by Karen Welch
Deeply absorbed in reading the list, she didn't look up. “Of course, thanks for stopping by.” Raising her eyes to his face at last, she smiled, an unexpected dimple appearing in one cheek. “We'll talk, Jack, I promise.”
As soon as the door closed, she laughed softly. “I'm afraid he's had a bad shock. And you look just a tad rattled yourself. Your boots are on the hearth, by the way.” Taking the bag from his hands, she turned back to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Lunch is ready.”
When he had put on his boots and tried to calm his nerves, he joined her in the kitchen. “I'm not sure he got the right impression, you know. Will he be upset that I was here like that?”
She indicated a chair and sat down across from him at the table. “Like what? You were taking a nap. If he'd walked in when I was kissing you so shamelessly, it might have been awkward. But he had to find out sometime. I'm amazed I've managed to keep quiet this long. I don't keep secrets very well, especially not from Jack. He'll be fine as long as he thinks I'm happy.” She was filling his plate with food. “I hope you don't mind leftovers. Sal sent all this home with me, and I hated to take the time to cook something else.”
“It looks wonderful. And are you? Happy, I mean?”
“I think so. Ask me later, when you're gone and I have no idea when I'll see you again. But right now, yes, I'm happy.” He couldn't take his eyes from her face, as she set the plate before him and looked up with such warmth, the faintest color rising in her cheeks. She was so beautiful, so fresh and real. Here was no dream girl, with her sad, serious smile, but the girl who had kissed him so sweetly just this morning. She passed him a napkin and began to fill her own plate. His eye fell to the logo in the corner of the napkin, his breath caught in his throat and for just a second he felt the room tilt.
“Where did you say this came from?”
Oddly, she seemed to understand why his voice was trembling. Her eyes were full of sympathy, as if she had expected something like this. She answered slowly, “Salvatore's. My godmother Angela. Her husband Sal is a chef. He has a restaurant in Charlottesville and he caters. Stani, do you remember something?”
“John's report. The caterer at the party that night, Salvatore, he remembered me. Something about his daughter.” He scarcely recognized his own voice.
“Lil. Do you remember?”
As he struggled to find the image, he shook his head. “No, just what I read in the report. These people, Emily. I don't understand. They have some connection to you?” Carefully, he laid the napkin next to his plate, waiting.
Emily had known this moment would come. She had waited, hoping for a sign that he was ready to hear what she knew. She could tell him now about Lil, about the autograph, about the last words Lil had spoken to him before he left the party that night. He was watching her, his eyes dark and pained, as if he feared hearing what she had to say. “You told me you don't remember anything about the night before the accident.”
“No, I don't even remember Mark Stevenson. Why? Do you know something?”
“You met Lil that night at the party. Sal was catering and Lil recognized you and took you some food. She was just a kid, seventeen, and she was so impressed to see you there. You gave her your autograph on a napkin. She has it framed and hanging on her wall.”
He listened in silence, carefully following what she was saying. “You're telling me that I met this girl, someone so close to you, that night? And then the next day I walked all the way up here to you in the storm?” He shook his head gently. “How do you explain such a thing?”
“I can't. But I believe it was all part of the same miracle. But there's something else.” His eyes fell away, and he stared out the window across the yard. “Lil told me she gave you a sort of benediction, a blessing, when she left you that night. She didn't understand it herself, but she knew she'd done something extraordinary.” She watched him closely, knowing what she was saying might be impossible for him to understand.
Stani dropped his head, running his hands through his hair. “Emily, how am I supposed to believe that something some stranger said to me that night kept me from dying in that car? Is that what you believe?” He raised his eyes to hers, pleading.
“It doesn't matter what I believe. It happened. When I found out, months later, I had trouble understanding too. The moment I first saw that napkin with your signature, I thought I'd lost my mind. There was Lil, rattling off the story of how she'd met you and talked with you that night. She had no idea what had happened here the next day.”
