by Susan Napier
'But I haven't done my practice piece yet. David is going through it with me. He was just showing me how to breathe and loosen up my muscles. And I'm not cold, really I'm not. Feel.'
Tim thrust one warm little hand into hers.
'Perhaps not, but you will be as soon as you stop moving. At least get out of those damp shoes and towel your hair before you get out your violin.'
'OK, Mum.' Tim was eager to obey now that he had proved his point. With a beseeching look at David to hurry, he scampered off towards the lodge.
'You can't keep him wrapped in cotton wool forever, Clare,' David murmured as she turned to follow. 'If you coddle the boy too much, he'll never stand on his own two feet… if that's what you want.'
Clare whipped around, hands on hips, all too ready to argue. 'I don't consider taking reasonable precautions with his health 'coddling'. Since he was ill last year, Tim has been very susceptible to infections. Couldn't you hear him wheezing? And if he's in poor health he can hardly take a serious interest in the violin, can he, considering the endurance and fitness it requires?'
'I'm sorry, I didn't know he'd been ill. Does he suffer from asthma?' David asked quietly, defusing her anger somewhat.
Clare nodded. 'Not badly, but enough to complicate common chest infections. For a while after Lee died he used to get regular attacks, but I think they were more psychological than physical. He used to worry that he was going to stop breathing when he went to sleep. Lee lapsed into unconsciousness before he died, and although Tim read all about leukaemia and seemed to understand, I think he became overly aware of his own physiology.' She smiled faintly. 'The curse of a very active imagination.'
'Better to have too much than too little. It is getting a little chilly out here. We were so engrossed, I didn't notice. I have a great tolerance for it…my arctic Russian blood, I suppose.'
'I thought Russians were hot-blooded,' slipped out involuntarily, and Clare began walking, hoping the small exertion would excuse her flush.
'It depends on the circumstances,' he said with a grin as he fell in beside her.
'Do you consider yourself Russian rather than a New Zealander?' asked Clare steadily. 'I notice your publicity always calls you a 'New Zealand-born Russian.'
'That's Efrem's psychology. He claims everyone expects the best musicians to have Russian ancestry, and being born here removes the taint of communism that US audiences find suspicious. I have been to Russia— once—during a brief thaw in the political ice-wall. You know my parents were refugees? Well, my father continued to be an active, vocal critic of Russian politics right up until the day he died… particularly as it involved the repression of creative free-thinking in the arts. He was considered a traitor, and I, as the son of a traitor, was only issued a visa under sufferance. I was visiting my mother's only sister who was dying, exchanging messages. I have no doubt I was kept under surveillance, and I wasn't allowed to perform, but even so I felt a certain sense of homecoming. Perhaps, with the advent of glasnost, I may be able to play there one day. I'd certainly like to see more of the people and the country, but I'm a child of democracy, of freedom, and the illusion of homecoming was just that, an illusion, prompted no doubt by all the nostalgic tales my parents and their friends fed me. There's nothing more Russian than an expatriate Russian, even a dissenting one.'
'So where is home?'
'Physically, nowhere. I have properties in London and New York where I spend so much time, but I usually prefer staying in hotels, so that I don't have to be concerned with domestic details. Emotionally, it must be here, at the school. I have a house in the grounds and that's where I live when I'm not performing, so I suppose you could call that my home, Certainly it is my link between past and future, my gift, if you like, to this country for offering my parents refuge and safe citizenship. We Deverenkos like to repay our debts.'
'But you didn't really live here very long, did you? I mean, you went to America when you were still quite young.'
'To learn to become a musician, not to learn to become an American. It is the first blissful memories of childhood that always grip us most. I like the climate here, I like the gentle pace of life, the peace, the safety that comes from belonging to a small, isolated country far distant from the embattled turmoil of the superpowers. I shall retire here when I am old and grey, and surround myself with the new generation of musicians to sustain me in my decline,' he announced whimsically.
