight embrace and an especially long kiss they parted, reminding each of their date the next day and eventually said good-bye for the present.
It was hot. Outside the sun of June brightened everything and made the thermometer climb higher than ever before this year. But inside it was even hotter. Bright yellow sunlight shone through the large, high windows into the lecture theatre warming the busy students. Normally it was rather cool in this wide, high ceilinged hall and today's warmth made it more comfortable, warm but not yet burning so that the shutters had been left open. In the warm golden light of the sun the masses of copper coloured hair even shimmered golden themselves. In soft waves it fell down on slender shoulders covering an intent face focusing on the even lines of writing on white paper, tightly covered with black ink. A pen fluently moved across the page, adding to its content, only occasionally stopping when the face was raised to look up and listen even more carefully. An instant later it was down again and the pen again dancing on the sheet. Then the copper covered head turned to the left as a brunette one had asked something in a whisper, thought for a moment, gave a short reply, and went back to its own occupation. Concentration was especially hard today. The marvellous weather caused a desire to go out instead of having lectures, and it also inspired what is commonly known as spring fever. As if Maura had needed that. She had been quite hot even before the sun had wandered enough to shine through the hall windows, hot because of anticipation and excitement. It was always that way with her on Thursdays. Always since April, the beginning of summer term when her curriculum had placed his lectures on Thursday afternoons. Last term it had been Tuesdays when she entered the hall with trembling knees and a faintly discernable blush. She blushed of shame when she thought about it. One would imagine this to have ceased by now, after so long a time, but instead of calming down, the sensation mercilessly even had intensified. She was absolutely pathetic. Pathetic and embarressing.
She tried focusing only on the words, taking in their meaning and copying them on the sheet, a task she managed automatically, while her cheeks blushed and her heart raced. Her mind dutifully processed the words, but her body strongly reacted to the voice pronouncing them. She intentionally avoided looking at him, only if it was absolutely necessary she raised her head and instantly felt her heart leap as she behold him.
Very soon after their acquaintance which mainly consisted in her attending lectures held by him, Maura had discovered an odd preference for Dr Austen – who annoyingly also bore the name of one of her favourite writers – that soon developed into some kind of crush. She instantly acknowledged this to be very silly and childish of her but had been unable to shrug it off. Determined to not let this circumstance influence her studies, she had carried on, attending his lectures exactly as she did any other professor's, convinced that it would eventually cease. It had not. For more than half a year by now she experienced this juvenile crush on Dr Austen and instead of slowly fading away it had acted completely contrariwise in growing until it was a real attachment. She sometimes caught herself daydreaming the most ridiculous things and even had to stop herself now to avoid another of this kind. Thankfully the ninety minutes of sweet torture were almost over and Dr Austen began to wrap things up, clicking through the last pages of his power point presentation, and preparing to close today's subject. Exhausted with the continual struggle to maintain composure, Maura could not prevent a sigh, a mixture of regret and relief.
A busy bustle of students packing their stuff, collecting jackets and coffee cups, getting up and moving towards the stairs leading to the door ensued. Maura waited patiently for the right moment to leave her row and follow a large troop of chattering students downstairs. Oddly enough, one entered the hall at the bottom and had to ascend to reach the rows of seats, meaning that on leaving one had to pass the professor's desk which she tried to do most unconspiciously but could not resist glancing over to Dr Austen collecting his materials. Incidentally he chose exactly that moment to look up himself and for a second, a very long second, saw right into her face. She did not know how to react, suddenly she felt ill. Then a smile appeared on his face and made it even more handsome.
'Miss Lancaster', he suddenly addressed her and she instantly stopped.
'Yes?' She was almost astonished that he knew her by name.
'Have you enjoyed today's sermon?'
She blinked. Students rushed past. Had he really said that?
'I beg your pardon?'
There was the smile again, even broader this time. He looked onto the desk, fumbled with some papers, and chuckled before raising his eyes to her again. His beautiful, deep indigo eyes.
'It was quite a sermon, wasn't it? You mustn't deny it – I saw you having trouble following and since you are such an intelligent woman I don't imagine it was because the subject was beyond your understanding. So I can only conclude that I must have been exceptionally boring.' He looked at her intently. She was still having trouble realizing what he had just said. Could it really, actually mean that he had been observing her during his lecture? It would be miraculous if he had been able to single her out among the crowd alone, but then fixing his attention solely on her? She must have misunderstood something. Completely unequal to the situation and bad at lying she did the only thing she could think of and spoke the truth.
'I actually had trouble following you, but that was entirely on my behalf. I seem to have been absent-minded.'
'And yet your pen has been busier than any other in the room.'
How perceptive he was!
'I – I was writing', she could feel the blood rushing into her cheeks, why was she telling this anyway?, 'a poem actually.'
'May I read it?'
She stared at him in utter amazement. Unable to say anything, she mechanically reached into her bag, pulled out a folder and handed him the sheet of paper covered with today's notes. Which included a short, four-versed poem, a sonnet almost. He received it, still with that disconcertingly engaging smile. He had scarcely touched it when she already closed her bag and ran on towards the door.
'See you tomorrow', she heard him say before she had left the hall and rushed down the corridor. Her cheeks burned.