Of Body And Soul

by L. J. Valentine

  "Come on, Peter. Kick the ball. You can do it." The child gave the soccer ball a swift kick. "That was great, son.” The father approached the boy and knelt on one knee. “You were great," he said, hugging his son. The man looked up and smiled at Kurt. "Did you see that? Isn't he great?" He patted his son on the shoulders. "Come on, Peter. Let's find Mom and show her how you've progressed." Father and son walked away, hand in hand.

  Kurt shuddered at the thoughts of his childhood. He remembered a similar incident with a different ending. It hadn't taken much for Kurt to incur a beating: a defiant word, a below-par report card, or in his case a dropped football, were all sufficiently venal "crimes." His father was particular where he beat him: his back, his legs, his buttocks. Any hidden place. When the beatings first started, his body would bruise badly, but he'd never bleed. As the beatings grew more severe and the wounds got extremely bad, the blood would flow.

  Kurt couldn't determine if the verbal abuse was worse than the physical abuse. At least with the beatings, the bruises went away. These memories still vivid, still crippling, were etched in his mind. No way was he going to bring a child into this world. No way would he risk abusing or mistreating him. It was better not to have children at all. Not to have the dread of repeating history. He should have never lied to Andrea. He should have told her straight out he never wanted children and the reason for his decision. He'd go back now and tell her the truth. He loved her more than life itself, but nothing and no one would change his mind.

  Andrea sat on the front porch and watched the festivities progress with the day. She never heard the screen door slam shut, as Kurt entered through the back of the house. The swing in which she sat began to sway and she turned to look up at him, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

  He pushed the swing in silence for a few more seconds and then sat next to her. He held her hand in his and brought it to his lips. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he said softly. "Is it too late to recoup the rest of the day?"

  "No, my darling, it isn't." She rose from the swing and pulled him up to her. "Take me upstairs."

  As the curtains blew softly from the gentle breezes, music entered through the bedroom window. The day had stayed overcast, but it didn't rain. Andrea lay cuddled in Kurt's arms.

  "Should I be offended that my lovemaking has put you to sleep?" he asked.

  Peacefully she shook her head and opened her heavy eyes. Kurt turned his head to glance at the clock on his night stand. "The crowds will be gathering for the concert," he whispered, not wanting to break the mood.

  She pressed her body deep into his, like a spoon molded into another spoon, not wanting to leave the feel of him, the smell of him. She let her fingers trail a path down his stomach.

  Kurt grabbed her hand before it reached its destination. "Don't you want to get something to eat before the concert starts?"

  "Why can't we just stay here and listen? We have the perfect spot," she giggled, as she proceeded on her destination.

  "Yes, we do, but we won't see anything if you continue," he said huskily.

  "I guess you're right. Our neighbors will wonder where we are." She jumped out of bed and ran for the shower. He wasn't far behind.

  The smell of sausage smoking on the grill; French fries being pulled from the fryer; pizza hot from the oven; the sweet smell of cotton candy and jellied apples; the laughter of children playing games and running through the streets; the hum of the orchestra tuning up; this was the Fourth of July. The excitement, the sights, the sounds, and the smells of a holiday.

  They walked, hand in hand, as the excitement drew them in.

  They stopped to admire a sculpture when Andrea saw her doctor. "Dr. Mitchell, I'm surprised to see you here!"

  "Andrea, you look wonderful. I take it you've been well," she smiled.

  "Yes, I have. I've gotten married since my last visit to your office. This is my husband, Kurt. Kurt, I'd like you to meet Doctor Mitchell." They shook hands. "She lives and practices in Albany."

  "What are you doing in our neck of the woods?" Kurt asked.

  "Every summer I take the month of July off, and spend it roaming through the antique shops in Chatham, Hudson and Kinderhook."

  "I enjoy collecting antiques," Kurt said. "Would you join us for a drink?"