'I can't imagine you in a decline.' The thought made Clare's rare, sweet smile surface. 'More likely you'll grow more arrogant and demanding than ever as an eminence grise worshipped by all those young, unquestioning minds.'
He laughed. 'If you think that young musicians worship blindly at the altar of experience, you have a sad awakening ahead of you. Young musicians are every bit as arrogant and opinionated as old ones, once they have a little learning under their belts. That is the danger. When I was in my late teens I was sure that I knew better than all my teachers, I thought I could do anything and the critics seemed to agree with me. But while I enjoyed the temptations of the high life, basking in all the adulation I was receiving, my playing suffered. In anyone else the flaws might not have been remarked upon, but the standards by which the critics judged me were, after all, my own… or had been. Music was my life, but it had chosen me…how could I betray the honour? So I came back here and shut myself away for a while and re-learned the lesson of humility: there is no music without discipline and dedication. One plays a piece, but one thinks it also. That was the beginning of my maturity, I think, both as an artist and as a man. Shortly afterwards, when I rejoined the concert circuit, I met Nina and the maturing process was completed. She, too, had a serious sense of vocation and understood the pressures that drove me. Loving Nina provided me with emotional depths that until then I had lacked. That had been the only suggestion of criticism—that my playing was too cold, too perfect. Mastery of your instrument is not enough, you see…a brilliant technique is an empty vessel if it contains no subtle nuances to tease the listener, to provide the musical revelation.'
Fascinated by the dreamy seriousness of his expression, Clare stumbled over a rough piece of ground and might have fallen if David hadn't whipped out a hand and steadied her. He saw the look in her smoke-grey eyes and made a sound in the back of his throat.
'Ah, Clare, don't look at me like that.'
'Like what?' She blinked, removing the arm around her waist so that she could walk on. In spite of the explosive speed with which he had moved, the hand which had caught her had been gentle, unsettlingly so. Aggressive vitality and gentleness; it was a potent combination.
'As if I am some alien species that you don't know whether to fear or trust—or care to do either.'
'But you are… an alien species, I mean,' said Clare, shaken that he should read her so well. 'I can't even begin to understand you or your world.' She sighed with relief as they gained the stone steps.
'Why don't you come and sit in on this practice with Tim? Perhaps that will help dispel some of the mystery.'
'I…' For some reason the offer disturbed her even more than his touch. 'I have the menu to type.'
'It will only take half an hour of your time. You can give Tim that, can't you?'
It was very cunning of him. Her eyes flashed. 'I can give Tim all the time he needs.'
'Good.' He smoothly steered her past her office towards the small room, with piano, that Tim used to practise in when there were no guests to disturb.
'I… Cheryl doesn't believe that parents should interfere with a child's practice,' she protested weakly as David sat her in a chair and turned to Tim, who had sorted out his written assignment from his music case and was rubbing rosin into his bow.
'You're not going to interfere, you're going to appreciate. I agree that critical judgement from a parent can be counter-productive, but as a source of moral support there's no substitute for a mother's smile.'
'I'm glad you agree I have some uses,' Clare murmured drily.<
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David swung around on the piano stool and gave her a sensuous smile that made her regret her unwary words, but he didn't say anything, allowing her own thoughts to put her to blush and laughing softly when she obliged. After his restraint of the last day or so, his teasing warmth had double the impact. She realised suddenly how much she had missed it, even as she had told herself that she was grateful for the respite.
Watching David break down his art into its basic components for her son was indeed a revelation for Clare. For all the vast gap in age and experience, there was a mutual respect between the two that allowed them to communicate as equals. David made no attempt to impose his own highly individualistic style on Tim. When the boy made mistakes, David didn't take over to demonstrate the right way, his way, of doing things, but instead urged Tim to discover for himself how and why he had gone wrong. He was teaching Tim to listen outside himself, to trust his own ear and vision of how the music should be interpreted.
