by July Hall
It took him a moment before he could speak around the lump in his throat. He felt sweat on his lower back. His extremities felt frigid. “It was only a dream,” he finally managed.
She touched his chest. “Yeah.” His hand found her shoulder, and he stroked his fingertips over it. She gasped, and goose bumps popped up on her skin. “Oh, your hands are cold.”
His whole body was cold. Just a dream, he thought. Stop this foolishness at once. “Maybe you’re overheated.”
“No, I don’t think so.” She took hold of his hand and slid it off her shoulder, holding it between her breasts. “That should help. Wow, your heart’s going really fast.”
“Not really,” he said between his teeth, wondering if he could try for a few deep breaths without her noticing. “It might seem that way. You don’t make a habit of skydiving, do you?” If so, it was a habit she would break.
“Oh God, no,” she said. “Kristen loves it, but I’d be terrified. Have you ever tried it?”
Tried it? He was doing it right now. He’d been in free fall for a week. “It’s never appealed to me.”
“Not competitive enough, huh?”
“Indeed.” It certainly wasn’t a race anybody would want to win. Charles wiggled his fingers against her soft, warm skin. She was obviously fine. He took a deep breath as quietly as he could. “Only a dream. You’re perfectly safe.”
She relaxed at his words, and he realized how tense she’d been until that moment. She yawned and mumbled, “If you say so.”
“I do,” he whispered against her forehead. His heart rate finally began to slow. “Go back to sleep. No more nightmares.”
“Okay,” she said. Soon, he felt her breathing turn deep and even. Her grip loosened on his hand.
She believed him, trusted him. Well, she should. She was perfectly safe here; she’d be perfectly safe anywhere with him. He’d do anything to protect her.
Or…all that he could do. There were limits. Ten years ago he’d learned that in the worst possible way.
I dreamed I died.
Jesus Christ. What had happened to him when she’d said that? Fear. Absolute and unadulterated. It had only lasted for a few moments, but he wouldn’t forget it in a hurry.
Charles had never known fear like that before. His siblings had been afraid of the dark when they were children, but he’d slept better with the night-light off. He had gone mountain climbing in college; at the summit, his fellow climbers had spoken of their terrified awe. He’d only felt thirsty. And though she’d hated herself for it, Eleanor had always called on him to kill the spiders.
No monsters lurked in the dark, heights were nothing to worry about, and animals were more scared of you than you were of them. He had no fear of enclosed spaces, crowds, or germs. Things that triggered other people’s most visceral phobias weren’t even on his radar.
So this was fear. And she was afraid, too.
I was so scared of hitting the ground.
He didn’t have to be a genius to work that one out. Sandra was worried their affair would turn into a disaster if it continued. She wasn’t really afraid of dying. She was concerned for her good name, no doubt, as she’d admitted before. That must be it.
Calmer now, Charles could comprehend all of that. But in the moment, all he’d felt was the cold wash of panic, the absolute certainty that if something happened to Sandra he would not be able to survive it. He could not live through such a loss again.
In the darkness, without a light, Charles realized there was a word for that.
It was a word he didn’t even dare think, much less say aloud. It was too soon and too foolish. He’d spent two glorious nights in bed with her. Looked at logically, that was all. How could he feel anything more?
He looked up into the shadows above his bed and tried to think. It was nearly impossible. He couldn’t sort out anything. His head spun.
Sandra.
What was she to him? He could have any woman his own age, brought up in his own social sphere, who would fit seamlessly into his life. No scandal, no danger to anyone. Now that he’d broken his dry spell, perhaps he really should consider…
Yes. Perhaps he should. This was too much. It was insane. He was in over his head if he was thinking this way.
Half-broken as he was, he ought to save himself before she shattered him to pieces.
Or, his darker self whispered, hungrier than ever, make her yours for good. When the dog catches the fox, he doesn’t let it go.
Sandra murmured in her sleep and cuddled closer.
Goddamn it. Charles suffocated the little voice. Forget his own feelings and fears—what about hers? How much could she really care about a man twenty years her senior, who had nothing to offer her outside of bed but secrets and golden trinkets she didn’t even want? Once the shine of sex had worn off…
His terror had gone, leaving only exhaustion to take its place. Not physical, either.
He was tired of being left. He was so fucking tired of it. His wife, his parents, all gone for good, leaving him with no one who was truly his equal or partner. And the longer this persisted, the happier Sandra made him, the worse it would be in the end.
Let it end now, then. He’d survive it somehow, as he’d survived all the rest.
And he’d shut that fucking little voice up for good, before it ruined whatever pleasure was left for them both.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A grand piano had eighty-eight keys.
At the moment, Sandra was a little scared of all of them. They seemed to grin up at her, like a mouth that was missing several teeth. They dared her to make a mistake while Charles sat in an armchair, watching her closely. In fact, he watched her like he wanted to commit her to memory.
Maybe he did. She had to leave soon.
They hadn’t spoken about it all day. Instead, they’d risen at the crack of dawn, both of them wide awake without any need for an alarm clock. They’d dressed more warmly this time: Sandra donned a knit hat and Rosalie’s leather gloves along with her coat. And they’d gone for another walk in the early morning light, their breath turning the air to fog.
