Hearts Unfold

by Karen Welch

  It was rapidly growing dark. Her watch read four o'clock. Could it really have been three hours since she woke from that sweet dream? In such a short time, everything about her homecoming had been changed. Now all that mattered was this stranger, keeping him alive and getting him to a hospital. She longed for the sight of Jack at the door, no matter how upset he was at finding her here. She needed him, this boy needed him, and she would explain what she had believed were her reasons for coming home once he had been taken to safety.

  Slipping her hand under the quilt, she let it rest on his chest. His breathing was shallow, and his body was still cold to the touch. She considered for a moment, hoping this idea was not merely the result of some writer's device for furthering a romantic plot, and then pulled back the cover. Carefully, she stretched beside him on the floor and drew the quilts under her chin. Sharing the warmth of her own body was the only other means she had of warming him now. She knew she would be mortified if he woke to find her here. But that seemed unlikely at this point. As soon as she lay down, she realized how exhausted she was. She would rest here a while, listening to his breathing and the crackle of the fire. What if she didn't know his name or where he had come from? He would be gone as soon as help came, and she might never know. It didn't matter, as long as he survived. Her eyes went to the angel she had placed on the mantel this morning—was it really only this morning she had decorated the room for Christmas? The angel stood with arms raised, her wings spread in splendor behind her, ready to declare joy to the world. If she had ever needed an angel, it was now. She would dispatch the angel to find Jack, to tell him she desperately needed his help.

  Emily fell asleep picturing Jack's tall figure coming through the snow, following the beautiful angel up the hillside. The angel looked remarkably like her mother, with honey-colored hair and sparkling gray eyes; and her gentle smile seemed to say there was nothing to worry about. Everything would be fine.

  Chapter Six

  Milo had phoned Stani's hotel room at midnight. He had worried all day that he might have gone too far with Stani. He knew that anger was not the best way to motivate him. He had always been able to move the boy with encouragement and praise. Stani was a pleaser. He strove to please everyone around him, from world-renowned conductors to stage hands. He especially sought to please Milo. He had used Stani's desire to please all through the years with great success, but lately he'd become concerned by Stani's lack of discipline. His drinking, in particular, seemed to be increasingly out of control. It was coming dangerously close to affecting his career.

  When there was no answer in Stani's room, Milo asked the desk clerk to check the bar. Stani was not there, he was told, and the doorman had not seen him leave during the evening. Perhaps he had turned off his phone, the clerk suggested.

  Not completely satisfied, but with little choice other than to wait until morning, Milo had gone to bed, planning to call again first thing in the morning. If necessary, he would have Robert go to the hotel to check Stani's room. He felt certain Stani would never do anything to harm himself, but it was possible that if he had been drinking he might have fallen. He would never forgive himself if something had happened to the boy, all because he had wanted some time away.

  At seven, he called the hotel. Still no answer in Stani's room, but this time he was told a member of the hotel staff had recalled seeing Stani in the bar around four-thirty the previous afternoon. He had left the hotel with a lady, a very stylish young lady. No one could recall seeing him return. Would Milo like for security to check the room?

  The result was the discovery that Stani had indeed been gone all night. In his room, they found only his bag, never unpacked, and his violin. There were two telephone messages, which had come in before his arrival, one from Jana and one from someone named Betsy. Milo phoned Robert at his hotel, asking if he had heard from Stani, already sure of the answer.

  Who Betsy might be, Milo had no idea. He had never known much about the young people Stani had met since returning from the world tour over a year ago. He had encouraged the boy to go out, to join in the night life New York was famous for. He felt it would be good for Stani's career to keep his name before the public; it might even attract a broader following. Stani was an appealing young man now, with his elegant figure and his striking auburn hair. Certainly, women of all ages found him attractive. After concerts all over the world, eager fans, many of them young girls, flocked around the stage doors seeking autographs. In some cases, there had even been overzealous fans who sought to get closer, to touch him or place some token in his hand. But as far as Milo was aware, there had never been one particular girl.

  It was possible, as the desk clerk implied, that Stani had left the hotel with a call girl. Milo had never known him to use prostitutes. He rarely spent much of the generous allowance he received every month. But if he had been feeling rebellious after being so harshly scolded, he might have done something out of character, just to prove that he was his own man. At twenty-one, Stani had yet to declare his independence, seemingly satisfied to let Milo direct his every step, not only in his career, but in every aspect of his life.

  Milo called the hotel again, this time requesting the telephone numbers of the mysterious Betsy. No answer at the first number, he dialed the second. An answering service operator informed him that Miss Mason, who was available for auditions the week after Christmas, had not picked up her messages since noon yesterday. Milo left a message, stating that he was Stani Moss's manager and to please return the call as soon as possible. He hesitated to say that the matter was urgent, but he was more and more concerned that it might be.

  They waited all morning, he and Jana, huddled together near the phone in their hotel room. Milo wanted to return immediately to New York, but Jana urged him to at least wait until one o'clock. If Stani failed to appear at the church for his rehearsal, they would have real cause for alarm. At one ten the call came from Robert. He had gone to the church as instructed. Stani was not there. What did Milo want him to do next? They agreed that Robert would inform the music director that Stani had been taken ill. Nothing serious. He would definitely be able to make the performance tomorrow night. That would at least buy a little more time for a response from Betsy. Even if she and Stani were involved in some impulsive tryst, surely she would check her messages.

