Symphony of Light and Winter

by Renea Mason

  My eyelids grew heavy from the pills. I showered, dried off, and slipped into a T-shirt and panties. Upon leaving the bathroom, I reached down to retrieve the shirt that held Cyril’s scent.

  After making my way to the bed, I laid the shirt beside my pillow. So many questions filled my mind. What did he think I stole? How did he survive? When did he come back, and why wait so long to contact me? Why the Morgan Peters routine? Did he think I wouldn’t recognize him?

  But the most important thing: what was he?

  Inhaling Cyril’s essence, I closed my eyes, summoning our previous time together, looking for answers. But all I remembered was how sensual yet platonic our encounters had been, nothing like tonight. The butterflies in my stomach, the tightening of my jaw, and the anxiety filling my chest had nothing to do with his size or intimidation, but rather longing and desire. Was it possible…love? Those feelings frightened me more than he did. With my head resting on the shirt, my eyes closed, I hoped the morning sunrise would bring clarity.

  * * *

  Another cloud-covered, rainy Monday morning in Pittsburgh. I dreaded returning to work. Maybe Margie didn’t say anything.

  Not a chance.

  A small tear escaped. Wiping it away, I closed the door of my apartment, and vowed it would be my final tear.

  My corner office on the third floor held large, ornate windows, consisting of beveled glass in black-painted iron frames. I placed my leather messenger bag on the desk blotter, which contained numerous neon-colored Post-it notes with to-do items and random scribbles. My office had no need for personal items.

  I booted up my computer from behind the elegant mahogany desk and answered a few overdue e-mails. I thought of the best way to get another meeting with Overton, sans Cyril. Everything was peaceful and quiet until ten minutes before eight, when Clarence peeked in the doorway.

  “Sooo…”

  “Yes?”

  “You know I was impressed by how you smoothed over Willoughby, right? Well, that’s nothing compared to when I heard you let Peters take you against the wall. I think you might be my hero.” His tone mocked, but was sandwiched in true admiration. He could be such a twisted little bastard.

  “Is that what you think I did?”

  Clarence had shaved his goatee, enhancing his boyish charm. “If you ever want to delegate Peters to someone else, I volunteer,” he offered, almost giddy.

  My eyes stung with tears I refused to shed. I would not give in. “Very funny.”

  “Come on, you can’t leave it at that. Margie posted on Facebook that you were pretty much naked and he had you mounted against the wall.”

  “That is not what happened. Margie doesn’t understand. I’m going to have a talk with her.”

  Clarence took a step back in surprise at my reaction, but quickly recovered. “Oh, come on—”

  “No. End of story. I doubt we’ll have to worry about Morgan Peters ever again, anyway. Now, why don’t you tell me what you and Overton talked about?”

  Clarence blinked with frustration. “Not going to dish, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Fine.” He let his arms hang free at his sides. “He asked about the renovations. He seemed most interested in how you and Peters were getting along. Little did he know…”

  “Clarence!”

  “Yes, well, I told him you need the final amount to close out the year, and he said he’d help. I didn’t have time to officially close the deal because Peters came back so fast, so I don’t know what he’s committing to. You’ll still need to set up a meeting with him.”

  “OK, thanks.” I nudged my chin toward the door, expecting him to take my cue.

  Clarence stood waiting with crossed arms.

  “You can go now.”

  He shook his head as though my words were merely a suggestion. “How much did you get Peters to contribute?”

  I paused for a moment and conjured a killer glare. “Nothing. Now go, I have work to do.”

  He stared at me for a moment, pausing in the doorway. “You mean to tell me you spent that much quality time with the man and didn’t seal the deal?”

  I threw my notebook at him. He dodged it and left, but not before making sure I saw the smirk on his face.

  For the rest of the morning, I avoided any kind of contact with the staff. Most people were too embarrassed to interact with me, but just before lunch I heard Allison, the receptionist, direct someone to my office. After finishing an e-mail, I hit Send and opened the next message in need of attention. The words on the screen blurred as I inhaled and lost focus. That scent. Ahh…oh. Shit. I looked up.

  “Fuck me,” I said under my breath, wishing I pulled back the words as soon as they left my mouth.

  “If you wish.” Cyril shot me a bright, sarcastic smile, his foreign accent absent as he bent to pick up the notebook I threw at Clarence. “Nice to see you too, Mrs. Green.”

  I got up and pushed past him to close the door. Glaring, I growled, “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  He gave a mischievous smirk. “I was in the neighborhood and brought you something from Stanton. He said he and your associate worked out some kind of deal last night.”

  He removed and stowed his dark glasses, reached into the inside pocket of his black, custom-made suit and pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. I took it, only to find it unsealed. I couldn’t resist the urge to peek. A cashier’s check for fifty thousand! Hot damn! This made Clarence’s bullshit worth it.

  “OK. Thank you for delivering this.” I placed the envelope on the desk. “Let me escort you out.” I didn’t look at him directly. It was easy, with me being over a foot shorter.

  I reached for the handle, but he stopped me by placing a hand on my arm. “Mrs. Green, if you’d please indulge me one more moment.” He paused, but didn’t wait for my response. “Why haven’t you asked me for a contribution? Do you not think me a man of means, or sophisticated enough to appreciate the finer arts?”

