Perfect Notes

by Jaye Peaches

  The shops didn’t appeal and I wasn’t desperate to buy anything. I went in search of the river. Stefan had been right. It was a pleasant sight, especially the covered wooden bridge. I sat for a while on a bench and admired the view. How strange to be there on a Saturday and quite alone. I’d texted my mother in the café, finally admitting my location. So far, no reply, then I guessed she’d be engrossed with being a granny at my sister’s. Did I mind? Not really, her lack of inquisitiveness made life easy for me. I didn’t have to explain my extravagant trip or about Stefan, whom I’d struggled to describe beyond being a ‘good friend’. She’d see past that statement easily. My mother was no fool.

  Spots of rain landed on my nose. I zipped up my raincoat—something Stefan had insisted I bring along, reminding me that the weather, rather like England’s, was changeable in the spring. During our brief car journey, he’d described the seasons, how summer could be baking hot, and winter white and bitterly cold, as if he wanted me to see them all. Did his sudden return to his hometown mean that he was rethinking his life in Cambridge? Other than conducting jobs and a few students, he didn’t have strong connections to the city. Where did I fit in to his future? The thought irked me as we’d barely begun our relationship and already I doubted the longevity of it—how easily he could sweep it aside.

  I had to ask, in my terrible German, where to find the bus stop. A few passers-by had no English and I waved the timetable at them. After much gesticulating with arms, I tracked down the stop. The driver, to my relief, spoke sufficient English that not only did he understand where I wanted to go, but he would also call out the location to me—a necessity since I’d arrived the previous day in darkness and had no recollection of what the street looked like in the daylight.

  Stefan had provided me with a key. I unlocked the solid door of his father’s house and entered. My solitary footsteps echoed about the hallway. With nobody home, I had little to do but explore the numerous rooms. How one man could enjoy living in such a vast house was lost on me. After my pokey terraced house, the expanse of space and high ceilings seemed both daunting and luxurious. I admired the simple decorations, which neither negated the age of the house, nor made the features antique in appearance.

  One door led into a room that immediately gave me comfort—the music room. A grand piano took center stage, just as it did at Stefan’s house, and one wall was lined with shelves filled with books, sheet music and the odd antique musical instrument—a mandolin, an accordion and a child’s violin. It explained Stefan’s love of composition and conducting. He liked variety and not the confines of learning one instrument. Among the German books were English ones—treatises on composition, famous composers and the history of musical genres. Why were the books here and not in England with Stefan? Again, it fed the notion that he was not committed to life in the UK as he’d implied to me.

  I sat at the piano and managed to play one-fingered tunes. I didn’t have the dexterity to do anything else. My eyelids drooped. The room with its warm, musty air tipped me into a state of drowsiness. I went in search of a sitting room and somewhere to relax.

  * * * *

  I heard jangling, like a rattling chain. In my stupor, I ignored it.

  Somebody shook my shoulder. I grumbled, shrugging off the offending hand, and snuggled farther into the soft fabric of the sofa.

  “Callie, wake up.”

  I blinked, letting the lamplight hit my pupils. Stefan was back. I uncoiled and turned to face him. He held the car keys, swinging them about—the source of the jangles.

  “Good time in Wolfratshausen?” he asked, sitting next to me and tossing the keys on a low table.

  “Yes. I drank coffee, ate a rather delicious cake and enjoyed the river.” I stretched my arms above my head, yawning. “How’s your father?”

  “Better. Should be home tomorrow.” Stefan placed an arm around my shoulders and drew me onto his chest. “He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

  I sat up straight, fully awake. “You told him?”

  “Naturally. Why wouldn’t I?” He withdrew his arm.

  “I…suppose there is no reason not to,” I stuttered. It had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

  He looped his arm around my back. “Good. When did you get back?”

  I examined my wristwatch. Crikey. I’d been asleep for nearly an hour. “An hour or so, perhaps longer. The bus was easy. I found the music room. You don’t mind that I went exploring?” I picked at my sleeve, hiding the watch away.

