by Karen Welch
Enough. You must be bored to tears by now.
Most sincerely,
Emily
She had not expected him to be so warm and genuine. After the first intense moments, when he’d looked at her with such wonder and tears had filled his eyes, Stani Moss had seemed to be someone she'd known for a very long time. All of the mystique, the image of the brooding young genius, had melted away as she watched him. Standing before the mantel, seeming to picture them together, pacing beside the hearth, as if measuring the space where he had lain all those hours, he was suddenly very real and vulnerable. “I was here, on the floor, and you were in that chair. Is that right?” In his eyes, she saw clearly that he needed as much as wanted her to tell him that his memory was accurate.
They had sat side by side on the couch, and he had told her he still couldn't remember anything else about the night of the accident. “I was afraid it was all lost, but now at least I have this. I suppose that should be enough.” He asked about his condition when she found him.
“You were very cold, you had lost a lot of blood, and your left arm was dangling, as if it had been torn from the shoulder. I was afraid between the shock and the exposure that you might lapse into a coma, but eventually you did rouse somewhat, enough to let me know you were aware of me. I suppose that's what you remember, those few minutes. The power was out and the only heat was from the fireplace. That's why I put you here on the floor.”
He had listened in silence, looking around the room as if trying to imagine the scene. “How long?”
“About eighteen hours. Jack, he's the sheriff, came late the next morning. He was also my guardian at the time, and he came when he heard there was smoke coming from the chimney up here. You see, I wasn't supposed to be here. I had come home without telling anybody.” She had smiled at the slightly puzzled look in his eyes. “Let's just say I had a lot of explaining to do.”
He asked to see the place in the yard where she'd first found him. Taking him there, she described the way he had fallen, how she had first believed him to be dead, and the rush of energy that had erupted when she realized he was alive. She tried to explain how she’d used the coverlet to drag him inside. “From that point on, something outside me seemed to take over. I just wanted to get you in out of the snow. I'm sure it was quite a sight, but in the end it worked.” Linking her arm through his, she’d led him back to the house. Suddenly, standing there talking about the horror of those first moments, she had remembered the sight of his bloodied face and felt she needed to take him back inside to safety again.
The most unexpected thing about the whole meeting, she decided, was how easy they had been with one another from the start. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to go into his arms in those first few moments. He had buried his face in her hair, whispering her name over and over, and she’d been keenly aware of the unfamiliar, though not at all unpleasant, warmth she felt in response. From then on, they had seemed to frequently reach for each other, touching hands or linking arms. When he had taken her hand and lifted it to his lips, saying thank you for whatever it was he felt she had given him, she’d been stunned by her own reaction. Under any other circumstances, any other man who had done such a blatantly romantic thing would have found her far from receptive. She would have jerked away, or even laughed in his face. But when Stani's eyes had met hers, filled with a mix of emotions she dared not try to interpret, she’d been deeply moved in a way she had never been before.
When she had walked with him to the gate, where the car and driver waited, Stani had turned and drawn her into his arms, held her close and laid his cheek against hers. “Until next time?” he'd whispered.
She’d been surprised at how pleasantly warm his breath was on her face. “Next time.” As the car had backed out of the drive, she had held up her hand, hoping he couldn't see that it was actually trembling.
Of course, he was even more beautiful than his photographs. No camera could ever catch the true color of his hair, the flash of his smile, or the intensity of those dark eyes. Dressed in black, a tailored shirt and impeccably creased trousers topped by a sport coat of the finest wool, black on black glen plaid, he had seemed uncommonly elegant. Yet he wore his clothes as though he had put little or no thought into their selection, seemingly unaware of the impression he made. The fall of auburn waves across his face, the way he gestured with those strong, slender hands, compelled her to watch him. She had been surprised by his voice, deep and warm with that unusual accent. Everything about him was appealing and left her wishing he would come again.
That he had said there would be a next time meant nothing, she knew. He would be far away, busy with his career; and while he might write a few letters, she was sure that in time he would find it too difficult to keep in touch. There would be little opportunity to come back to this remote place just to visit for a few hours. There would be no reason, now that he had confirmed his memories, to make such an effort. He was naive to believe they had anything in common beyond those few hours they had spent together that Christmas.
Then his letter had arrived, just days after his visit. He had opened so many doors, asked so many questions, as if he needed to know more about her in order to go forward. Forward to where? But she hadn’t hesitated to answer, feeling that anything she had to say would be honestly received. Perhaps it was easier to put the words on paper without seeing his reaction.
She had at least made herself clear with respect to his survival. It was important that he understand and not go on thinking she was some kind of hero. As for the rest, he had asked and she had answered, telling him as much about herself as she dared.
She was afraid to imagine that he might have been as attracted to her as she had been to him. There had been a moment or two, when he had looked at her as if he'd never seen a woman before, as if she had stunned him somehow. Was that just her imagination or some quirk of his personality? Whichever, that gaze had produced a peculiar spiraling tingle deep within her, unlike anything she'd ever felt.