  I wouldn’t make eye contact with him; being so close drove me crazy, like feeling him in my soul. He caressed the cover of my notebook with his long, beautiful index finger. I knew how strong and confident those large, masculine hands were. Distracting, his movements made me think about having him caress my…

  “I don’t typically ask people for money the first night we meet.”

  He stepped in front of me, far too close, and placed his finger under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. While staring at me, with the American accent gone, he said in the softest voice, “You might not ask for money, but do you always engage in such heated…introductions?” He arched a brow. “Had I not shown up, would the old man on whom you spilled your drink have had you against the wall as I did?” His grin morphed into a glare.

  Craning my neck, I stared up at him, muscles tensing and jaw clenching in anger. I would not give him the satisfaction of getting me off guard with his fruitless intimidation. I would not allow it. Not breaking eye contract, I glared back.

  “If I remember correctly, it was more of a violation rather than an introduction, but to answer your question, no. Willoughby is harmless. I can’t say the same for you. And why do you keep calling me Mrs. Green, Cyril?”

  He met my challenge measure for measure. “Are you not Mrs. Green? Besides, the stain on my pants the dry cleaner will never get out makes me question whether or not you really considered yourself violated. How much would Willoughby have given to have you against the wall? Would the reflection of him pinning you made you as wet?”

  “You asshole. How dare you? Get—”

  “I’m only trying to determine what makes you tick. You get married, but don’t stay married, so what? No sense of commitment? Is that it? I watched you with that man last night. You were shameless. Your lack of self-respect astounds me.”

  He reached into his inside coat pocket again and pulled out a checkbook and a pen.

  “So, how much would you cost me? I already got a taste for free last night, but
what if I wanted more? What’s your price? Do you whore yourself for the music? Or is it the power? Perhaps you’re funneling a little off the top and it really is about the money. What motivates you, Mrs. Green?”

  The tears I vowed would never resurface threatened. I stared at him. He broke eye contact and completed the check. I tried to stare holes through his skull with my focused anger.

  “Would this cover what you need? If I give you this, will you stop parading yourself around like a harlot? I don’t think it’s very becoming, and I want it to cease immediately.”

  I seethed. He had no right to make demands. My fists clenched at my sides as I took deep, sharp breaths. “Did you come here to insult me, to humiliate me? Well, you’ve done a fantastic job. Now leave.”

  He shifted to block my path to the door. “I’m trying to make a point.”

  “Really? I don’t see a point to any of this.” I defeated my tears with determination. “Why do you even care?”

  “I don’t.” He stared at me with such intensity, eyes narrowing. He stepped even closer, our bodies touching. “So you really believe everything you told me last night?”

  “Believe it? Ha! It all happened.” I crossed my arms.

  “Not that I don’t find your imagination amusing, but you can’t honestly expect me to believe that we’ve met before? Come now, Mrs. Green, who told you that ridiculous story?” He raised one menacing eyebrow.

  I wanted to punch him in the face for his patronizing tone, but I sensed an opportunity. “So you don’t remember anything, is that it, Cyril? Very interesting. Does it mean I have something you want? Answers maybe?” I traced a finger across my chin. “Why do you think you can’t remember? Besides, if we never met, how could I have possibly stolen from you?” I stared back with equal intensity.

  “It’s simple. One does not need to have directly procured the property to be a thief.” His expression was unreadable.

  “You said something went wrong with the magics? What did you mean?”

  “You steal from me and demand answers?” He crossed his arms, mirroring me back.

  I found this turn of events quite interesting. “I didn’t steal from you. What went wrong, Cyril? Why did everything happen the way it did?” I pressed. “You still have those light-colored branching patterns on your wrists.” I grabbed his hand, tried to ignore the electricity between us, and pulled back his sleeve to reveal the markings. I stroked my fingers lightly over them. They were raised, a kind of subtle embroidery. But unlike a tattoo, they seemed part of him, natural.

  He shivered, eyes wide.

  His reaction steeled my resolve to continue. “And from the base of your neck, down your back in a V pattern, you have them there too. You have fangs; I’m not sure what you use them for, and do not care to know. I’m not even sure they are real, but they sure shocked the shit out of me.” I raised my hand toward his mouth, but he caught it and held it in his hand.

  The intensity of his gaze grew.

  “You love Chopin, Vivaldi, and Beethoven. And you are a brilliant musician and architect.” I paused as his face softened, but he did not pull his hand away or release mine.

  “Ten years ago you drove a black BMW, and you liked your suits, even then. The leather jacket you kept in your car, I wore on cold days. You liked me in green. I loved to comb my fingers through your shoulder-length hair, and you…always kissed me on the top of my head before you left each day.”

  His face held uncertainty and grew softer, a contrast to the man who entered the room.

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “You used to call me your Light. I called you Cyril. You told me it means ‘king.’”

  He scanned my face, and then focused on my eyes once more. I still held his wrist, and I stroked his skin with my thumb. He shivered again, but didn’t pull away. We both said nothing for a very long time. It was an intimate moment, like gazing into the eyes of your lover for the first time. He didn’t move to touch me.