The two serious, absorbed faces, so unalike and yet so similar in that hungry quest for perfection, sent a pang through Clare's breast. She had lost him, she realised, that loving little boy who had nestled against her heart. He didn't need her nearly as much as her maternal jealousy had insisted that he did. Oh, he loved her and clung to her love because he knew it demanded nothing of him, but he was already reaching out for something else, the kind of stimulation and challenge that her efforts to cushion him from further hurt had denied him. She had striven so hard to create a sense of 'normality' for him, to make up for the loss of his father and his feelings of alienation. But Tim was not normal, and never would be. Perhaps only someone as special as David was could truly show him where he fitted in, could guide him to fulfilment.
She felt exhausted by her inner turmoil by the end of the intense session. A tiny voice of protest questioned her sudden about-face. Was it David Deverenko's personal magnetism that was swaying her, or reasoned judgement? Tim was still the same boy he had been a week ago when she had still been rock-certain of the wisdom of her guardianship, so was it Clare who had changed? David not only had her doubting her worth as a mother, but also re-evaluating herself as a woman whose feelings hadn't been buried with her husband. Moonlight, which had been a haven and home for eighteen months, was now taking on the inexorable shape of a trap with David Deverenko as the tasty, tempting morsel of cheese! If she took the bait, what then? What—or who—did he really want? And could she face it if it wasn't her? If she continued to reject his professional advice about Tim, would he disappear from her life as suddenly as he had appeared?
'Well, do you approve of my methods?' David murmured quietly as Tim packed away his violin after doing a few wind-down exercises. 'Perhaps I'm not the whip-cracking autocrat you expected me to be, mmm? It is Tim who sets the pace, not the teacher. A good teacher merely responds and guides. A good teacher also knows when a student has outstripped her.'
Clare stood up jerkily. 'Are you talking about Cheryl?'
'She admits it herself.'
'Then why hasn't she said anything to me?'
'She was unsure how to approach you. She knows how protective you are of the boy, and she knows that you have no desire to move away from Moonlight. That rather limits the options, wouldn't you say?'
Clare's fists clenched with the effort of restraining her temper, all too conscious of Tim's presence. Her voice was low and defensive. 'I suppose I've no need to ask which option you favour? After all, that's why you're here, isn't it?'
'It was certainly the reason I came,' he admitted, his murmur an octave below hers as he moved closer. The warmth of the central heating suddenly seemed stifling as his broad shoulders blocked out Clare's view of Tim, making her feel isolated, the sole focus of all that masculine warmth. 'But now I'm here, I'm discovering another, equally compelling reason to stay…'
Clare took a breathless step back, and his dark eyes narrowed with predatory satisfaction as he caught her hand and carried it to his lips to caress it silkily with his breath.
'I'm not normally a patient man, Clare, but I made an exception in your case. It looks as if that was a mistake. You're very adept at avoiding reality. I think you've become spoiled in this little peaceful niche of yours. Well, this time reality has come to you, and I won't let you hide from it.'
'What are you kissing Mum's hand for?' Tim came up alongside them before Clare could pull her hand away.
David didn't take his eyes off her. 'Because your mother's too shy to let me kiss her on the mouth.'
'You want to kiss her?' Tim frowned at him. 'Are you in love?' He turned the possibility over doubtfully in his mind.
Clare's eyes sparkled defiantly. Let him get out of that one! Her hands flexed helplessly in his steady grasp. David didn't seem in the least embarrassed by the question.
'I don't know. I find your mother very attractive. Men and women kiss each other for a number of reasons, Tim; love is only one of them. A kiss can be a very serious expression of affection, or it can be for fun.'
Tim wrinkled his nose. 'Who'd want to kiss girls for fun?' He sounded so disgusted that even Clare had to smile. David chuckled, relaxing his vigilance enough so that she could at last slip her hand from his.
'It's a purely adult concept of fun. I'm sure you'll learn to appreciate it as you mature.'
'You're talking about sex.' To Clare's further amusement, David actually pinkened as his condescension rebounded on him.
'I take it your mother's taught you about the birds and the bees,' he said when he had recovered from his momentary speechlessness.