“And you told her?”
Emily had a vision of herself, racing from the house, sobbing at Angela's kitchen table. She smiled. “Not exactly. But eventually, we talked. And she told me what she'd said to you. It made me feel better somehow. It was another sign that God had been watching over you.”
Stani sat for a time, staring toward the edge of the yard where the hill dropped away, where he knew he had fallen in the snow. He closed his eyes, finally, as if to block the sight, to focus on something within. “Benedictions, blessings, signs, miracles.” He spoke each word as if tasting it. “How do I fit those things into the life I'd been living? Why should this God you seem to know so well have been interested in me? Oh, I don't deny that he exists. I've felt a presence at times, a kind of peace, that I could call God. But to believe that he was there at that party, in that car, that he chose you, and even Lil, to protect me? That's asking me to accept that something I barely acknowledged the existence of actually cared enough about me to spare me, while two other people died. How am I supposed to do that?” She waited, knowing he would have to come to the answer alone. Finally, he turned to her, his eyes still dark, but filled with what could only be wonder, as if a window had suddenly opened for him. “Is that the mystery, the thing that only what you call faith can accept?” She smiled encouragingly. “You said you believe I lived because there's more I'm supposed to do with my life. How do I find out what that is?”
“But you’ve already found something, what you're doing on this tour, giving of yourself. There'll be more, as you go on, and there’ll be signs pointing the way. There are always signs if we're watching for them. The week I came home trying to find some way back to my life, I knew it would take a miracle. Then in just a matter of hours there seemed to be this shower of signs, all pointing to what I wanted most, to come home again. Right behind that was the miracle of you, walking for hours toward a light I had only turned on for a minute. You, surviving that awful night, going back to what you had been. When I saw the pictures of your recovery in that magazine, can you imagine how proud I was for you? I had seen the miracle first hand, and the whole world confirmed it.”
“And yet it didn't feel that way to me. All the pain, working to get back the one thing I needed most, trying to justify my survival. I felt guilty just for being alive.” He reached for her hand. “You let me go too soon.”
“It wasn't as if I could have followed you home.”
He smiled at the idea of her by his side in the world he'd returned to. “No, but it might have turned out very differently with you there to tell me these things sooner. 'Signs and miracles' were not part of my recovery. I told you, I was terrified that I might never play again. It was all up to me to get back to where I'd been before, or lose everything. How can I ever explain to you the darkness, the loneliness? If you had been there, and not only in my dreams, at least there would have been some light, some comfort.”
“But you made it, Stani, on your own. That was the journey you had to make. I know from experience, the journey is where we learn to rely on our faith, because we find ourselves unable to make it alone.”
“You know so much more about these things than I do. I'm afraid religion is something that was totally lacking in our lives. Milo is Jewish and Jana is Catholic, but neither one practices or even talks about their faith. At least not to me. I remember going to Christmas Eve services with Jana a few times. I was so impressed with the beauty of the candlelight and t
he music. But that was all. When I began performing, I found I loved playing in churches. No matter what the music it seems somehow sacred when it's played in church. But that's as close to worship as I've ever been. I think it's been very different for you.”
“I grew up in church, the same church all my life. I realize how fortunate I was to have parents who gave me that kind of upbringing. My faith has been tested, but it has never failed me. Stani, God has already reached out to you. And you've responded by trying to change the way you live your life. Just open your heart. He'll tell you what you should do next.”
“How will I know it's not just my own thoughts, my own desires?”
“You'll know. Wait and listen. You'll recognize the difference.”
“Watch for signs? Is that what you’re telling me? So far, they seem to take the form of a beautiful girl bearing wisdom.” After another moment of staring across the yard, he began to poke at his untouched meal. “Do you think we'll always be like this, so intense?”
“I hope not. I think we have to get past that first time we were together. That was certainly intense. The more time we spend together, the farther we'll get from that. Assuming we have the opportunity to spend time together. Can you really only stay a few more hours? You said you don't have to be anywhere tonight.”