They’d walked the beach and watched the sun rising over the sound. At that hour, it was too early even for the gulls, and everything was hushed. The tide was receding, leaving a strip of darker pebbles and sand in its wake, along with lingering patches of foam.
It was cold enough that they didn’t mess around with holding hands. Charles kept his arm around her shoulders, and she huddled close to his side for warmth. He had plenty of that.
He hadn’t brought up her nightmare, which was good, because in hindsight it was so embarrassing. And obvious. About to hit the ground and die? She couldn’t believe she’d confessed that to him. Hopefully he wasn’t a big believer in symbolism.
She’d wanted so badly to talk to him about other stuff, but she’d wanted even more to let the peaceful interlude play out as long as it could. If they were quiet, then maybe that meant there was nothing to say, and therefore nothing to worry about—no separation, no secrets. Everything was fine.
But Sandra had finally had it to the teeth with silence, and so eventually she’d broken. “Warrick said you walk on the beach every morning when you’re out here,” she said. “Why?” It wasn’t great exercise or anything. It certainly wasn’t competitive, and it didn’t produce any measurable reward.
Charles’s breath puffed clouds into the air. His nose and cheeks were rosy from the cold. “Wait for it,” he told her. “It’s almost time.”
“For what?”
Charles only shook his head, but when they were about halfway down the beach, he stopped. He slid both arms around her, nodded eastward, and said, “Look. Now.”
The sun rose to a certain point in the sky. Its rays raced over the pale stones and boulders on the beach. For a dazzling moment, everything on the ground shone like ivory and gold. The sunbeams also caught on the waves, and on the wings of the morning’s first gull, turning it into a flash of white l
ight.
“Oh,” Sandra said, pressing her palms together and watching it all from the warm circle of Charles’s arms. “It’s beautiful!”
He rested his chin on the top of her head. “It’s always like this on sunny mornings. You just have to make sure you’re out at the right hour.”
Sandra watched the stones glow more and more brightly until the sun moved on and they returned to their normal colors. Then she said, “Thank you.”
“I’m glad you saw it.”
Sandra gulped. There was an odd note in his voice, almost rueful. She hadn’t heard it before. Did it mean this was the only time she would ever see the sunrise here?
She cleared her throat. They’d talk about that later. They’d have to. She wasn’t going to ruin another perfect moment. “Do you, uh, remember the first time you ever did?”
“Good Lord, no. I must have been a very small child.”
Sandra leaned her head back on his shoulder. She still couldn’t imagine that. She wondered what he’d been like. He was so forceful as an adult—would he have been like the kids who’d bullied her at school?
No. Bullies were cowards who had nothing better to do. Somehow, she was pretty sure Charles always had better things to do. He probably wouldn’t have wasted his time on the shy, friendless girl one way or the other.
“What are you thinking about?” Charles asked.
Shit, he never missed a thing, did he? She tried to sound breezy. “Nothing. You as a little kid. You in a tiny power suit.”
He snorted. “I wore my school uniforms extremely well, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, I bet.” Sandra smiled wistfully. “I bet I would have had a huge crush on you in school.” Not that she could ever have said a word to him.
“I can’t imagine it. I was as tall as a beanpole and I had feet like boats.”
Now her grin was genuine. “And you were busy mooning over Eleanor Bradford.” The thought was so cute she couldn’t stand it. So much for being jealous.
He chuckled. “Yes, that too. And you’d have had too many boys mooning over you to miss me.” Before she could help it, Sandra stiffened in his arms. “What?”
Sandra managed a laugh. “Nah. I was a beanpole too.” With little feet, though. “A skinny carrot top.” Then, before she could decide not to, she admitted, “I got picked on a lot.”
“You?” He sounded so surprised. “Why would anybody ever pick on you?”
“The same reason anybody gets picked on. I was shy, and I didn’t know how to fight back.” She took in a deep breath and heard her mother’s voice yet again. Don’t let him take the fight out of you. “I learned how to get by, but it was rough. And there was…occasional backsliding.” Like with Bradley.
“Then it made you stronger,” Charles said.
“No,” Sandra said at once, before she knew she was going to say it. Of course Charles would think a thing like that—for him, adversity built character. “Take it from me. Being kicked around for years doesn’t make you stronger. I don’t know anybody who’s doing great in their adult life because they were bullied as a kid. You do well in spite of it.”
To his credit, Charles didn’t immediately pooh-pooh this. Instead, he was silent for a moment, and then hummed thoughtfully. He asked, “Are you sure? Just think about shy little you, threatening to knee me in the balls.”
Sandra’s laugh burst out of her. That moment in his office had been so terrible, so confusing and fraught with danger. And now? She turned around in his embrace and rested her cheek on his strong chest. “That was pretty awesome of me,” she said.
“Hmph.” But he stroked his gloved hand over her back. “It’s cold. Let’s go back.”
When they were almost to the wooden steps that led up to the lawn, Sandra stopped and bent down to pick up a pebble. She dropped it in her coat pocket. “Don’t let me forget this when we get back, okay?”
