Heartsongs

by Freda, Paula

  “Isn’t that Bailey’s Meadows?” Mark asked, as the cameras showed a scene from the movie.

  Laura nodded.

  Mark glanced at his sister. “You could go visit him on the set.”

  Laura shook her head.

  Mark chuckled, not derisively, but honestly. “Laura, I really think he liked you.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “Sure, he did. And the moon is made of cheese.” Still, her eyes had turned misty. With resolve she said, “He invited us to his premier on a whim. Possibly he felt sorry for me. Or maybe he was expressing his gratitude to our town for their help, and the reception he received while he was here. And of course, the publicity didn’t hurt. Besides, he’s probably forgotten all about us by now. I don’t want to spoil the memory.” And knowing how close by he was, was exciting enough. Besides, she would be with him tonight, in her dreams

  They were discussing Robespierre’s power. Sir Percy Blakeney was the handsomest man she had ever consented to accompany for a stroll in the gardens of the Tuileries. And the most smartly dressed, if somewhat of a dandy. His high-collared top cloak, with ruffled shoulder cape, was the same burnished color as his felt hat, tall-crowned with a rolling brim. His hair was the color of blonde oak and tied behind his neck with a black satin ribbon. When he had joined her small soiree Sunday last, she had thought how fastidious and extravagant his garments were, yet how well they suited him. He was tall and broad-shouldered.

  The gardens were bursting with newborn blossoms of assorted colors in the throes of spring as Marguerite and Sir Percy strolled. He bent his head close to hers, whispering sweet nothings into her scented ear. He waved his hands in elegant gestures. Doing so often disturbed his cloak, causing it to part and accent his brown high-necked, long-tailed coat cut to show amply the mound of frilly lace and the diamonded cravat at his throat. And he wore the yellow-striped, wide-lapelled waistcoat and tight-fitting breeches in vogue at the time. He was stunning even down to the high-top riding boots. She was glad she had chosen her most elegant gown of sprig muslin and her green velvet cloak. Her silk hat, round and wide, decorated with soft plumes and green velvet ribbons tied at the neck, kept her hair, a mass of black curls, neatly in place. Sir Percy Blakeney halted and his next words brought a crimson hue to her cheeks. “You mention Robespierre’s power, but the only power I can perceive at this moment is the power of your loveliness.”

  “Is that what you see, sir?”

  “Yes, and I am beguiled.”

  “You flatter me for your own purpose.”

  “No, Marguerite, I adore you.”

  “Adore me? But we hardly know each other.”

  “Something I intend to change.”

  “And have you the right?”

  “Yes,” he said, placing a finger under her chin. A gentle breeze played with the preponderance of billowy Mechlin lace at his cuffs. “Deny to me, if you can, that what I see in your eyes is not a similar yearning?”

  Marguerite was silent. She let her heart answer as it beat wildly. She leaned into his kiss and the world about her faded.

  Laura woke to the rapid beating of her heart.

  Stephen woke feeling depressed. Last night he had dreamed of Laura, as Marguerite, but with Laura’s eyes, with her mouth, her gestures, everything, and awakened with the realization that every girl he had ever dreamed of was Laura in disguise. As though in the center of each fantasy his subconscious wove into dreams, her gentleness, her spirit, her very soul waited for him quietly and serenely. With all his heart he had hoped she would visit the set. He could then speak to her; perhaps strike up a friendship without frightening her. He believed he had frightened her on the evening of his movie premier. He had been unable to control his eagerness for her to accompany him to the reception afterwards. He should have pursued her friendship, written to her, called her. But at the time he was not sure of his feelings or his reasons for wanting to see her again. There was no longer a doubt in his mind. He must see Laura again.

  When the day’s filming was done, Stephen donned a pair of jeans and a light blue windbreaker, put on his safety helmet, and wide goggles partly to hide his identity, climbed on his motorcycle and left the set without a word to anyone. Laura’s mother answered the door, warily; keeping the glass storm door locked while he removed his helmet and goggles and introduced himself. The instant she recognized him her jaw fell open, but she quickly gathered her composure. Laura wasn’t home. She had gone out.

  “Where?” Stephen asked. “Please, I really want to see her.” Mrs. Dellisogni unlocked the storm door. “Come in,” she said. The look on her face promised a few questions.

  Stephen followed her into the living room. He understood what that look implied:

  You may be a famous movie star, but at this moment you’re just another young man interested in my daughter. And I have no intention of letting you play with her feelings because tonight you have nothing else better to do.

  “Mrs. Dellisogni,” Stephen dove into the truth, the moment they sat down opposite each other. “I think I’m in love with Laura. I know what you’re thinking. You’ve seen her exactly twice. How could you feel that way about her? But you’re wrong. I have seen her, every night, for years. This may sound impossible and a lie, but I swear to you, I’ve dreamt about her for as far back as I can remember. I don’t understand what’s happening myself, but I’ve got to see her. She’ll probably think exactly what you’re thinking. If she tells me to leave, I’ll go No, no, it’s not true, not this time. I won’t just go away. I’ll do everything within reason to earn her trust, and yours.” He’d opened his heart to this woman, who sat listening, suspiciously, and was probably convinced he was on drugs. Or was incredibly spoiled and drunk on his own fame.