  “No. You like the house?”

  “It’s beautiful—and huge!”

  “Yes. Great for playing hide and seek.” He ran a finger down my arm.

  A little buzz emanated from my lower belly.

  “How does your dad cope, being here alone?”

  A long sigh greeted my question. “Well, obviously, he has a cleaner to help with the chores.”

  “But why not sell it and downsize?”

  “He loves the house. He isn’t always on his own.” Stefan went quiet and he ceased moving his stroking finger up and down.

  “Oh.” I shrank a little.

  “He never married again. He had…affairs, but whether of the heart, I don’t know. He didn’t bother to hide his lady visitors from Hans and me Different ones. I can’t criticize him, I’m of the same ilk.”

  I ignored his last remark, uncomfortable at the comparison. “Your mother never remarried either?”

  “She had a couple of long-term relationships, but she left her last partner after a while. Differences, you know?”

  “No, not really. My parents were devoted to each other.” A tear welled in one eye and I flicked it away with a finger.

  “I’m sorry.” He nestled his nose in my hair. “I do remember a time when my parents loved each other very much. Little glimpses of happy times. Christmas spent here with snow outside. Dad and Mum waltzing in the hallway to Strauss. Snippets.”

  He nuzzled his nose farther into my strands. He returned to exploring me, moving his hand from my arm and heading down my thigh. I clenched, that inner response that happened spontaneously whenever he drifted closer to my sexual core.

  “I want to fuck you,” he murmured. “Now.”

  I snatched a breath and my heart did that skip and a jump thing. Below, in his lap, his pants tented with a clear indication of his arousal.

  He lifted my cotton top with a roving hand and caressed my belly. I knew if he went higher, uncovered my warm breasts, he would find two pert nipples eager to be pleased. I tipped my head back and mouthed, “Stefan,” then I hissed, “Yes.”

  The scramble of sex on a sofa—how to describe the rampant acts committed in the next hour. The fumbling of buttons and zips, the stripping off of clothes and the continuous stream of kisses. First me underneath—a repeat of our first sexual encounter—then astride him, riding him hard and fast. Our tongues explored each other and I rediscovered why I’d shaved my privates. The touch of flesh against flesh, no longer masked by inert hairs, electrified me.

  Each rise and fall of my pelvis on his cock allowed my clit to brush unhindered against him. He encompassed my breasts, squeezing them, pinching my nipples in time with my bounces. I squirmed with each painful nip and returned the gesture with a tease of my sharp teeth on his shoulder.

  He whispered, “Naughty mouse,” in my ear.

  I countered with, “Wicked man.”

  All the verbal nuances played back and forth until we were too breathless to speak. We tumbled, rotated, spilled onto the floor then back on the sofa, allowing me to kneel on all fours comfortably. The orgasm ripped through me as he entered me from behind. He came, too, joining me, spurting his cum with juddering spasms and grunts of pleasure.

  “Stay,” he panted.

  After a few minutes, he returned with a small towel and ensured that I was not going to ruin his father’s expensive sofa with our spilled juices. I giggled at his diligence, painting a mental scenario of a teenage son fearful of his father’s wrath i
f he found out he’d been wooing a young lady alone in his house.

  We dressed with smug smiles, and me with wobbly legs from my exertions. The kitchen beckoned and I helped cook a meal of schnitzel and fries. Stefan remained keen to treat me to local cuisine. He poured red wine—French, not German. He didn’t rate German wines above French when it came to the red grape. We chatted about the health care system in Germany, the best parts, the worst. I gradually opened up about my father’s last days, the pain of watching him pass before my eyes while in intensive care. Stefan thoughtfully held my hand, stroking it with his thumb as I wept.

  “You’re tired,” he said. “Bed. Sleep. Nothing else. In the morning, I want to show you somewhere special.”

