He handed her his camera while the woman called and gestured toward her children, who came scampering back to their parents. Obediently they clustered into a family huddle, all five grinning broadly as Anne snapped several pictures for them.
“Thank you, thank you,” the man said several times, again bowing toward her as she returned the camera to him.
Anne smiled back, pleased to have helped them, for a moment not thinking about Greg or even Paul, or any of her perceived and real woes. She laughed as the youngest child, not more than seven, bowed low to her with a solemn expression and said with very little accent, “Thank you, miss beautiful lady. We will always remember you.”
As they moved away toward the entrance, Anne trailed behind, feeling a bit wistful as she watched them move together with such ease, a happy family on vacation. They walked toward the hot-dog vendor—the same fellow who had served Paul and her. She watched as they got their hot dogs and their sodas and moved to a low stone wall where they perched for their picnic lunch.
Her heart registered the tall, dark man standing a few yards to the side of the street vendor before her eyes did. Turning slowly, Anne saw him silhouetted against the sun. She moved as if in a dream toward him. He made no step toward her but only waited, his face still in shadow until she was quite near.
As he held out his hand, Anne saw the single long-stemmed red rose. “I told you I would be waiting,” Paul said softly.
Chapter 6
Paul stood very still, his face betraying nothing of the turmoil inside of him as he held the flower out toward Anne. She took it, looking up at him with those huge gray-green eyes.
“Hello,” she said softly.
“Hello,” he said back, all the lofty and elegant phrases he’d planned for this moment vanished from his mind.
Anne lifted the rose to her face, closing her eyes as she inhaled its delicate perfume. Paul could feel her hesitation, coupled with a longing of her own. He resisted the urge to read her mind, whether from respect or fear of what he might find there he wasn’t entirely sure.
They stood mutely for several moments. The silence was uneasy and awkward. It was as if the intense intimacy they’d shared a few nights before had been a dream, something Paul had created through spell and incantation, ultimately worth nothing.
Hesitantly Anne said, “I missed you. I’m sorry I was so abrupt in refusing to see you.” Paul saw the pain flash across her face. She looked so fragile standing there, her shiny hair curling around her delicate face, her eyes pleading, nervously biting her lip. He wanted to reach out and pull her to him, to bury his face in her soft hair and never let her go.
Instead he said, “I’m the one who should apologize, Anne. I rushed you. I took advantage of your vulnerability.”
Anne looked down at the ground and then up into his face. “I know you don’t know me very well, but I don’t usually fall into bed with a man on the first date. Especially not the first date out after my husband—I mean, you know…” She sputtered to a stop, her face red, her expression chagrined.
Well naturally she was confused, Paul thought. For what she had done, she had not done of her own free will. Though she had given her body willingly, she would never have done so without his subliminal trickery. Yet he could never admit this to her—he would surely lose her forever.
“Please don’t apologize for sharing with me the most wonderful night of my life. I’ve thought of little else since we parted.” Paul forced himself to stop talking. He didn’t want to frighten her away again. Instead he said rather stiffly, “You’re looking well, Anne,” Now he sounded like a stuck-up prig. Trying again he said, “You look beautiful. Red suits you.”
Anne smiled shyly, glancing down at her red silk sleeveless blouse. “A nice change from the old frumpy stuff I was wearing when you first saw me, huh?”
“Much,” Paul agreed. “Say,” he said with studied casualness. “Would you perhaps care for a late lunch or early dinner? There’s a charming place I know of in the Village. From the front it looks like just another storefront, but they have a large patio in back, shaded by trees with a little fountain right in the center. It feels like a bit of Italy transported to New York. And the food is quite good. What do you say?” He waited, barely daring to breathe. If she declined, he would accept it graciously. He would not press. He would not sway her with his witchcraft.
“Are we dressed for it?” Anne asked, looking at Paul, who was wearing a black T-shirt and faded blue jeans.
“Sure. It’s not a fancy place, not upscale. Just good food.”