  "I'd love to, but I promised to meet someone," she said, smiling. "We'll probably run into each again other before the day is over. Maybe than," She waved farewell and hurried down the street.

  "I'm starving," Kurt said, as they passed a cafe. He inhaled the aroma of grilled sausage, peppers, and onions. "We have to stop and get one of these sandwiches," and hurried to the counter to place an order. "Andrea, honey, would you like one?"

  She nodded, "And a beer, too.”

  They ate while the orchestra played John Philip Sousa marches and then smoothly progressed to Mozart and Vivaldi.

  "This orchestra is terrific. How does such a small town afford such extravagance?"

  Andrea asked.

  "Well, the committee hired this particular orchestra because of the string section. At first, the townspeople gave the committee a hard time when they realized the cost. But, through the combined efforts of the committee, the students, the teachers, and the music department’s extensive fundraising campaign, they were able to acquire the funds to afford such a magnificent orchestra."

  They sat and watched as the people marched and danced, completely absorbed in the magic of the evening. By the time the fireworks were concluded and the national anthem sung, it had become impossible for Kurt to confront Andrea with his true feelings about children. He decided let it go for a couple of days and then have a serious talk with her.

  Through the remainder of the summer, Andrea stayed busy, putting the finishing touches in their home, and helping with the last minute wedding preparations for Emily and Michael. She and Grayson were on the phone constantly, the calls becoming an integral part of their lives. If it were possible to develop a deeper bond over the phone, they did.

  Andrea learned Grayson loved Italian food, but hated red sauce. She loved to watch thrillers and comedies, but hated science fiction. She loved the color of emeralds, but hated the color of rubies. She loved to garden, but was afraid of worms. “Grayson, I’ve learned so much about you. What have you leaned about me?”

  Grayson was quiet for a moment. “Now that you asked, you are a strong and independent woman, but a child at heart. You’re like a blender trying to fuse harmony into your life and everyone around you. Your adoration for children for is extreme and your need for a family is overpowering. Are you happy, dear?" she asked.

  "Oh, Grayson, I couldn't be happier."

  "Have you discussed it with Kurt?"

  "I've tried, but every time I broach the subject, he gets furious and becomes hateful. He won't let me near him and his silence becomes overbearing.”

  "Have you asked Emily about his behavior?"

  "Yes, I have. The only thing she says is she and Kurt had an extremely difficult father, and Kurt should be the one to explain it to me."

  "Why don't you plan a long weekend together? I'm sure Kurt can get some time off from the television station.” Grayson became quiet. “Andrea, please don't do anything you'll regret later."

  "I won't. I promise."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As the last shades of the hot summer went into a surprisingly crisp autumn, Indian summer sneaked in and changed the aura of the landscape. The Catskill Mountains beckoned her with their display of color.

  "Kurt, do you think you could get some time off so we could have a weekend in the mountains?"

  "I can't see why not. When do you want to go?"

  "I'd like to go this weekend. There's a restored 1893 Victorian Inn in Windham. I used to go there in the summer, with my parents. There's a lake on the property where my Dad and I fished. You can fish while I do some painting. The mountain range is huge and reaches out and tugs at your inner soul. When the winds blow, you feel they’re speaking to you.
It’s spectacular.”

  "Sounds good to me. Make the reservation," he said, smiling.

  As they drove to the Catskill Mountains, nature crept through the windows to stamp an indelible picture of trees: yellow-green, apricot-orange, lava red and bright canary, and fused them into a collage of breathtaking beauty. On arrival, the Wyndemere Inn greeted them with a magnitude of combined beauty and charm. It was everything Andrea remembered from her childhood and more.

  White wicker rockers and green Adirondack chairs graced the front and side porches, inviting visitors to sit and stay awhile. The huge Victorian etched glass doors opened to a living room that was not too large, not too small; just right.

  When she crossed the threshold, memories opened before her as if a curtain had been ripped aside. The smell of apples and cinnamon permeated the room. To the right, a Baby Grand sat waiting to be played. She walked over and sat down.