Tim looked at him in askance. 'That's not about sex. Birds and bees can't mate—they're two different species. Only two of the same species can produce babies. That's how I was born. My—'
'Er—yes.' David cut Tim off before he could air the extent of his precocious knowledge, casting a darkling glance at Clare's suspiciously straight face that promised revenge. There was no stopping Tim once he was determined to home in on a subject of interest, and his curiosity about where babies come from had stemmed from the birth of some puppies that he had witnessed. Clare's edited lecture about sex had not been enough for Tim. He had insisted on knowing all the details which, once absorbed, had provided the basis for a school project about the origin of the species. To Tim, sex was just one tiny cog in a far greater diagram of the machinery of life on earth. 'I think we're straying off the subject here a bit, Tim,' David chose his words more carefully this time. 'What I'm trying to say is that I would like your mother and I to be friends, and to do that I need to get to know her as a person. How would you feel if she and I ate out tomorrow night?'
'Outside? In winter? Isn't it a bit cold and dark?' Tim looked dubiously out the window.
His instant literal interpretation of David's words was very revealing. David hid the satisfied gleam in his hooded eyes as he explained to Tim the alien concept of dating. 'No, I meant that I want to take your mother out to a restaurant in Rotorua, just the two of us.'
Clare opened her mouth, but Tim beat her to it. 'Why?'
'To… talk.'
'About me?'
'You'll probably come into the conversation somewhere,' said David wryly, acknowledging the innocent self-absorption.
'Then why can't I come?' Clare relaxed slightly as she recognised the stubborn expression on Tim's narrow face. She wouldn't have to refuse, Tim would do it for her.
'Because I want to be alone with your mother. Don't you think it's important that your mother and I be friends?' Tim considered that for a moment, then nodded. 'Well, in some ways the beginning of a friendship is like learning to play the violin. It needs some devoted concentration and privacy to develop properly, before one exposes it to the stresses of public performance.'
'Oh.' Illumination was complete. Tim's stubborn look became the pride of martyrdom. 'Well, I suppose you have to go by yourselves, then.'
'Wait a minute! Don't I have some say in this little arrangement?' cried Clare, betrayed by her own fles
h and blood.
David and Tim looked at each other, one of those irritating man-to-boy looks, then David frowned and turned his head from side to side in bewilderment. 'Who said that?' Tim giggled.
'I might have a previous engagement,' said Clare coolly.
'And pigs might waterski,' replied David, confident of his ground. Tim's giggles intensified.
'Time you were in the bath, young man,' Clare told the traitor sternly and, egged on by his ally, Tim saluted.
'Yes, ma'am. But you will be friends with David, won't you?' he hesitated long enough to ask.
'Of course she will. She's only pretending to be reluctant,' said David smoothly.
Tim trotted off, violin case tucked under his arm, reassured, while Clare was left to hiss fiercely, 'Do you usually have to resort to using innocent children to get dates?'
'Only when their mothers make a habit of hiding behind them,' he said silkily. 'You want to come, Clare, you just think you shouldn't. So I helped relieve you of the burden of the only reasonable excuse to deny yourself. Now you can pretend you're doing it just to keep Tim happy.'
'Of course, it's beyond the bounds of possibility that a woman could actually refuse David Deverenko.'
'Not 'a woman'. You. Why the song and dance, Clare? Are you afraid you might enjoy yourself, after all? Would that be so unnatural? You're an attractive, mature, single woman. Why shouldn't you enjoy male companionship once in a while? It would be unnatural if you didn't…'
She wasn't unnatural, just cautious, Clare told herself the next night as she got ready for her first 'date' in over seven years. If it had been any other man she would have accepted or refused the invitation according the impulse of a moment without ruffling a hair, but with David her impulses were inclined to lead her dangerously astray. They made her wish for the forbidden—to be young and free again, untrammelled by responsibilities, unshadowed by the past. If she didn't have Tim to anchor her heart and her life, she might have tossed her cap over the windmill and thrown herself into the kind of wild, passionate, fleeting affair that David offered.