Hearts Unfold

by Karen Welch

  Stani's last letter had left her certain he had no plans to come to her during the holidays. She had invited Jack to Christmas dinner. He would be on duty, allowing his deputies to have the day off, so he would only be with her for an hour or so to eat the meal and open their gifts to each other. The McConnells had invited her to supper that night, but she knew that Peter was bringing his girlfriend home to meet his parents. Better to spend the day alone, listening to holiday music and, she was pretty sure, feeling miserable, than force herself to be cheerful for the sake of appearances.

  Christmas Eve, at least, promised to be a magical night. She looked forward to seeing her little singers, dressed in their finest, participating in the very special service. They had learned their parts well and seemed to respond to her direction with a focus that surprised and gratified her. The whole experience had been so rewarding, she intended to talk with Sara about starting a permanent children's choir that could perform year round. This might be one more opportunity to bind herself to her community, she decided, one more way to stay busy and productive while she waited between Stani's visits. Life would need to be filled, not just with waiting, but with living. The idea of only feeling alive a day or two at a time was too awful to consider.

  Darling Stani,

  I have just heard your interview on the radio. Imagine my shock when I walked into the kitchen and heard your voice! I kid you not; I actually looked around to see if you had somehow sneaked into the house!

  What a wonderful thing, to hear you talk with such feeling about your visits to the music schools. I know you are an inspiration to other musicians, and I'm sure too that the students you've talked with appreciate your speaking out about their struggles. You are so gracious when you talk of their talent and dedication. I'm so proud of you for reaching out. You will see down the road the difference your efforts can make.

  I've been traveling around with Jack and one of his deputies, delivering the Christmas Family boxes. I could cry at some of the things I've seen. It's particularly hard to see the children and the elderly, who have no real power to change their circumstances. Our community does a good job, I think, of watching out for those in need who cannot help themselves. But there's always room for improvement. Jack has done so much through his office, along with the churches, to improve the system by which those who need help can ask for it with dignity. He's my hero, in case you haven't already guessed that.

  When will you be back in New York? I know it's supposed to be very exciting at Christmas, with the department store window displays and the tree in Rockefeller Center and the Rockettes performing. What a difference, as I keep pointing out, between your world and mine. Here we will focus on worship and shared meals and trying to alleviate the hardship brought on by the simple lack of rainfall last summer. But I love Christmas here, partly because it was so special to my parents. I have a wonderful tree, and the smell of cedar fills the house. And the crèche figures are making their way to the stable, right on schedule. I suppose you may not have had a crèche in your home when you were a child? Every year, just after Thanksgiving, we would place the little stable on the hearth. All across the room, I would scatter the porcelain figurines, the wise men with their camel on the piano, the shepherds with their flock on the stairs, Joseph and Mary by the front door, and so on. Then each day in Advent, it was my job to move them, inch by inch, toward Bethlehem. The angel and the baby Jesus would be hidden on the mantel until Christmas Eve. It's such a sweet tradition, I still do it.

  I've just remembered that when you were with me three years ago, the crèche was in place, just as it is now. I remember the angel, looking down on us as you lay by the fire. I had a dream that I sent the angel to bring Jack and I saw him walking across the yard, following that beautiful angel. It was a miraculous time, Stani, in spite of how frightened I was for you. Can you see why I believe God was watching over us?

  Just one moment of telling you how desperately I wish you could be with me this year. My longing for you is a physical ache, just under my ribs, that never quite goes away. I'm sure there's no clinical explanation for it and that the only cure would be the sight of you at my door. I hope you miss me a little, too. If you do, then I don't feel quite so foolish hoping for the impossible.

  You say you have no idea what I love about you. Stani, I love everything about you, or at least everything I know so far. I love your gentleness, your goodness and your sincerity. I love the way your eyes grow dark when you're serious, and the way they twinkle when you're teasing me. Stani, if you were a plumber, I would love you just as much. It has nothing whatsoever to do with your violin, although I expect your music has a great deal to do with the depth of your soul. I love all these things, but I confess, I am also deeply in love with you; and that has more to do with attraction, chemistry if you will. I love your touch, the way you look at me with warmth and desire; and I love your body, the way you feel and look, the way you move. I love the way we fit together, as if cut from the same pattern. These things may be what I miss most. I can hear your soul in your letters, but I can't touch you or look at you unless you’re here with me. Am I totally without shame? Yes, I am, when it comes to this new love I've found. I may have loved the idea of you for a long time, but the reality of you has far eclipsed the romantic ideal I imagined. My response to your kiss should have told you a great deal about how I love you. You call it spiritual, and it is certainly that, but I must confess much of what I feel is also carnal. Still love me? I can't be less than honest with you, Stani. I love you with my heart and soul, and with my body.

  Please take care of yourself. If I have one real anxiety it's that you will be sick or hurt and I will have no way to get to you, to take care of you. At this point, I'm invisible in your life. No one, with the exception of your John, even knows who or where I am. If you needed me, would he call me? Being a secret love is very romantic, but it also causes me a moment of panic now and then. I do not want to hear on the radio, as I did three years ago, about some terrible event in your life. Could you leave some sort of instructions with John so that if there were a problem, he could let me know? That would be a small comfort, anyway; although I admit I would love to be there to watch over you, make you chicken soup if you get the sniffles, and remind you to watch out for icy sidewalks. Again, please take care ofyourself!