“That sounds great.” Anne smiled, her left cheek dimpling. Paul resisted his urge to kiss that cheek. He couldn’t help the feeling of hope that stirred inside him.
They passed a large crowd near the fountain in the square, small children perched on their fathers’ shoulders straining to see the juggler tossing brightly colored balls in the air. They walked past the bench where he’d first seen her, where he’d first eavesdropped on her funny, sad thoughts.
As they walked, Anne asked Paul about his life—what he did for a living, how long he’d been in the States, where he lived—all things she would have asked their first time together had she not been enchanted by his spells to focus solely on their lust.
He told her the usual half-truths. While he acknowledged he invested in fine art for several collectors in New York and Europe, he didn’t mention he also invested for himself and had a sizable and very valuable collection of paintings from all over the world. When he admitted to living in the States for the past ten years, he omitted the fact this was far from his first visit. Imagine her surprise if she knew he’d first come to the United States just after the Civil War.
“This is lovely,” Anne said as the waiter led them through the dimly lit dining room to the beautiful patio beyond. It was late afternoon—too early for the dinner crowd—and they had the place to themselves. The sunlight dappled through the trees and the splashing fountain and high walls muted the sounds of the city.
After they’d scanned the menu, Paul ordered a cheese and fruit platter and a bottle of red wine for them. “And could you please find a vase for the lady’s rose?” he said, nodding toward the flower Anne still held in her hand.
They sat across from one another at a small wrought iron table. Anne leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. As the sun lowered, a glimmer of red-gold shone through the branches, lighting her face like an angel’s.
Anne said, “I have to say this one more time and then we can move on.” She took a breath and plunged on, “I’m not the type who usually just falls into bed with a guy I just met. Especially not like this. I don’t know what got into me. You have to believe me.”
“Please, don’t waste another moment’s thought on that, Anne. I believe you implicitly. What happened between us was unplanned. I hope you don’t feel compromised by what happened and if you do, I apologize. I have no expectations, I assure you. Though,” he lowered his voice, looking deep into her gray-green eyes, “for me, it was magical. I will cherish our time together all the days of my life, no matter what happens or doesn’t happen going forward.”
“Well!” Anne laughed, her cheeks flushed. “You certainly can turn a pretty phrase, Mr. Windsor, I’ll give you that.” Her expression became more serious as she added, “We were rather thoughtless though, in the heat of the moment. I’m not taking any kind of birth control.” She took a breath, her expression worried.
Paul felt stricken. “I’m so sorry, Anne. I should have told you. I couldn’t get a woman with child if I wanted to. I’m sterile.” He watched her face until he was certain she accepted this. He could have gotten a woman with child during his first hundred years, but now, though he appeared in a youthful guise, his seed was no longer potent.
Anne seemed relieved, though still self-conscious about the sexual intimacy they’d shared. It was clear she didn’t plan on a repeat performance any time soon, at least not without magic, which Paul had promised him
self he would not use, not on Anne, not without her knowledge.
He couldn’t help think back to that night, Anne lying naked and splendid before him. He had to shift in his chair to hide his erection as he recalled her face twisted in passion as she’d sat astride his hips, impaled on his shaft. How he longed to taste her lush, ripe mouth again, to let his tongue slide down her rounded breasts, teasing the perfect nipples to attention. To taste her musky sweetness and feel her body tremble to his touch before he plunged his manhood into her velvet heat.
He leaned toward her, aware his yearning must be apparent on his face. She didn’t pull away as he moved closer. Tentatively he reached out, daring to touch her soft, rounded cheek with his finger, tenderness and lust at war inside of him. Anne’s eyes closed slowly, the smoky lashes grazing her cheeks as she sweetly lifted her face as if for a kiss.
The moment was shattered as the waiter reappeared, armed with a huge platter of soft and hard cheeses, fresh summer berries and a crusty warm loaf of bread nestled in a basket covered with a linen napkin. A second waiter followed carrying a narrow crystal vase for the rose and a bottle of wine, which he proceeded to open and pour for Paul, waiting for his nod before filling both their glasses.