It didn't matter in the long run. Nothing had happened to lessen the vast distance between his world and hers. She had tried to point out how different their lives were, but he had been caught up in the charm of the unfamiliar setting, she suspected. Once back in his own environment, he would no doubt see that she’d been right. In reality, there was no common ground.
That thought, and the memory of his presence here, threatened to make her regret her own situation. If she were free to leave, to follow him, provided he asked her to, what kind of future might they have? But why indulge in fantasy? Why start down a road she could never follow? She loved her life here; and when she never heard from him again, here would be the source of comfort she could turn to.
Chapter Thirty-four
When Stani first read her letter, he was at a loss to respond. She spoke of faith, of miracles and of a God she seemed to know intimately. Clearly, she thought he shared her beliefs. He felt ashamed at his lack of understanding. While he acknowledged there was some higher power, he had never known the relationship she described. As to faith, he knew himself to be completely wanting. Yet the thought of admitting such a thing to her, risking her disapproval, left him terrified. If he were honest about his lack of belief, would it destroy her regard for him? Or if he pretended to understand what she was saying, agreed with her, would she sense his dishonesty and lose all respect for him?
Her ideas intrigued him, her belief that he had somehow done something to help her. As with everything he learned about her, he wanted to know more. She was so far removed from any woman he'd ever known, so completely genuine and unaffected. Yet there was a maturity beyond her years, a wisdom and depth. In spite of all she’d suffered, the loss of her parents and the uncertainty of her future, she seemed content with her life, cheerfully determined to follow the path she had chosen. Was that also a result of her faith?
Honesty was essential if he hoped to gain her trust and affection. He must start out in the way he i
ntended to go forward. And he knew—had known the moment he looked into those smoky gray eyes—that he wanted her, as much of her as he could have, in his life. How to make that happen, in the midst of his ever faster moving career, he had as yet no idea.
But he knew he felt more alive, more at peace within himself, than he had in his life, before or since the accident. Surely, he hadn’t found her only to lose her again? He would find some way to bring her into his chaotic world. She believed in miracles; perhaps some miracle would bring them together, as she thought it had before. Not willing to wait for divine intervention, however, Stani was determined to do what he could on his own.
Dearest Emily,
Now it is I who has been overwhelmed. Had I not just seen you, your youth and your beauty, I might have imagined such wisdom from the pen of an aged sage.
When I read of your loss, I grieved with the girl whose world had been so tragically overturned. But I also celebrated with the woman who found her way to a new life in the home she so obviously loves. Having never had a real home, not in the sense that you have anyway, I can only imagine what comfort that must be to you. I can also imagine how proud your parents must have been of a daughter with your strength and vision. I see more and more just how extraordinary you really are. And I'm afraid I must persist in regarding you with awe and admiration.
As to all of your favorite things, you made me laugh with delight. (No small feat. I’m accused of being something of a dour Scot.) I would have done better to ask your dislikes, I think, though that list might have been even shorter. Surely you could elaborate on your favorite music as I have some knowledge of that subject. Your top ten favorite composers, perhaps. Baroque or Romantic? Or maybe you are a fan of rock and roll, and only have that brilliant collection of classical recordings to impress visiting violinists? And I should love to hear about your friends, no matter the number of pages.
As to my history, it is the stuff liner notes are made of. But I can tell you that I was born in East London, Lambeth to be precise, of somewhat shadowy parentage. I know that my father was born in Scotland and returned there before I was old enough to have any memory. With my mother, I have only an occasional card or call relationship. I was “discovered” at the age of five and shuffled from teacher to ever more brilliant teacher. At the age of eight, I was introduced to Milo Scheider, and he and his gracious wife Jana took me into their home. Milo is responsible for crafting my career, and the rest is history. I never had anything resembling a normal childhood or education. I'm afraid I missed out on learning how to live because living at the time was all about music, learning, practicing and performing. I don't blame them, you understand; but Milo and Jana placed so much importance on growing my talent, they inevitably neglected to grow the rest of me. If it had not been for a wonderful friend who took me in hand just as I was about to begin my solo career, I would have been an even greater disaster than I am.
As to your other questions, my accent is often a source of confusion, though of course I am not aware that I have an accent at all. I would say it is a mixture of lower middle class Brit, transplanted Hungarian (Milo and Jana are both immigrants) and a bit of New York teenager. (My only formal schooling past primary school was a brief stint at a performing arts high school in Manhattan, where I tried desperately not to stand out.) I can say phrases like “Beautifully done” and “Where's the loo?” in at least six languages, but in reality I'm just a kid from London who travels under an assumed name. The truth is I was christened Stanley—you're laughing now—but my mother for some reason called me Stanny, like Danny. Somewhere along the way the spelling was changed, which makes for great marketing in the eclectic realm of classical music. Now you know a great deal more about me than almost anyone in the world. Please don't expose me for the fraud that I am!