  I wiped away my tears. The mystery plan perked me up. He wouldn’t tell me, so there was no point asking. “I look forward to it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Why do you drive differently here?” I asked, my hands reposed in my lap, rather than gripping the passenger seat.

  Stefan chuckled. “You’ve noticed.”

  He turned a corner, and I experienced none of his usual slalom techniques, which typically involved careering about the road. Rather, he glided around the apex of the bend.

  “It’s my father’s car. Wouldn’t dare scratch it. Also, German police are notorious for on–the-spot speeding tickets.”

  I joined in with his laughter. We’d set off after a hearty breakfast with me none the wiser about his intended location. We drove through idyllic villages, similar to his father’s, always at a sedate pace. Stefan seemed to be very familiar with the network of roads, anticipating corners and junctions.

  The worries of the previous day rematerialized fresh in my mind—his relaxed posture, the hardening of his German accent, the reminiscing about his childhood. I couldn’t contain myself from asking, “Do you miss Germany?”

  “Yes.”

  There was no hesitation in his answer, no pause to consider my question. He didn’t even glance in my direction. I pressed my lips together with disappointment. What did I expect him to say?

  “I also miss England when I go home,” he added. “I know what you’re thinking, Callie. I made my choice a long time ago. England is my home. I shall also visit here, even after my father has gone, because it is my heritage, but my life is in Cambridge.” He briefly patted my thigh.

  My shoulders dropped with relief. His cultural past he could keep. I had no issue with the legacy. We would both have ancestors who had fought each other during world wars. It didn’t matter. As for religion, I suspected his upbringing might have been Catholic. Mine had been the occasional visit to the local parish church at Christmas and christenings. I assumed that if he were steeped in religion, we would have been visiting the church that morning, not going on a mystery tour. The idea of Stefan confessing his sexual habits to a priest wouldn’t sit well for either of us.

  The music room haunted me. All those books, so evidently his. I couldn’t let it lie unspoken. “The books in the music room. Are they yours?” I broached, peering at him from under my fringe.

  Instead of a frown, he chortled. “Of course they’re mine.”

  “But they’re here,” I pointed out.

  “Because I’ve read them all. They’re in here now.” He tapped a temple with a finger. “I chose to study in Cambridge, small digs in the college. So I only took the pick of the collection. The rest stayed here. Mum doesn’t have a big house. Dad has loads of space. Silly girl. You and your questions. Do you think I’m going to up sticks and move back here?”

  I didn’t answer as my face grew hotter. I’d been foolish with my overthinking again. Sometimes explanations were much simpler than the ideas concocted by my overactive imagination. I concentrated on the road ahead, which had entered a wooded region. I glimpsed what I thought to be water glinting through the trees. Stefan, having ensured that I was stuffed with a cooked breakfast, had insisted that I bring a jacket, even though the air had warmth and the sky was clear blue. The weather front with its overnight rain had dispersed, leaving a glorious spring day. I’d also watched him pack a light lunch in a rucksack. A picnic in the woods, maybe?

  We drove past more houses, increasingly luxurious in appearance and size. We entered a small town and the trees thinned to open up the view. What lay before my eyes took me by surprise—a lake—vast in scale, shimmering under the sun and dotted with sailing boats. I could make out the far shore, but the lake disappeared in either direction to the left and right.

  “Wow. What is this place?”

  Stefan slowed the car, letting it crawl alongside the waterfront then past what appeared to be a ferry station. “Lake Starnberg. When I was a child, Dad brought me and Hans here to sail and swim.”

  He drove on past a few shops and cafés, out of the small village and back into the woods. Now and again, I caught sight of the water.

  “Where are we going?” I repeated my earlier question.

  He smiled with a small shrug.

  I growled under my breath with frustration.

  He turned off the main road and drove down a narrow track. At the far end, the lake reappeared, and with it, a wooden jetty and boathouse, both shaded by overhanging trees.

  “This belongs to your family?”