“This is delicious,” Anne said as she bit into a piece of warm, fragrant bread smeared with a rich creamy Brie. “I didn’t even know I was hungry.” Paul watched with pleased amusement as she piled her plate with cheese and fruit, eagerly tearing off pieces of bread from the basket between them.
He too ate and drank but he barely tasted his food. It was wonderful to see the new sparkle in her eye—a sparkle that wasn’t there the last time he’d seen her. Amelia had said Anne would remember the witch’s admonition to begin to live again—not with her mind but with her heart. Was that all it had taken—a magical suggestion to let the spirit of her husband depart? Was Anne truly ready to live again? To love again?
As if she were the one who could read minds, Anne, who had been gazing at the red rose suddenly said. “I had a dream last night. About Greg. About my husband. I thought I had forgotten most of it, but suddenly I can recall it, at least some of it. You were in it too.”
“Tell me.”
Anne stared at the rose a while longer. Without turning to face Paul she said, “Greg and I were walking along a beach. He turned to me and said he had to leave me. It was time to let him go. I didn’t want to. I tried to hold on to him and he—” She paused, her face troubled. Paul put his hand gently over hers and she didn’t pull it away.
Taking a breath she continued. “He started to melt. I don’t know how else to say it. He just sort of melted—his skin sloughed off his bones. His eyes were like blue wax on his cheeks. It was horrible in a way and yet in another way I was expecting it. I mean, I knew he was right. That it was time…”
She looked up at Paul. “I knew it when I woke up. That something was different. This is going to sound really weird but it was like he had sort of—gone. I mean, he’ll always be in my heart, that’s not what I mean. But it was like a weight had been lifted. Or I don’t know, a shroud taken off. Sounds melodramatic but that’s what it’s like. Like I can breathe again somehow. Like I’m supposed to breathe again. To start again.”
“To live again,” Paul added softly.
“Yes,” Anne nodded. She looked at the rose. “And there was more. I was with you, sitting in this field of rose petals. And you gave me a rose. Just like this one. Only it had thorns and one of them pricked me. I remember staring at the blood on my thumb and you said something. You said—”
“I said, ‘Love is like that sometimes’.”
Anne stared at him, her eyes wide. “How did you know?” she breathed. “How did you know?”
“I can read minds, didn’t I tell you?” Anne stared at him a moment longer, her mouth parting in surprise. Then she laughed. “For a second I almost believed you.”
They sat in the courtyard long after they’d finished their small meal, drinking wine, talking of this and that, things of little consequence. She was with him—for now—that was all that mattered, he told himself. He would let her guide the conversation, steer the evening, make the choices.
As the dinner crowd began to arrive, they decided to take a walk. Anne, Paul was pleased to note, took the rose as they left. They moved easily together. Paul resisted his desire to take her hand. They walked along window-shopping at the antique shops and along one of the streets, a string of adult novelty shops filled with mannequins dressed in leather, sporting whips and chains. Both longtime New Yorkers, they weren’t in the least fazed by the patrons going into these shops, though they did grin at one another as a man well over six feet, heavily made up and dressed in a red satin gown and very high heels sashayed down the steps into the Pussy Cat Boutique, his bright blond wig slightly askew.
Finally they ended up back at Anne’s townhouse. Paul waited as she unlocked the front door. She turned to him. “I’ve had so much fun. I don’t want the evening to end. I honestly can’t remember when I’ve had such a nice time.” She smiled at him though he discerned the shadow crossing her face as if she did recall when she’d last had such fun, with a different man, a man now gone.
“I’ve had a wonderful time too,” Paul said. “Next time we’ll have to get up our courage and check out the Pussy Cat Boutique.”
Anne laughed. “I had my eye on the Red Leather Whip.”
“Did you now? That can be arranged.” Paul twirled a pretend moustache between his fingers and Anne laughed, tossing her curls back.
Before he realized what he was doing, Paul bent down and kissed her, his lips finding hers, her taste at once new and achingly familiar. After a moment she kissed him back, sighing against his mouth as he cupped her face in his hands, drawing her closer to him.