“I have a concert in DC tomorrow night.” He watched her eyes light up as she smiled, a mischievous half-smile he'd never seen before. “What are you thinking?”
“You could get stranded here, and still get to DC in plenty of time, couldn't you?”
“Stranded how? Robert will be back for me at five. John has already gone ahead to the hotel. And surely, you don't think I'd sleep here?” His fork paused in mid-air as he stared at her, trying to determine whether she was serious.
“Why not? I do have a lock on my bedroom door, as if I'd be worried about that. We could have hours more time, dinner and breakfast. You wouldn't like that?” Her eyes were wide with excitement, and he felt himself being drawn into what was clearly an inspired madness.
“Emily, in the first place, you're asking me to be much stronger than I am. The very thought of you sleeping in the next room, even with a locked door, would be unbearable. Do you really think I'm so immune to your very beautiful self? Secondly, what would Jack say if he knew I'd stayed here? I don't know what charge he might think up, but I'm pretty sure he'd try to arrest me for something. No, I can't! And yes, I would like to very much! You are without a doubt the most unusual girl I've ever known. One minute you're an angel dispensing spiritual counsel, and the next you're a siren luring me to certain disaster. How am I ever going to know which one I'll have to deal with next?”
“At least you won't get bored with me. But really, can't you stay? You could go to church with me in the morning.”
Stani threw back his head and laughed. “Emily, my love, how would you explain a strange man spending the night with you and then accompanying you to church? If you were worried about people talking when you dragged me in from the storm, what do you suppose they would say to such an obvious moral lapse?”
“But we wouldn't lapse. We're just good friends, remember?”
He took her hand, raising it near his lips, his eyes never leaving her expectant gaze. “Don't be naive, love. I am a man and you are a woman. If I spent the night here, we'd never be just friends again. Not by the time we sat down to breakfast together.”
At the warmth in his eyes and the firmness in his voice, a little shiver lifted her shoulders. “Really, Stani, I think you underestimate me. But if you think we shouldn't, so be it. We'll just have to make the most of the time we have left.” She rose from the table and carried their plates to the sink. Turning back, she flashed that beguiling little smile again. “Well, are you coming? Between sleeping and eating and all this intense conversation, we've used up most of the time we might have had for more pleasant things. I'd like to learn more about that 'I am man, you are woman' thing, if you’d care to enlighten me.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
For over an hour they sat talking of many things. Emily seemed intent on learning as much about him as possible in the short time available, hurling one direct question after another at his whirling brain. He was helpless to do other than answer frankly. As she perched on the edge of the cushion, gauging his every response with that profound gray gaze, he wondered if she couldn't read his thoughts. There would be no opportunity to edit his life, no hiding any dark corner of his past. Emily demanded, and deserved, honesty.
She began with his living arrangements, what kind of apartment, how large, who lived there with him?
“Let's see, I suppose it could be described as large by New York standards. Four bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, a nice large living area and a very fine kitchen, which is rarely put to use. It has a really excellent view of the city. Views of any sort in Manhattan come with a price tag. As to my roommates, Milo and Jana, of course, and John now. He moved into one of the guest rooms after I returned from the hospital, and he's just never moved out. We travel so much, I suppose he doesn't feel the need for a place of his own.”
“Are there servants?”
He started to say no, but thought better. “I don't know that I would call them that, but there are people who work for us, who are on the payroll. Not a butler or housemaids, certainly, but the housekeeper who comes three or maybe four times a week. And there's Robert, Milo's chauffeur. And then there's Milo's secretary, without whom we would all be totally lost.”
“What’s the housekeeper like?” When he answered with a blank stare, she prodded, “Old, young, small, large?”
