I do breakfast

Dear readers, I’m improving my writing skills as you continue to read my letters. The whiteness of the blank page is like a sky filled with miracles for me. When I was young, all I wanted was to darken pages with my ink and, today, my golden years afford me the time I need. A smile, a quick peck on the cheek, a sympathetic eye; these days, I write to discover what true love is. Do I have enough time to find a soulmate? How many men and women experience great love? Maybe once, twice or even three times in their lifetime if they’re very, very lucky? Though the first two candidates missed the mark, Natasha, the expert matchmaker I tasked with the mission of finding me the right man, informs me she’s still looking. Does she know how fast time flies? My last few good years are slipping and crumbling away. HELP! WILL I REMAIN AN OLD SPINSTER UNTIL I’M 100? – “Claudia, my dear, she tells me, don’t forget to use your alias!” A third candidate is eager to meet me. After a 30-minute introductory call, I imagine myself on cloud 9. I don’t suffer from any pain, but my date manages an orthopedic company on Montreal’s South Shore that sells all sorts of products to drugstores across Canada – compression socks, lumbar belts, bandages, ankle braces, removable insoles, elastic bandages and corsets of all kinds. Should I break a leg to meet him faster? – “Dear Natasha, when can I meet him?” – “Patience! Your suitor is on a business trip to Chicago right now.” I understand. This man probably leads the same busy lifestyle I used to when I was opening restaurants across Canada. Even if I’d met my handsome Omar Sharif in person, I would’ve been too busy for even a hello! Impatient and a bit annoyed, I feel like I only get to write the beginnings of stories before they disappear in my head as instantly as a bursting soap bubble. It’s noon, I crack three small eggs into a hot frying pan. I sit to eat in front of my iPad, with a piece of bread, a cheese wedge and two slices of ham. Am I really hungry? I think about the businessman again. Will he like my homemade jams, my coloured outfits, my passion for words? A few days later, Natasha tells me that the travelling suitor is back in Montreal and he’d like to have breakfast with me this Saturday. He’d book a table at Leméac, a chic and popular French bistro. – “What do you say, Claudia?” she asks me. – “It’s perfect! I know the place and I’ll be there at 10.” Very early that Saturday morning, I try on so many outfits that it makes my head spin. I try on a red dress that’s perhaps a tad too bold, a pink one that may be too light for autumn and a blue one that’s simply too short. Finally, I opt for light grey pants and a matching sweater. He arrives smartly dressed and as serious as a Pope. He’s booked a table for four right in the middle of the restaurant. – “Nice to meet you, dear Sir. Are you waiting for someone else?” – “I like being comfortable in these busy and over-crowded restaurants. I prefer a large table with plenty of space.” – “Would you have preferred going to the Ritz?” – “It’s all the same. Too ordinary and expensive! At least here, the excellent smoked salmon brings in the guests.” – “I agree! It’s also my favourite dish.” We should get along just fine! But disenchantment quickly sets in when he nearly berates a waiter in training for suggesting red wine instead of white to accompany the fish. He eats his fill in no time and doesn't bother to treat me to dessert. Neither one of us has even finished our glass of wine. Once again, I conclude, I’ve wasted my time. As we exit the restaurant, he invites me to take a short stroll to help digest the meal. Surprised by his suggestion, I nevertheless agree. Fifteen minutes are enough to soothe the curmudgeon’s mood. He throws a few compliments my way and invites me over to his place, a big house on the waterfront, near Montreal. For heaven’s sake, how disappointing! – “The staff have the weekend off, and you can even stay the night if you like,” he dares say. – “No, no! No, thank you!” I’m stunned. A few more steps and he stops. A driver with a white cap opens the back door of a luxury car that I don’t recognize. – “Darling, let’s go for a ride in my brand-new Bentley!” he says to lure me into the backseat of his big, fancy car. I flatly refuse. “No, no!” I remain on the sidewalk for a moment, looking for my Mini. I see it, one block away from the large Bentley. I’m off, almost at a run. I unlock the Mini, open the door, dive in and quickly lock the doors. TO BE CONCLUDED. Cora ❤️