  Reverently she touched the cold black and white ivory. Her hands fell to her lap, as she deliberately let her mind run backwards.

  Kurt watched as she gracefully placed her hands on the keys and closed her eyes. The sound of Chopin vibrated off the walls as her fingers passionately raced across the keys. He knew Andrea played, but she never had played like this at home.

  Kurt turned and looked out the window. The wind had intensified, and the fallen leaves floated and danced to the tempo of the music. He closed his eyes and listened, devouring every note, every movement. As the Sonata climbed to its peak, the room became an intimate chamber. Captivated by the overwhelming feelings of the last few minutes, Kurt never heard the door open. The crescendo of the music brought him back. When he opened his eyes, an older man of sixty, wearing a red and black check flannel shirt and jeans, stood by the piano watching Andrea.

  "Miss Wilson, is that you? I couldn't believe my ears when I heard that Sonata. Only one person played it like that." He smiled down on her. "Where is he?" he said, and turned around in search of her father. "Are they with you?" he looked around again, hoping to see them walk from one of the other rooms.

  Andrea stood up and placed her arms around this man. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach his cheek. He picked her up, as if she were a basket of flowers.

  It is you. My, my." He held her at arms’ length, "you've grown into a beautiful woman.”

  He dropped his hands and looked toward the door. “Well, where are they?"

  She forced back the tears that wanted to come. "My parents . . ." she swallowed the lump in her throat. "My parents were killed in an automobile accident seventeen years ago."

  "I'm sorry," he said, as he wiped his hand across his forehead. He cradled Andrea in his arms, and rocked her gently. He softly conveyed his condolences and then turned to Kurt.

  "Mr. Belson, I'd like you to meet my husband, Kurt."

  Kurt extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Kurt smiled and wasn't surprised by the grip of this six foot three, full bearded, Paul Bunyan. When the grip was released, Kurt stretched his hand and flexed his fingers. They all laughed, changing the mood.

  "Where's Mrs. Belson?" Andrea asked.

  "Oh, she's gone to the market. You remember how particular she was? Well, she's gotten worse with age," he bellowed. She'll be shocked when she sees you."

  Andrea nodded her head in agreement.

  "Is your luggage still in the car?"

  "Yes," Kurt answered.

  "Let's go out and get it so the two of you can get settled in. You may be able to take a walk before dinner is served."

  "That'll be great.

  The evening was like every fairy tale should be. There were five other couples staying at the Inn. After dinner they all retreated to the living room to a blazing fire, cordials, and dessert. Andrea played some Mozart and Chopin, while one of the other guests played show tunes and sang. Eventually, everyone joined in. No one seemed to want the night to end, but one by one the couples retreated to their rooms.

  "You seemed to have enjoyed yourself, Darling." Kurt said after the closed the door to their room.

  “Enjoy? It was magical, Andrea. The other guests fell in love with you," Kurt said, as he undressed her.

  “I also loved every minute of it," she said, and smiled with remembered pleasure, recalling the marvelous days, the marvelous evenings, she and her parents shared at the Inn.

  As he pulled her dress down around her ankles, her heart reacted immediately to his touch. With a shuddering sigh, she let him lead her to bed, and to happiness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  An intriguing combination of a brisk wind and a warm sun greeted them as they brought their second cup of coffee to the rockers on the front porch.

  "Kurt, would you like to do some fishing this morning?"

  "Yes, I would."

  "I'd like to do some sketching, and after lunch we could go back with my easel and paints."

  He nodded. "I haven't been fishing since we got married. Do you think the Belsons would like some trout for dinner?"

  "I'm sure they would. They loved it when my Dad brought in his catch."

  Andrea and Kurt had enjoyed the hospitality of the region and their precious time together. On two of the mornings, they were able to have breakfast on the porch.

  Flocks of blue jays, cardinals, and sparrows presented a sonata of their own. Deer grazed in a field not twenty feet away. It was hard to pull away from the scene before them.

