She loved ice cream. That’s all there is to it. And most any flavor would do; but her favorite, when she was in the mood to have a favorite, was jamoca almond fudge, that rich combination of coffee, almond, and the flavor requisite to all successful desert recipes (at least for her) chocolate. But there were days when peppermint was the only choice she would consider. In fact, she really enjoyed drizzling chocolate syrup, quite artistically I might add, over a bowl full of the creamy dessert full of bits of pink and green hard mint candy.
…Methos squinted and frowned. Is this sounding like Julia Child? He gave his head a shake and tried again...
Then smiling this mischievous little girl smile, she would upend the syrup bottle and make a chocolate moat between the fortress walls (the edge of the bowl, naturally) and the treasure that lay within. Sometimes the chocolate would wind its way through the mound of cream, creating dark rivulets that streamed and flowed over and through the pink candy mountain.
…He read the words he had just written, frowned again, then rubbed his forehead between thumb and third finger. It does sound like a bloody cooking show. It’s been too long since I wrote in my diary. Yes, that’s it. Too long…
Now if anyone were ever to read this, I’ve no doubt he or she would wonder how it is I came to know something as small and insignificant as her favorite ice cream flavors. Not that this has anything to do with anything really, except with regard to her penchant for privacy and the unusually difficult time she had guarding that which to her is a most precious possession.
…Scowling, he continued…
The difficulty for her lay in the very nature of her profession, which is, in and of itself quite necessarily, a public one. And because of several years of consistently glowing reviews, her celebrity had grown to the point that she was beginning to be known and recognized even outside her own milieu.
At the time to which I refer, her most recent season in Europe and America was a smashing success. She had been featured in London at the Royal Anniversary Celebration of Covent Garden’s grand renovation. Then she sang, by royal invitation of course, for the Queen Mother’s birthday. It was a small, mostly family affair.
…Humph, he thought. Royals. Didn’t phase her a bit…
Following those events, in May it was as I recall, the Gala at the Paris Opera was spectacular-- the night one of those magical ones when orchestra, singers, and audience were swept up in a common sort of bond, as if all were together on a different plane of existence for a few hours. The opera world’s brightest young stars illuminated the night’s performance, or so the program said, and I’m sure it was true. And she…well, I will admit, if to no one but myself…I had eyes only for her.
She was magnificent.
Well, she was. I know that word sounds like complete exaggeration, but with regard to her, ‘magnificent’ does not begin to say it all. I’m finding it difficult to collect the words to describe…
…He stopped. Do I really want to put this on paper, or even computer? What if someone should find it? Fodder for the tabloids, I suppose. Methos frowned as he pondered the thought for a full minute, shrugged away the possibility, and continued….
It is difficult to describe that night, her performance in particular. One simply must hear and see her for one’s self to understand. She is extraordinary. And I surprised myself—that is to say, my own reaction surprised me, though I suppose I should have seen it coming. Well, I did actually, to be quite honest, from those first days after her arrival in Paris.
I refer, of course, to Meredith diAngelos, American opera singer. That’s how most people know her, at any rate. But there is far more to this woman than her profession. Amazing that I could be so drawn in by someone who does opera, of all things. I must have been to the opera all of two times in the last three hundred years or so. Of course I saw a couple of Wolfie’s a while back and have to admit, they were superb; but it’s simply become tiresome to me. After all, for someone who edited the Iliad and directed Greek tragedy and taught the players how to use those bloody masques… well, need I say more?
But as for Meredith, she is remarkable for many more reasons than her dramatic, musical and linguistic abilities. I was struck, well, nearly literally come to think of it, by some of those qualities…
…Methos paused, and a slow grin spread over his face as he recalled that day in the barge. How unexpected, her questions, her reactions to the answers! He’d had to duck quickly to miss the flying cup aimed straight at his head…
I have no doubt that the fellows in the archeology department at university would find it difficult to believe that someone such as Meredith would bother to spend time with someone as dry and dusty as ‘Adam Pierson’. To that idea I say, Perception. It all comes down to one’s ability to look beyond the outward appearance and discern what lies beneath. Of course, I’ve had centuries to perfect the persona those chums are familiar with. Frankly, I wouldn’t believe it possible of someone like Pierson either—to be with someone like her, I mean. But then, those fellows judge by what they perceive to be true, or factual, based on the evidence in their hands. They have no idea how very wrong they would be. Just, I suppose, as wrong as I was, at first.
Which brings me to how we met. We have a mutual friend who really enjoys opera. Actually, he met her first by about fourteen years. He ‘discovered’ her, as they say, recognized her talent, arranged for her audition with the New York City Opera, and as he told me, "She impressed the hell out of them." They invited her to participate in their Young Artists Program. Again, as they say, first impressions…yes, yes, how we met, I’m getting to that.
I was visiting our mutual friend in March of that same year, the year of the Gala in Paris. He convinced me to go with him to meet her plane arriving from a brief stopover in Ireland. He had seen her a mere three times in the preceding fourteen years, and then only from the distance afforded an audience member at the opera, but he told me he had kept up with her career. I must say, MacLeod surprised me a bit, and anyone who knows me at all knows I’m not easily surprised. He was nervous as a schoolboy, clutching in his hand the bouquet he had brought for her, crumpling it nearly into petals before the plane ever arrived.
…Methos dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair flexing his hand. His glance wandered to the fire, and watching the flames, his eyes went slightly unfocused as he allowed memories to surge through his mind. He savored every one. When the feelings came, and inevitably, the pain they brought with them, he was powerless to stop them. His eyes remained fixed on the fire, but it was not the flames he was seeing. Not the flames at all.