I quickly forgot the matchmaker’s good advice. Would I be recognized at every street corner? It had never even crossed my mind. The former philosophy teacher certainly had the means to treat me to brunch at the Ritz, and that’s just dandy. But a woman like me doesn’t go unnoticed; the matchmaker should’ve warned me to be more discreet, at least in the beginning. – “Yes, Natasha. I should’ve avoided the Ritz and the places I used to go to in my days as a businesswoman so I wouldn’t be recognized.” Public personalities often find it harder to meet people who are genuinely interested in them as a person, rather than in their social life or bank account. If the redhead hadn’t recognized me, with my fictitious name, the maître d’ served my real identity to him on a silver platter. Seated in front of me at the table, this first suitor acted as though he had no idea who I was. A regular at the Ritz himself, he asked me a few basic questions such as “have you ever been married?” “Are you widowed or single, and since when?” “Do you still work?” And so forth. He eventually suggested we move to the hotel bar, adjacent to the lobby, for a digestif. And I accepted! – “Limoncelli, amaretto, cognac, port or Mandarine Napoléon liqueur?” – “I’d really like a third latte, please. I don’t like alcohol very much, but I love coffee!” Comfortably seated on the grand hotel’s new blue couch, the redhead man is talking about travel. He shows me his plane ticket, destination Dubai. Although I’ve had three lattes, my mind and heart dry up. – “When are you leaving,” I ask, to make conversation. – “On Thursday, in exactly 5 days!” he replies enthusiastically. – “When do you get back?” – “I have an open ticket. Maybe it will depend on you!” – “What do you mean?” – “Let’s rent a room and have a bit of fun!” YUCK, YUCK and again, YUCK! HELP! Back at home, I kneel and thank the great Manitou and all their angels for saving me from disgrace. A few days later, I tell Natasha about my breakfast at the Ritz and she blames me for not listening to her warning to keep away from spending too much time in his company. I spent nearly five hours with the handsome Casanova! The matchmaker suggests a second candidate. She cautions me that he’s a very nice man but tremendously miserable. The wife he adored passed almost a year ago and his three daughters, all musicians, insist that their father rekindle his joy for living. Since I’m more familiar with the process now, I agree to meet this second shiny knight. Would these daughters have an orchestra conductor for a father? I can’t wait to hear a bit of music! I take Natasha’s advice and we have an initial telephone conversation. Everything seems to be going well! Not a single false note. I’ll try my luck and meet the next promising candidate in person. To my surprise, I learn that he resides just a dozen kilometres away from me. He texts me the address of a restaurant a good distance away, in Laval. Did his daughters pick the place? I arrive first and look for an inconspicuous table to hide at. A waiter with a long black apron appears and offers me something to drink while I wait for my date. I order a large coffee, with two creams. – “Tell me, young man, where is the washroom?” When I return to the table, an elderly bald man is struggling to stand up to shake my hand. Yet he squeezes my hand so firmly that I’m certain he’ll keep it forever! I immediately get the sense that, in his place, a few tears are instead speaking to me. I try to be nice, but the words coming out of my mouth drown in sorrow. He’s forgotten his reading glasses, and so I read him the menu. He suddenly remembers that during his last visit there with his dear deceased wife, they’d both eaten shepherd’s pie. It’ll be shepherd’s pie for Mr. Bernard, and for me, singlehood until I’m a hundred! TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️

The attentive matchmaker insisted that all her candidates were highly desirable. She had found me four men -- a musician, a businessman, a globetrotter and a retired philosophy teacher -- with solid values, compatible ages and were bilingual or even trilingual. – “Wow, Natasha! Do you really think I’ll be up to par?” – “Don’t worry! You’re still attractive. We’ve compiled these four candidates’ answers, and each one could be a suitor for you. Really, you're going to be spoilt for choice.” – “When can I meet them?” People usually purchase insurance in case something bad happens to them. But love, the great, magnificent and forever one, is it truly ever guaranteed? And what about my businesswoman’s small horns I’ve used to doubt, argue, negotiate and monetize? What am I going to do with them? – “Forget your horns and let your heart speak,” replies the matchmaker. “Every woman has the right to find her Prince Charming.” I had found mine at 18. He was so handsome, he’d even appear in my dreams! I could never shake his hand, though, because he was a movie actor on the big screen. When the movie “Doctor Zhivago” came out in 1965, the entire world discovered the beautiful and talented Omar Sharif, the famous actor who played the story’s protagonist. I had watched that love story 20 times over before the horrible ogre butchered my heart. – “Dear Natasha, help me. I have so little experience with love. How can I choose the best man for me?” And then I’m told that I needed to speak to each candidate over the phone first before deciding whether to go any further. – “Don’t forget to use your fictitious name (Claudia) when speaking to each suitor! About 30 or 40 minutes will be enough for introductions.” – “But what do I tell them? That I’m an inexperienced old woman on a quest to find Prince Charming? Tell me, Natasha, are men more decisive, adventurous, capable, enterprising?” How can we know the depths of another’s heart when we have such a hard time opening our own? Ten thousand paths blur the address to true happiness. Will this adventure be worth its weight in gold? What is the matchmaker selling, in fact? Not even the slightest assurance of success! Four telephone conversations with four manly voices; four guaranteed in-person meetings if no one cancels. Each one of them having filled out the same very lengthy questionnaire with over 200 questions. Where do I stand in all this nonsense? Natasha the matchmaker guesses my state of mind and implores me to continue with the program. She can even put me in contact with the first potential Mr. Right this evening. A retired philosophy teacher, the first gentleman caller, describes himself as an avid red-headed sportsman who likes to ski, play golf and tennis, bike and ride horses. Out of breath, my heart falls off the horse just by thinking about it! But I like philosophy. I also like the nice red head I saw in his profile photos. Can this first candidate help me understand Martin Heidegger, the most influential philosopher of the 20th century in my opinion? Natasha suggests I agree to a short meeting in person. Breakfast, a latte at a pastry shop or a walk in the park. “But beware!” she warns me. “It's forbidden to spend an entire day in his company.” Encounters that last too long can lead you to assume too much. The man with the red head suggests we have brunch at the Ritz. I say YES! Why not? I used to go to the Ritz every month for breakfast meetings with other businesswomen. In the long lineup, a very full head of red hair catches my eye. Fear seizes me. I find him too handsome, too young and I’m guessing more intelligent than me. This former philosopher knows by heart all the descendants of the Cro-Magnon man. I become nervous. I’m hungry. I can’t wait to drink my first coffee! And then the maître d’ recognizes me and invites me to sit at one of the best tables reserved for valued guests. Claudio, the hotel’s oldest waiter, greets me with a grin. I hesitate, I glance, I look for the red head. I tell the maître d’ that I’m waiting for someone. The man with the red hair finally joins me at the table. Will he guess who I am? He sits, stares at me and seems to search his memory. – “Dear Cora!” exclaims Claudio. “Don’t you ever age? We haven’t seen you in so long! May I suggest our famous crustless mushroom quiche with leek and goat cheese today. What do you say?” TO BE CONTINUED. Cora ❤️