  “Yes. Although it is little used. Hans comes down here occasionally for a long weekend of sailing, when it suits him,” he snarled the last few words. “Dad hasn’t the strength on his own. A local man comes by and checks on locks and contents, keeping things ship-shape.” He parked the car, switching off the engine.

  The first thing I noticed as I stepped out of the car was the breeze. A cool flow of air that picked up the ends of my hair and tossed them about. The sun might have been bright and warm, but the air felt nippy—too cold. I reached into the car and retrieved my jacket.

  Stefan took my hand and led me up the wooden jetty. The gray boards looked weathered and weak. I tentatively put a foot on the first one.

  “They’re fine,” he said, noting my reticence. “Everything is well maintained.”

  I ignored the creak and followed him down the narrow pier until the water lapped underneath the jetty, surrounding us. Stefan pointed down the lake and I turned to see what he was showing me. I stopped in my tracks and grabbed his arm. Before me, in the distance, rising up out of the ground, the snow-capped mountains of the Alps—a stunning view. They looked crisp and clearly defined, and I wanted to reach out and touch them. “Incredible. They look so close.”

  Stefan nodded. “It has to be a clear day like today, or else they disappear into the clouds. You’re lucky, they’re usually hidden.” He crouched, choosing a spot on the jetty to sit, and patted the board next to him. I joined him, my legs dangling over the side, nearly touching the clear water. I could see stones and rocks on the bottom of the lake.

  “You come here sailing?” I shaded my eyes from the sun and observed the distant sailing boats.

  “With my brother and father. Mum, she hated being on the water, and by the time I was old enough to learn how to sail, she’d long gone. I spent many a summer tacking back and forth across the lake.”

  I snuggled closer to him, and he put an arm around my shoulders.

  “Good times, for you and Hans. Not so now?” I ventured to ask, remembering the heated phone calls last Sunday.

  Stefan sighed and swung his legs underneath him. The tips of his shoes brushed the surface of the water, sending out tiny ripples. “I fell out with Hans a few years back over a relationship my mother began with a man. Hans considered him to be unsuitable—a potential money grabber with no proper job. I kept my counsel, believing Mum would see it for herself eventually. Hans practically shunned her, refusing to visit while they lived together. He demanded she leave this guy. Ironic, yes?” Stefan turned to me, his eyes sparkling with not humor, but anger. “I’m the controlling one, aren’t I? However, it was my brother who pushed her away.”

  “Your mother is still with this man?”
<
br />   “No. She did boot him out in the end, and it was her choice. Hans gloated from afar. I sympathized.”

  “It must have been tough, knowing you didn’t like this man.” I squeezed his hand, sensing the tension in his body. “I think… You don’t like to see Hans take charge of your mum because it is a trait you have and maybe… You’re uncomfortable with your own self-image.” I tried to phrase my words carefully, not wanting to offend him.

  Stefan pursed his lips, but didn’t disagree with my viewpoint. “Except, I held back.”

  “You did and that to me means you’re caring and considerate of your mum’s feelings. You’ve remained close, yes?”

  “Very much so.” He released another long exhale. “That relationship has remained a sore point between Hans and me. We came to an agreement. An unwritten family one. Since Hans lived over here, he would take care of Dad and I would look after Mum. If they needed help, especially health wise, we would provide that support.”

  “Hans refused?” I questioned. It must have infuriated Stefan to have his brother renege on the deal when their father fell ill. “He hasn’t visited at all?”

  “Once. When we didn’t know if Dad was at death’s door or not. Since then, he’s stayed in Stuttgart, two bloody hours away. I have to fly in, sort out the insurance, find a caregiver and make sure Dad has the care he needs.” He splashed the water with his swinging foot, sending up spray.

  “Is your brother married?”

  “Yes,” groaned Stefan. “I know. Married, young son and full-time job. While me, I’m the one who has no commitments. Yes, so no problems. I just pop over at my expense and miss a key rehearsal, cancel my lessons, while my brother is unable to negotiate time off from work.”