All of Paul’s held-back longing came rushing to the fore. He wanted to scoop her up into his arms and carry her off like some conquering Viking. Anne was the first to pull away, looking flushed and embarrassed. Laughing self-consciously she said, “Would you like to come inside for a while? I mean, just for a while. You know…”
He read her mind, aware she was promising herself she wouldn’t “do anything stupid” this time, meaning let him make love to her. He forced himself to accept this. He wanted her desperately—but only on her terms. “That would be nice,” he said. “Though I can’t stay too long,” he added to let her off the hook she obviously felt she was hanging from.
“Oh well then,” Anne said, clearly relieved. “Come on up for a spot of tea, guv’ner.” Her faux British accent made Paul laugh as he followed her into the foyer and up the stairs.
Anne made tea and they carried their mugs into the living room. Paul again admired the painting of the farm and asked, “Have you got any others?”
“Yes,” Anne said, waving vaguely toward the hall that led to the bedrooms. “I have a bunch of stuff. Most of it’s garbage though. Just dabbling, nothing much. I haven’t painted seriously in years. I just didn’t have the time when I was an investment banker…” She paused and her mouth opened as if she had more to say.
Paul waited and when she didn’t continue prodded, “Yes?”
“Wow,” she said, looking at him with surprise in her face. “I just used the past tense. I guess I really am done with it all. It’s hard to believe because it was such a part of my identity for so long. And now it’s like—I don’t know, it’s like it doesn’t even matter. It’s like I was kind of borrowing the whole money-power thing, pretending it meant something to me. And it’s weird, because now it doesn’t. God, what would Greg say if he knew I was such a traitor to the cause.”
She laughed ruefully. Paul said, “People change. Death changes people and not every change is always for the worst. As you rearrange your life, sometimes you find new paths to explore. It can be quite exciting really.”
“I don’t know. I love to paint but I never thought it meant much. I mean, my dad, well, he said it was just a hobby. A waste of time really.”
“Something that brings joy and pleasure to yourself and others is hardly a waste of time.”
“Well,” Anne shook her head dismissively. “I don’t know about that.”
“Will you show me your other paintings?”
Anne looked a little uncertain but finally she nodded and said, “Okay. But it’s really just a stack of old canvases I stashed in the study when we moved in. I’ve been meaning to go through them and throw out the really terrible ones and the ones I know I’ll never finish.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t’. Who knows what masterpieces are lurking in your study.”
Paul was delighted by the series of paintings of the farms in the Hudson Valley—more pastoral scenes of upstate New York with rolling green hills and fields dappled with flowers as well as some of cows and horses. He loved the use of color and light that made them not simply renditions of photographs but vibrant, interesting work that somehow captured sunlight and wind as a living part of the work.
But it was the series of self-portraits that really caught Paul’s eye. They were clearly of Anne but a younger Anne, her hair pulled back in a ribbon, her large gray-green eyes staring from the canvas with a sad somewhat fragile look. There were five of them, some only partially completed. As Paul began to look at them, Anne put her hand over his and said, “Don’t look at those. They’re horrible. I was trying to capture something of myself in them but all I succeeded in doing was creating some odd-looking waif. I hope I don’t really look like that.”
“I can definitely see they are of you,” Paul answered. “You have a real skill with the brush, Anne. You can capture the essence of things with a few strokes. You don’t overwork the canvas as so many artists who use oils do. I wouldn’t sell yourself short. Truly. I know something of art, Anne, and your work has real potential, real talent.”
“Hush,” Anne said, but he could see she was pleased. He had to turn away to keep from pulling her to him, wrapping her in his arms as he leaned down for a long, lingering kiss. “Thank you,” she added. “I don’t mean to be abrupt. I’m rather shy about my work, you see. Hardly anyone has even seen it. Greg used to say I should sell the farm scenes to motels for their rooms but I could never do that. Each one has a part of me in it, if you know what I mean. It’s like I put a bit of my soul into each piece. I know that sounds corny but—”
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