  Yours, made foolish by love,

  Emily

  Chapter Forty-two

  Finally back in New York, Stani set about to complete his mission. He had written letters, made phone calls, laying the groundwork for his plan. For the first time in his life, he’d made lists and carried out each task, finding real satisfaction in crossing off each item. Now he was entering the final and possibly the most challenging phase of the operation. The end was in sight, but there were tricky waters to navigate ahead.

  He went to Tiffany's, at John's suggestion; and after an hour of admiring beautiful things that were either too frivolous or too extravagant he was shown a piece he thought might be just the thing. A delicate gold locket in the shape of a heart, with one very fine diamond in the center, it hung from a pin, a single bar studded with sapphires. The clerk pointed out that inside was space for a picture and an inscription. Stani was concerned that Emily would object to so many stones, and the clerk suggested the locket could be strung on a chain instead. As he wondered sort of picture he might have to put inside, he had what he believed to be a true inspiration.

  Winding a strand around his finger, he asked, “Could a bit of hair be put inside?”

  The clerk, Miss Marshall, a very friendly middle-aged woman who had probably helped thousands of men find gifts for their wives or lovers, smiled and said of course, if that's what he thought his lady would like. Taking a risk, which never came easily, he decided to do the deed then and there. Miss Marshall brought scissors and snipped a tiny curl, fitting it behind the transparent film inside the locket. He wrote out the inscription, “All my best, Stani,” which seemed to include everything he needed to
say.

  When he paid for it, he had a moment of panic. If Emily knew the amount, would she be furious that he had spent such a sum on her? It was not an ostentatious piece, but simple and elegant, like Emily herself. He tried to imagine her reaction, and finally decided she would be too gracious to question his taste anyway. Deciding to be content with his choice, he left his address and was assured it would be delivered the following day.

  He then went to the apartment, prepared to confront Milo. He had made up his mind to move out, had in fact already leased a suite in a hotel overlooking Central Park. He had only to make his announcement and pack his few things. If he intended to be his own man, he needed a space to call his own; and while this was a temporary solution, it was a first step toward loosening the bond.

  To his surprise, it was Jana who came to his aid. She was happy for him, she declared, ignoring the glare of displeasure from her husband. Of course he needed more privacy. He was not a boy anymore and she was surprised he had waited this long to move out. She asked about the accommodations, if he would need anything more than his clothes, books and music.

  Milo immediately brought up the subject of expense, why waste cash on a place he would rarely need?

  “I have more than enough money, as you well know. There's no need to horde for a rainy day, when there's no rain in the forecast anymore. I'm healthy, sober and much happier than I've been in my life. I promise I won't let you or myself down again, Milo. Couldn't we just shake hands and get on with things?”

  Milo understood completely the significance of the outstretched hand, and in spite of his obvious reservations, extended his own. He was in many ways in awe of Stani, of his new-found confidence and the way he had faced him without fear of incurring his displeasure. Perhaps it was time to treat him like a man, one capable of making decisions for his future. Word had come back to Milo of the approval Stani had won with this unorthodox tour. Even the most celebrated conductor in the city had called to ask if Stani would be available for similar visits to students in New York. In the face of such success, Milo would have to get on board, appear to have endorsed the idea all along. It seemed Stani might have things to teach him now. After all the years of molding him into the superstar Milo had envisioned, Stani seemed to be shining with a different kind of brilliance. What had brought about the changes Milo couldn't understand, but he had to respect what the boy had become through his own efforts.

  Jana helped him pack, John came to collect him, and Stani made his move with very little fanfare. His mail was waiting for him at the hotel desk, including a package from Emily. He knew a moment's relief, that he had avoided any awkward questions at the apartment. The sight of her bold red script on the wrapping might have been difficult to explain. He wasn't ready to share the wonder of his love for her with everyone yet. It was too precious, too fragile and too new to his life to be discussed over coffee or questioned as he packed his things to leave. This year, for the last few weeks of it anyway, he wanted to keep it close, to protect it from prying eyes. There would be a time, soon enough he hoped, when he would be prepared to shout it from the rooftops, but not until he had carried out the remainder of his mission.

  Jana was sure that Stani had fallen in love. There was no other explanation for the light in his eyes, for the sudden decisiveness about his future. The love of a woman had inspired him to take risks, to stand up for what he wanted in spite of the conflict he might provoke. She wondered where and how it had happened, but she was convinced he would tell them in time. In spite of the irregular nature of their lives with Stani, she knew he considered them his family. He would not shut them out now.

  When the package from Tiffany's arrived the following day, she quickly telephoned his hotel. When he answered, she said with a little laugh, “Stani, love, something you bought has been delivered here by mistake. Are you expecting a delivery from Tiffany's? Surely, it's not a present for me?”