“Sentimental, Miss Dane?” he asked, looking amused. “There are seashells in the shallows if you want a keepsake. They’re probably prettier.”
Sandra looked up at the sunny sky. “Depends on the time of day, Mr. Magister.” She flashed a grin at him. “Didn’t you want to give me something gold?”
Before he could reply, she hurried up the stairs back toward the house with the only gold she would accept from him. He caught up in a few long strides and glared down at her as they walked the path.
“Yes, I did,” he said. “I make no apologies for that.”
“You’ve given me plenty,” Sandra said firmly. She tried not to think about how he’d said did, past tense. “And I’m going to give you something. I’ve already decided what.”
***
She’d felt confident at the time. But now, hours later, she looked across the ebony expanse of a concert grand piano that seemed to have no end. She gulped.
Charles sat in an armchair with his legs crossed, looking keenly at her. She couldn’t tell what he might be thinking, but it probably wasn’t good. He’d been a little distant all day, certainly more so than yesterday or last night. When he looked at her, she thought she saw flashes of regret in his eyes. Each one hit her like an arrow to the chest.
This couldn’t last forever. She understood that, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to hurt.
Last evening, he’d told her to play something she loved. That was a tall order. Sandra had played piano for years growing up, practicing nearly every day. She’d gotten pretty good, but she’d been too shy to do a recital. It had never crossed her mind to go to music school or anything. She just liked playing. Then, in college, she’d fallen out of the habit bit by bit. Who had the time?
Now she was sort of wishing she’d made the time. It would be pretty cool to impress Charles on this massive family instrument that nobody had played for decades. But she hadn’t practiced in at least two years.
“What are you going to play?” he asked.
She’d just have to do her best. Sandra raised her hands and said, “A little ditty I call ‘Warm-Up Exercises.’” He rolled his eyes but listened as she played a couple of Hanon exercises, limbering up her fingers and testing the weight of the keys. She’d done these exercises so often that they were pure muscle memory. Two years, and she hardly had to think about the movements. Maybe that was a good sign.
When she finished, Charles applauded politely. She glared at him. “What?” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Is there more?”
Sandra lifted her chin and took a deep breath. “I’m going to try my favorite piece,” she said. “I played it for years and years. I hope I can remember it all.”
“Well? What is it?”
She squirmed. “Debussy.”
“Ah. Of course.” He gave her a wry smile. For a moment, she was sure she saw the regret pass over his face again. “Clair de Lune?”
Most people would think of that. Sandra shook her head. “Nope.”
“Then what?”
“Listen and find out,” she said. He frowned, but Sandra turned her attention back to the keys. She took a deep breath and began to play.
She’d loved this piece since the first time she’d heard it on one of her dad’s CDs. She must have been ten years old or so. It had been a quiet, rainy afternoon in spring. Now the piece always reminded her of water pattering against the windowpanes while raindrops beaded on the crocuses and violets in the yard.
She’d listened to it over and over with her eyes closed. When she got good enough, she’d asked her piano teacher to help her learn it by heart. It came back to her this afternoon as if no time had passed at all.
The initial notes greeted her, as gentle and melancholy as rainfall on petals and leaves. At first, the piece always sounded like it was going to be pretty and not much else. Maybe a little sad. But soon, the tempo sped up and the chords grew more dissonant, almost jarring. Sandra played forcefully during those parts, striking the keys and going for the greatest possible volume; then the piece slowed down again, and her touch lightened through the swe
eter passages.
About halfway through the piece, from the corner of her eye, she saw Charles rise from his chair and walk toward the piano. She didn’t look up, too busy concentrating on the keys. But then she felt his heat at her back as he came to stand directly behind her.
She didn’t pause in her playing, not even when he put his hands on her shoulders. She did, however, let her eyes fall shut for a moment. Nobody had touched her when she played as a kid, except for Scott sometimes pulling her hair. Now it felt as if Charles was playing too, even if he didn’t know how. The music flowed from the piano, through her, to him.
Would he really hear it, though? Would he get it? No other piece of music had ever meant more to her. It was rainy days and lonely afternoons, and finding beauty in all of it somehow. She’d never had the makings of a true musician, but this music had shown her that she needed beauty in her life—beauty and creation and love.
It was part of her heart. And she couldn’t tell Charles that she loved him, but she could give him this.
He kept his hands on her shoulders. The piece drew to a close. Its final notes were as tender and sweet as its beginning, but after the violent upheaval in the middle, it couldn’t be heard the same way.
The last note sounded, shivered, and vanished. The instant Sandra raised her fingers from the keys, they started to tremble, and she immediately put them in her lap. She leaned back into Charles’s chest and tried to collect herself. His heart pounded against her.
“Dear God,” he said hoarsely, “what was that?”
Sandra closed her eyes. “It’s called ‘Lent,’” she said. “The first movement from Images Oublieés. Forgotten Images.”
He gave a short, breathless laugh. “I’m not likely to forget it. Christ.” His thumbs rubbed slowly against her shoulders. “That was…sublime.” Then he bent over and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Thank you,” he whispered, his breath stirring her hair.
Sandra managed a smile. A lump filled her throat. “You gave me something important to you. So…I gave you this.”