  While Jana called the airport to place them on stand-by to return to New York, Milo debated the wisdom of filing a missing persons report. But if Stani were somewhere with this girl, he would eventually have to surface. He might yet make the concert on Christmas Eve, and no one would need to know that he had ever disappeared. There was no reason to create unwanted publicity for either of them if they were only guilty of being in love.

  But in his heart, Milo believed he would have known if Stani had become emotionally involved with this girl. He was not an impetuous boy. Rather, he was too cautious at times. He had been so painfully shy as a child, always tucking his head as if he had something to apologize for. It had taken a great deal of careful coaching to transform that timid boy into a confident performer. Milo had enlisted able help to prepare Stani for the world's great concert stages. When his training was completed, the little boy who had once shaken Milo's hand and agreed to become partners had become a young man far exceeding anyone's expectations. Even Jana, who had taken the role of mother to heart, expressed amazement at this newly charismatic Stani. Yet inside, Milo suspected, the boy who had sought approval above all else remained unchanged. He could not accept the image of a rebellious Stani, who would intentionally disappoint a conductor and orchestra he held in highest regard. He would not simply ignore his commitments. Still, the thing that most alarmed Milo, though he did not mention it to Jana, was the fact that Stani had left his violin in the hotel room.

  They arrived at the apartment late that night, with no idea where to look next. There was nothing in Stani's room to indicate that he had made any plans other than to go to Washington. Afraid to look into one another's eyes,
they wandered about the apartment, with its spectacular view of the city lights, scarcely noticing the snow that had begun to fall.

  Chapter Seven

  Emily woke with a start, stiff and sore, and confused at the presence of something next to her on the floor. The dim light from the fire and the oil lamp cast shadows around the room; and for several minutes she stared up at them, trying to remember how she had come to be here. Then with her heart in her throat, she raised herself on one elbow and searched the face beside her. She touched his cheek and was rewarded by its warmth. His color, in the firelight, seemed a little better, too. When she moved against him, he drew a deep breath, as if in response to her touch. Slipping from beneath the covers, she knelt on the floor and carefully tucked the quilts around him.

  “It shouldn't be long now before help comes. I know they're looking for you. I've put as many lights as possible in the windows. Someone's sure to see them and come soon.” It sounded reassuring, she hoped, assuming he could hear her. She'd read that even comatose patients could hear, so it was worth trying to comfort him. And talking broke the unbearable stillness of the room.

  The fire was low again; she'd slept for almost two hours. The candles must have burnt down as well. Making the rounds, she replaced as many as possible from her dwindling supply, added logs to the fire and made a sandwich for her supper. She couldn't just sit and stare at him all night she decided. Still, she needed to stay awake to keep the fire going and tend the candles.

  She had to face the fact that with nightfall there was little likelihood anyone would be out there searching for him. The wind continued to blow, piling the snow in drifts across the yard. The house was cold now, with only a capsule of warmth around the hearth. She gathered blankets from the wardrobe, spreading two more over him, and reserving two for herself. As added protection against the chill, she put on her robe and an extra pair of socks. Not much of a fashion statement, but she felt sure he wouldn't notice.

  Looking around the room, she saw for the first time the mayhem she had created in her struggle to get him to the fireside. She began to put the room to rights, gathering up the sodden coverlet and both of their wet coats from where they had been cast aside in heaps on the floor. As she shook out his black wool overcoat she felt something in the folds, a stiff rectangle—a wallet? It hadn't occurred to her until now that of course he would be carrying some form of identification. If he had died out there in the snow, it wouldn't have mattered whether she knew his name or not. Now, reaching inside the breast pocket of the coat, her pulse began to race. Opening the cold leather folder cautiously, she found a considerable number of large denomination bills, and a New York driver's license. His name, according the license, was Stanley Moss. He lived in Manhattan. The only other item was a worn cardboard pass of some sort to Lincoln Center, with the words “stage #4” and perhaps a signature handwritten on the faded lines. It probably wasn't anything of importance, she decided. But at least now he had a name, though she would never have pictured him as anyone so ordinary as a “Stanley.”

  Something about the information she'd found nagged at her memory. She let the words toss about in her brain, said them aloud, studied his sleeping face with new eyes, now that it had a name. Drawing one of the wing chairs close to the fire, she sat hugging her knees, watching him, willing him to move, to open his eyes, to make some sound. Anything to reassure her that he was going to live through the night. She longed for something to break the silence. Music, it occurred to her, would be so comforting, for both of them.