  She could hear his embarrassment over the line. “Caught, am I? Can you keep a secret? Jana, I'm the most fortunate man in the world. I just can't tell you why quite yet. I'll have John pick it up right away. And Jana, could you please hide it in case Milo comes home in the meantime?”

  Darling Emily, not at all foolish,

  Yes, there's no place like NYC at the holidays. The window displays are magical, the traffic is unbearable, and the population seems to have grown by half. And there is no one here remotely like you, so none of it means anything to me. Your Christmas, in your world, seems much more appropriate in spirit. What you are doing, sharing with your friends and neighbors and honoring the truth of the season, outshines all the lights on that tree in Rockefeller Center. Thank you for showing me that light.

  I have news. I have my own little corner in the big, bad city now. I have moved from the apartment, with relatively little fuss, and now reside in one of the fine old hotels of Manhattan. I find it gratifying to come in from the cold and accept the greetings of the doorman, the desk clerk and the elevator boy (who is at least 60), and use my key to enter my own solitary abode. Of course, I order room service for meals, have maid service every day, and send out my laundry, so I'm hardly self-sufficient, but it's a start. Then of course, John is just one floor down, to keep me out of trouble. Even so, are you at least a little proud of me?

  I am imagining you sitting by your tree, the fire crackling, and the crèche figures marching across the room. I don’t recall the angel that night, I only remember you, my own personal angel. I wish I could be with you tonight, as you sit by that fire. I'm sure it's much warmer than the little gas fire here in my sitting room.

  Emily, dear, sweet, sensual Emily, you drive me to distraction with talk of your carnal interest in me. Not that I mind being so driven, not in the least. You are such a combination of holy and earthy, spiritual and sensual, that I am hard-put to follow from one to the other at times. But above all, you are honest, and I love you for that. Pretense is something I have little taste for, and it is epidemic among the young women I’ve known. Your honesty is refreshing, and at the same time, something of a jolt. You are fearless, aren't you? You speak your mind, without equivocation. As to the things you love about me, I blush crimson at the thought. (I fear I blush almost as easily as you these days.) But thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for loving whatever you can find to love about me. As to the plumber idea, I think I'll have to stick with the violin. It's my only salable skill.

  Please be assured, darling worrier, that if I get hit by a bus, John will contact you. He now has your telephone number and strict instructions on how to break the news to you. Silly girl, why worry? I've been under the protection of your loving God thus far, why would I suddenly be in danger of dying from the sniffles? Besides, I have the constitution of a horse. I never get the flu, avoided most of the childhood illnesses, and have never even had athletes foot. Please don't fret, I'll be fine. However, now that I think of it, it might be worth a few symptoms if it brought you rushing to my bedside.

  I'm a busy man, my dear. My desk calendar says I have two appointments tomorrow, one with my tailor and the other to have my teeth cleaned. See how independent I'm becoming? Next, I'll learn to make my own toast in the morning. Would that require me to go to a bakery for bread, or could room service deliver the bread and I toast it myself? More complicated than it seems, I fear.

  Ever striving to be a better yours,

  Stani

  Dearest Ever,

  I am enormously proud of you. I had no idea you were thinking of making such a move. You are indeed a man with a mission it seems. I hope the doorman, the desk clerk and the elevator boy appreciate the honor of your presence in their establishment. It isn't every hotel in Manhattan that’s worthy of housing the man I love, I'm sure.

  Sorry if I gave you a jolt. But I will not pretend I don't want you, in a very earthy way. I could say more on that theme, but I will see you again someday and I might have trouble looking in your eyes after too much honesty.

  It's only tw
o days until Christmas Eve. You realize we have an anniversary to observe tomorrow. Not that I want to spend much time thinking about how horribly injured you were. But the miracles that have brought us to here and now are certainly worth celebrating. Tomorrow at midnight, I will say a prayer of thanksgiving for your return to this valley, for all you have brought to my life, and for the prospect of your returning again and again.

  Please make it soon.

  Merry Christmas and God bless you, Stani.

  Yours,

  Emily

  Chapter Forty-three

  Christmas Eve dawned gray and cold. The forecast called for rain, not snow, and the low clouds held the promise of a gloomy day. But Emily refused to be discouraged. She had made up her mind to be brutally cheerful, no matter how much the pain under her ribs reminded her of Stani's absence. She had plenty to keep her busy, and the time would pass, whether she chose to be happy or sad. As music blared through the speakers, filling the house, she hummed along, even danced a few steps across the kitchen floor, reminding herself of all she had to be happy about. If everything else paled in comparison to the sight of his face, the touch of his hand, so be it. Blessings were blessings weren't they, none of them to be counted as anything less.

  At six she ate her supper and dressed for church. She had been to Martha Jean's and, as a gift to herself, purchased a ridiculously expensive new blouse. White silk, with an open collar and flowing sleeves caught at the wrist in lace cuffs, it was the perfect complement to the camel skirt and dark green vest she had bought in the fall. She loved the elegant length of the skirt, falling just above her ankles. It would be appropriately graceful as she sat on the floor with her little ones during the service. She wasn’t often overly concerned with her appearance, but tonight she took special pains. In honor of the occasion, she wanted to look her best.