  His next words were barely audible. “What was I to you?”

  I reached up, placed one palm on each of his slightly whiskered cheeks, and pulled him down to me. I whispered softly in his ear, “You were my anchor.”

  In exaggerated slowness, he pulled away. His eyes drifted lower. With one finger, he pulled back the collar of my shirt and touched my chest, just below my throat. He glanced into my eyes again for a moment, fixing me in his aquamarine gaze, and then looked back to my chest.

  “Cyril, why are you here?” At the last moment I choked back a building sob.

  “I have my reasons.” He dismissed me and changed the subject, indicating the red swollen line at my neck. “What happened here? I didn’t do this, did I? I never intended to hurt you, only frighten you.” His confession did not go unnoticed. His finger traced my discoloration and his brow furrowed. “What happened? Was it me?” Concern laced his features.

  “No.” I stared at my feet. “It’s my necklace. I have some kind of allergic reaction to it.” If I wore it for more than a few hours, it left red blood blisters on my skin.

  “Where did you get it? Why do you wear it?” He trailed a finger across my collarbone, sending shivers through me, coalescing between my legs.

  “Michael, my husband, gave it to me. I guess it makes me feel connected to someone.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “I don’t know.” I lowered my gaze, looking past his finger to the ivy-patterned carpet.

  “Where is your husband now?”

  My throat closed, but I choked out, “He’s dead.”

  He pulled back from my skin with what seemed like reluctance. Instantly, something was missing. He lifted my chin with one strong digit and stared into my eyes. His demeanor changed. We were strangers once more. “Here are your checks, Mrs. Green. Since you’ve made your goal, I expect you won’t be whoring yourself to the highest bidder.”

  “Get out!” I backed until my ass impacted the desk. My face flushed as images of him rubbing against me rushed through my mind.

  He inhaled, and then raised an eyebrow. “Are you all right, Mrs. Green?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Ah…yes.” He groaned and breathed in deeply once more. He paused, and then set the check on my desk by snaking his arm around me. The motion brought his body in contact with mine. He hesitated and he nuzzled my ear with his nose. I shivered.

  “Until next time, Mrs. Green.” He pressed his lips to my hair before turning to leave. When he made it to the door, he stopped and turned around. I thought I saw sadness in his eyes.

  I stood plastered against my desk, stunned.

  Expecting some kind of demeaning retort, he simply looked at me for a moment, then left.

  I was sitting at my desk, later, stewing, when it hit me. I should have paid more attention. That bastard stole my notebook!

  Chapter Three

  Olivia

  The incident with Cyril made work impossible. Finally I gave up, announced my departure via e-mail, shut my computer down, and left.

  Arriving home around two in the afternoon, I turned on the stereo and paused to listen to the first few stanzas of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. The only piece of art I owned hung above the sofa—a large print of A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte surrounded by a thick, dark walnut frame.

  In the days after Michael’s death, I had often wondered why each of the people in the painting seemed so bright and alive. What would it be like to be one of them? The picture grounded me, which is why I had pilfered it from Michael’s house. Anytime the past or the future threatened to intrude, I used the painting as a beacon to find the present. I stood still in an attempt to find my center—the calm—but was dismayed to find the painting no longer helped.

  The chores didn’t clear the fog of uncertainty that formed thick walls in my mind. I had more questions than yesterday. It was approaching dinnertime, but I had no interest in food. Sleep would help clear my head, so I settled in for a nap.

  Someone
knocked on the door. I tensed.

  I peered through the spy hole. Clarence. Thank goodness. I opened the door.

  “Come on. We’ve got a problem.” Clarence pushed past me and impatiently tapped his toe against the wood floor.

  “What is going on?”

  “Well, while you stepped out on your little vacation this afternoon, Arthur Landon called the office wanting to speak with Olivia since he couldn’t reach her on her cell.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “I know.”

  “You mean you haven’t heard from her either?” Shit! I was so preoccupied with Cyril that I forgot about Olivia.

  “No. Mr. Landon thought she was with you. Olivia told him she would get a ride home with you when he had to leave early from the performance on Friday. Have you talked to her?”

  “I’ve tried to call her at least five times since then. I thought she was avoiding me because…” Discussing the scene from the bathroom with Clarence ranked about as high on my list as scratchy underwear, so I skipped it and moved on. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  “Friday, before the performance. She found out Harmon’s wife is pregnant again. I don’t know why she tortures herself, but you know how she gets.”

  “I know. She had to be medicated last time. Harmon’s charming and good-looking, but Olivia could have anyone. I don’t get why she’s hung up on her married pastor. I’ll never understand her.”

  “Can’t help who you love.” He winked. “Wait. She didn’t tell you about it on Friday?” Clarence clasped his hands in front of him, tightening his stance.

  I shook my head.

  “Perhaps she got delayed and didn’t know to look for you under the big guy in the bathroom.” Clarence beamed.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re full of chuckles, aren’t you?” I paused. “I wonder why she didn’t call me.” Wrapping my arms around my waist, I felt uneasy.

  “Maybe she got distracted.”