  Andrea's sketchpad had become an appendage, as she was never without it.

  "I could stay here all day and watch nature unfold its beauty, but you won't get any fishing done, and I won't get any painting done."

  Kurt stood and pulled her up from the rocker and into his arms.“Let's go fishing."

  She let herself be pulled into his arms and his love.

  Kurt found a spot along the lake to set up Andrea's easel. Magnificent shimmering gray, black, and russet boulders controlled the shoreline. Trees of every color spewed their leaves, covering the ground like a giant quilt.

  Along the lake, colors reflected mirror images into the crystal clear water, while the scent of fall permeated the air forcing him to breathe in the freshness.

  Kurt baited his hook and cast his line as far as the weight would take it. He sat and waited for something to bite and watched Andrea as her hands brushed over the canvas. Every stroke was intense, forceful, and had a purpose. She attacked her canvas like a tennis player attacked his first volley. She was strong of mind and body, and he thought maybe now he'd be able to discuss his problem.

  She stopped a moment and saw him watching her, intently, quietly. Her body danced with excitement when she met his eyes.

  "What are you thinking, darling?" she asked, as she laid her brush down and walked to him. She tenderly stroked his back and nuzzled her chin in the crook of his neck.

  "Oh, how I wish times like this would last forever," he said, instead of what he truly wanted to say.

  "But, my love, they will last forever. It's our des . . . ."

  His arm wrapped around her fast and hard. She had time to draw in a shocked breath before his mouth came down on hers. Harsh and demanding, it sent her brain into a paroxysm of wanton desire.

  He threw his fishing pole aside, and pulled her down to a bed of rough dried leaves and twigs. She began to shiver.

  "Kurt . . . ."

  He was on top of her before she knew what was happening. His hands were everywhere. “I need you. I need you right now.”

  Her eyes were huge and the gold dust in them glistened in the sun. Her heart pounded against his hand as he kneaded her breast.

  His greed for her became overwhelming, and his caresses wild and hungry. He heard her strained cry muffled against his aggressive mouth. Passion poured from him. His lips blazed a trail of liquid fire across her lips.

  She opened her mouth with a small whimper, allowing herself to be caught by the rapid and experienced assault of his tongue.

  His hands roamed over her body sending molten sh
afts of sensation down her stomach to her legs.

  He pulled her jeans off and ripped at her sweater and shirt. His dominance was crushing. Part of her was horrified, but the other part of her felt excited and wanton. She met the full force of his primal passion with an equal force of her own.

  When their passion was spent, he shuddered at what he had done. He heard the singing of the birds and the rustle of the leaves as the squirrels ran from tree limb to tree limb. He heard people in the distance, laughing and joking as they trekked through the woods. And he heard Andrea's heavy breathing.

  "Oh, God." He sighed deeply.

  "Kurt?"

  They'd been married for five months, and she had never seen this side of him. His hunger for her had always been boundless, but this primal passion had been overwhelming.

  "Kurt," she said again, and would have wrapped her arms around him if he hadn't stood up.

  "I'm sorry. I . . . ."

  "There's nothing to be sorry for. I wanted you as much as you wanted me."

  He bent over and with extreme care, helped her pull on her jeans. He plucked dried leaves and twigs from her disheveled hair, and brushed the earth from her back before she pulled on her shirt. He looked at her and couldn’t believe what he had just done. At this moment, he hated everything that lived inside him.

  "Darling. What is it? Please, talk to me?

  He stared at the ground where they had just lain. A sick pounding began in his head. "No, not now. It's getting late. We'd better get back.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  During the next few days, he tried to talk to her about his behavior by the lake and his feelings of having a family, but he couldn't. The days of hiking, fishing, and painting flew by into wonderful nights of lovemaking.

  Neither one of them had the courage to break the magic of their time together. They drove home in silence; silence with no resolve, with no solution.