  “Music!” she said aloud. “Moss. Stanley Moss. Stani Moss?” She leaped from her chair, going to the other end of the room. Taking the candle from the windowsill, she held it high over the records lining the shelves, searching. It would have been one of the last acquisitions, she knew. She only half remembered her mother telling her about this boy, a violinist, near her own age, who was setting the concert world on fire. Her fingers flew over the album jackets, finally locating what she thought must be the right one. Pulling it free, she carried it to the lamp, studying the photograph on the cover—a serious young boy cradling a gleaming violin, a frame of curling hair, a scattering of freckles. Her eyes went back to the fire-lit face of the man on the floor. Sinking into her chair, she clutched the record jacket to her chest. How could it be possible that the boy in this photograph was lying injured and unconscious in front of her fire?

  She sat there for a long time, trying to make sense of what she could piece together. He lived in New York, yet here he was, hundreds of miles away, alone, lost in a storm, injured in a car accident, she had to assume. People like Stani Moss didn't go around the country alone. They traveled with managers or assistants, didn't they? Everything was arranged for them. They were pampered and protected, not left to wander the countryside in the dead of winter without so much as a hat or gloves.

  She studied the liner notes on the recording. “He has been earning accolades since the age of ten for his brilliant virtuosic rendition of the classical repertoire,” she read under her breath. “At fifteen, he is considered a modern prodigy, acclaimed by critics for his skill and passionate interpretation.”

  Kneeling beside him, she gently touched his shoulder. “Stani,” she said softly, testing the name. “Stani, can you hear me? I don't know how this happened to you, but I'm sure everything possible is being done to find you. I know someone out there must be moving heaven and earth to find out where you've disappeared to.” She waited for a sign that he had heard, but there was no reaction. “Oh, Stani, please wake up, just for minute, just to let me know you can hear me! Just to make me feel better. I'll never be able to forgive myself if you don't wake up! You're so special, people will think I should have done more to save you.” She was babbling again, she knew. But maybe the urgency of her voice and the sound of his name would get through to him. Now that she knew who he was, it seemed much more personal, more terrifyingly important for him to survive. She hadn't wanted to think of an anonymous man dying on her hearth, but she knew she could never live here again if this brilliant musician breathed his last in this room.

  “Stani!” she tried again. “Open your eyes!” Nothing.

  She must have knelt there for some time, watching him breathe and trying to imagine what he would look like if he opened his eyes and smiled. He seemed to be drifting farther and farther away; now that she knew his identity, the gravity of their situation came into sharper focus. Now he was somehow someone she had known, not a stranger anymore. His life had already affected so many others, including her mother's. His loss would be felt by a world of people he had touched with his music. And yet here by the fire, he seemed to be just a gentle boy who had suffered a horrible misadventure and now lay fighting for survival.

  Emily reached out to touch a curling strand of red hair that clung to his cheek. “Stani, if you can hear me, please understand that I've done everything I can to keep you safe. I promise I won't leave you, not until someone comes who can really help you. But you have to promise me to hold on. Please don't leave me, Stani. Promise me?”

  Eventually, she made another circuit of the house, extinguishing many of the candles. It was late, and the snow was still falling steadily. No one could possibly be searching now. She gave up trying to make sense of whatever events had brought Stani Moss to her valley. If he survived, perhaps she would eventually learn the details. More likely, she would never know. If only she could get him to a hospital, to doctors who could make him whole again, she would be satisfied.

  Determined to stay awake, to watch over Stani and keep the fire going, she curled in the chair and began to talk. She told him how she had come home because she too was lost and how she had found herself here. She talked of her parents, how they had raised her to love this place and all the things they treasured. She told him the story of how they had met and fallen in love; how they came to the valley to start their life together in a new place and how much they had wanted a child to share in that life. It was a story she had
heard many times. She told it to him now, careful of detail and description. She wanted him to know about this place he had come to by whatever twists of fate, even if he never remembered being here.

  Her voice growing hoarse and every muscle aching for rest, she went on talking; her favorite books, the music she most loved. The places she had read about and dreamed of visiting someday. The paintings and sculptures she imagined she'd see, in her someday world travels.

  In danger of lulling herself to sleep, she paced the floor, repeatedly going to kneel beside him, touching his now warm cheek, tucking the blankets ever closer around him. He never moved, never gave any sign that he heard her voice or even sensed her presence. After midnight, the snow slowed to a flurry and the wind died completely. The silence was profound, as if the house were wrapped in cotton batting, insulated from the world outside. Inside, only the crackle of the fire and the soft sound of his breathing broke the stillness.

  Emily had given up trying to stay awake. Just a few minutes and she would be refreshed, she told herself. Curling in the chair, she closed her eyes. As soon as her head dropped, she woke with a start, her eyes immediately going to the figure on the floor. How could she possibly consider sleeping? He might wake and she would never know it. He might need her and she would not be there to help him. With her lids drooping, she began to talk again. This time she told him about Jack, who would soon be there to rescue him. Jack, who had been her father's lifelong friend, who was her godfather and had been there in every crisis of her life. Jack would see her lights and come to investigate. She would have a lot of explaining to do, she assured him; but in the end, Jack would take care of everything.

  Her ramblings were interrupted by a sudden soft noise. A log had burnt through and fallen on the grate, scattering sparks. She saw, or imagined she saw, Stani's lips part. His eyelids fluttered open and he seemed to gaze toward the fire for moment, before his eyes closed again.