“Ah, I see. Mamie is tall, and I think it's fair to say she's somewhere between young and old. She's kind, very forgiving of our disorganized lifestyle; and I'm pretty sure of all the members of our eclectic household, I'm her favorite. She and Robert are related, sister and brother, I think. It makes for a nice arrangement.”
“How long have they worked for you? Robert and Mamie, I mean.” This was some sort of test, he realized, to determine how much attention he paid to things he most likely took for granted.
He paused to think. “Just after we moved to New York I guess. It seems to me they've always been there. Mamie was always watching out for me, reminding me to wear my overcoat in winter and such. I'm afraid I tended to be pathetically absentminded as a boy. Still am, I suppose, but now John takes care of most of the details. Robert drove me to school, I remember, so yes, they've been there since we moved from London. He's a really fine man, Robert, very considerate. He had driven me to DC, before the accident. He's told me more than once how terrified he was when he found I'd disappeared.”
“And John? Is he 'on the payroll,' too?”
“It would be more accurate to say John works with us, rather than for us. He gets paid far too little for all he does, I'm sure. In truth, John is a good friend who has graciously agreed to put up with me in exchange for a pittance plus room and board.”
Apparently satisfied, she moved on to his education, through his New York debut, to the history of his career. The personalities he'd worked with, the places he'd stayed and the music he'd played. How did he travel around when he was touring?
“Planes, trains, cars. It all blends together after a while. And someone else is in charge of the arrangements. I just show up, more or less on time, and get taken to wherever I'm supposed to be. Now, on this tour, it's been a bit different. Just John and myself, we’ve traveled by car most places.”
“But today, Robert drove you, or I assume that was Robert.”
“Yes, since we'll be on the East Coast for a few days and Milo's in Europe right now, we had Robert come down. Gives John a break.”
“Don't you ever drive? Go places on your own?”
He chuckled. “Not if John has anything to say about it. I have a license, but I rarely drive. When I came off tour, Milo even suggested I think of buying a car, but the very suggestion of driving in Manhattan gave me nightmares.
Once in a while, if his eyes are bothering him, John will let me get behind the wheel, but not for long. No faith, I guess. He's afraid we'll end up hopelessly lost if he isn't watching the entire time. I tend to nap when we’re traveling, so I rarely notice where we’re going.”
That opened the subject of how much rest and when and what he ate while touring. He could see her disapproval as he described the late night receptions with their less than nutritious buffets and open bars. What sort of people did he meet at these affairs? He grimaced as he listed the blue-haired matrons and elder-statesmen who demanded his attention by virtue of their positions on the contributors list. Then there were the younger girls, college students and debutantes, with their very proper and obviously bored escorts. Rarely a genuine music lover in that lot, but they all seemed to feel he had something in common with them because they were of the same generation. “Unfortunately, I've never had much at all in common with people my own age. It's not as if I went to college or did any of the things most kids do.”
“Have there been lots of girls?” she asked, one expressive brow arching slightly.
“What? You mean on tour?” He sensed rapids ahead on this winding river of her curiosity.
“Anywhere. You said I was the most unusual girl you'd ever known. Have there been lots of girls you've known?” She fixed him with an expectant stare.
“What would you consider lots? Dozens, hundreds?” He grinned at the very idea.
“Were there hundreds?” Her eyes were wide and slightly amused, but the tone of her question was undeniably serious.
“Of course not! I'm only twenty-four and I got a very late start.” He pulled her close with a sigh, pressing her head against his shoulder. “If you must know, and apparently you must, there may have been a couple dozen or so, but no one the least bit important. Back in my slightly wilder days, I wasted a fair amount of time on the town in New York, clubs and parties and such. There was no shortage of women bent on slaying every man in sight. I fell victim to a few, but I was too easy for them I think. I'm not aggressive enough, apparently. If they wanted me, they took me, and I just crawled off afterward, licking my wounds. Since the accident, I really haven't had much interest at all. In fact, until quite recently, I'd begun to wonder if I would ever be interested in that sort of thing again.”