No, I don't always wear black. I often wear gray. It keeps things simple. (In case you hadn't noticed, I have hair the color of which clashes with almost every other color of the spectrum!)
As to my taste, I may not have any. I know what I like when I see or hear it. But I can't say I have enough education to hold any valid opinions. Refined, I'm sure I'm not. As to music, I love the Romantic period best but am open to anything well done. Jazz intrigues me though I don't pretend to understand it. I must admit that rock and roll offends me somewhat. I have a particular love for the traditional music of the British Isles. It may be that it is in my blood, but it seems to speak to me in a familiar voice.
I apologize if I seem mercurial, but perhaps that is part of my artistic temperament. I must tell you that I am rarely as relaxed as I found myself in your company. Even my friend (and bodyguard) John (who by the way, was not in the least offended at being sent away for lunch) made note of the fact that you had put a rather foolish grin on my face.
And now I have a question for you. While I admit my only first-hand knowledge of growing things was a tiny garden behind Milo's house in London, yours seems a very large patch of earth to dig and plant. Is that not a very big job for such a slender, beautiful girl to undertake? I ask because I am concerned that you will do yourself some harm. I'm sure you know much more about these things than I do, but still, I will worry. Your well-being has become of the utmost importance to me, as I look to our future. You will take care of yourself, won't you?
Until,
Stani
P.S. Are you aware that you too have an accent? It's quite lovely, so much softer and more refined than I would have expected in a southern girl like yourself. The way you say my name, I find absolutely musical.
P.P.S. One last thing. In addition to your more obvious charms, you also have this very sweet habit of blushing. I hope I have caused that most becoming shade of pink to rise in your cheeks, as you also consider our future.
Dear Stani,
If the next stage of overwhelmedness (???) is undone, I am undone. Your letter did indeed make me blush, to the roots of my hair I'm sure. I greatly enjoyed the brief history of your life and found you much too self-effacing. I'm sure your experiences have provided you with a fine education. But the last portion of your letter was so outrageous I have no idea how I'm expected to reply. How can you talk of a future when we barely have a present? We have spent a little over three hours together; and even if you count the time three years ago—which you can't, since I was the only one conscious—we have known one another for less than two days.
I appreciate that we have revealed quite a lot of ourselves in these letters, but that cannot substitute for time spent together. If such time ever presented itself, I'm sure you would find me far less awe-inspiring and quickly bore of my very ordinary self. I am a farm girl, as I tried to point out, not some rare, delicate creature to be pampered and fantasized over.
Stani, for your own sake, please don't make me into more than I am. I'm afraid you've been swept away by your need to see me as exceptional, when in fact I'm a simple country girl who happened to be on hand when you needed help. My life here is all about providing a living for myself and keeping my home and the memory of my parents alive. To that end, I trained as a nurse in order to have an adequate income. I have no intention of living anything but the most modest kind of life. I can't imagine ever meeting anyone willing to share that with me at the expense of their own ambitions. This is my choice, one I'm quite content with.
Please understand that I admire you a great deal, both as a man and as an artist. I know you will go on to do great things with your life. But your world and mine have nothing in common. That's why I let you go alone when Jack found us. There was no way I could follow you home. I knew there were people there who loved you and could give you everything you needed. You asked me not to send you away without the hope of coming again, and that is not my intention now. But you must come with the understanding that we can only be friends, who might see one another once in a great while, might write the occasional letter, but nothing more.
I would never expect you or any man to leave their chosen life for me. And I�
�m sure you would never ask such a thing of me. This is my life, my home, and I am committed to it completely. Just as completely as you are committed to your career.
If you choose not to respond to this letter, I will understand. Please know that while I might wish for things to be different, I am realistic enough to accept when the obstacles are too great to overcome.
God bless you and keep you safe.
Most sincerely,
Emily
The day Emily mailed her reply a call came from Harriet Wilson. There was a job for her at Crestview, an exclusive long-term care facility across the mountains, if she wanted it. It would mean being away from home for several weeks, but perhaps that was what she needed now. She said a prayer of thanks for something to take her mind off Stani and the confusion his letter had created. As she prepared to leave, she tried to tell herself it was all for the best. He had to be stopped before things went any further. She would have been tempted to go on with their correspondence; it was flattering, even exciting, to think of him taking such an interest in her. But letting him believe they could ignore the fact of their very different lives, when she knew only too well what the outcome would be, hardly seemed fair. They would always be connected, she could not deny that; but there could be no future together and the sooner he accepted that the better.
With her mind on the weeks ahead, she stopped watching the mail. He was probably furious with her, or so disillusioned he would not answer. The day before her departure, as she finished cleaning the house and packing, his letter appeared in the mailbox.