  Mrs. Dellisogni took a deep breath. She seemed to have come to a decision.

  “Stephen De Bourne, is that your real name?”

  “Oddly, yes, it is.”

  “My daughter has been infatuated with you since she first saw you on the soaps. And until that evening that you stayed in the Only Hotel in Town and she came out to see you, it was just an infatuation. My girl was always a quiet, kind person, organized, realistic, except for her fantasies. She doesn’t speak about them, probably doesn’t even know that I know. And this is the reason I’m telling you what no mother would reveal to someone who is practically a stranger. You mentioned your dreams. Laura dreams; she’s always dreamed. I doubt she remembers telling me about her unusual talent to create and control her dreams. She was hardly five.”

  His attraction to Laura was becoming clearer to him. She was different from anyone he’d ever known. And so very much the only girl he’d ever loved. Something her mother had said a moment before made him dare to ask, “Mrs. Dellisogni, you said your daughter has been infatuated with me since she first saw me on the soaps—and then you added, ‘until that evening at the hotel, it was just an infatuation.’ What did you mean?” Mrs. Dellisogni smiled, and he saw from whence came Laura’s sensitive nature. “That was when she discovered you were real, that you lived up to what she found most attractive about you. I guess that’s when she fell in love with you.”

  Stephen felt all the apprehension of the past day drain from him like water cascading down jagged rocks into a gently rippling stream. “I don’t think I love her anymore,” he said. “I know I love her. Please tell me where I can find her.”

  Mrs. Dellisogni entreated, “You’re serious about her?”

  “I’d like to ask her to marry me,” he said in earnest.

  Laura’s mother nodded, her suspicions evaporating, and her breath rushing out in a sigh. If she was wrong, her daughter might be cruelly hurt, but if she was right “She’s at the park, near the lake with her friend Jackie. It’s an all-night affair, a company picnic. The newspaper sponsors it yearly.” She placed a motherly hand on his arm. “Go on, find her, make her happy.”

  Stephen nodded confidently. “I will, I promise.”

  The sky was dark
and clear. Stars shimmered and the moon was a mottled sphere on its surface. Most of the picnic crowd sat around a fire roasting marshmallows and singing. Some couples strolled along the grounds. Laura sat against a tree not far from the group but closer to the lake, its surface a silvery undulating reflection of the sky. The anchorwoman on the six o’clock news had announced that tomorrow morning the film crew along with its star De Bourne would be leaving the area so close to her town and returning to New York. Her excuse to Mark, that by now De Bourne had forgotten all about them, was merely that—an impromptu excuse to hide her real reason. Seeing Stephen De Bourne again would be wonderful, so wonderful that having to say goodbye, casually, as to a passing acquaintance, would hurt too much. Better he remain a memory, already enlaced in her mind as a fantasy. There, in that special place, she visited with him each night, in endless, intriguing guises, with no good-byes, always, forever. Soft, warm breezes carried the semi-sweet scent of lake water across the park. Laura inhaled deeply and her body relaxed, succumbing slowly to a worry-free drowsiness.

  Stephen parked his motorcycle by a patch of underbrush far enough away from the picnickers to avoid detection. The last thing he wanted now was a crowd of autograph seekers. He moved under the cover of trees, scanning the group seated around the fire. Laura was not among them. No, she wouldn’t be there. She was a loner, like him. The lake, which was where he would have gone. He spotted her, sitting, her back against a tall oak, not far from the water. He moved silently toward her. Her eyes were closed. Quietly, he removed his goggles and helmet and sat down beside her. She did not stir. She was asleep. Dreaming perhaps. Stephen watched her for a moment, then closed his eyes and let the warm moist air lull him into a peaceful alpha state. Without warning he lapsed into sleep.

  The air was bitter cold, so cold that it seemed to him the moisture in his breath might crystallize before it could evaporate. The furs he had tied about his head, torso, legs and feet were frozen. A little while longer and he was certain his body and the blood in his veins would cool, then finally freeze. All well and good, he thought, frivolously dismissing his certain death if he did not find the passage that would lead him into the Blue Valley. In that warm green valley hidden between white frozen mountains, mountains so high that Mt. Everest was a mere peak in comparison, in that valley, men and women lived long and peaceful lives. Knowledge and understanding, sensitivity and deep love, were their anchors. During that first visit, he had not completely comprehended what the two-century-old Dalai Lama had taught him. Only when he left the valley to return to the world he was born in, did he realize what he had found and lost. And so he had set out again to find Shangri-la, knowing that he would probably die searching in the freeze of the vast range of the Tibetan Mountains. For months now he had searched for the path he’d once stumbled upon by accident. The ancient lama had bequeathed to him the destiny of continuing to guide the inhabitants of the secret valley, where peace reigned, where precious art and literature were stored. All the best things gleaned and sifted from a violent, confused world.

  The cold seemed to bite less. His hands and feet wrapped in furs were growing numb. The air was sunless and white and frozen. One more crest, and then I will allow myself to die. One more and I will join with the ice and the snow. He reached the crest and looked out, blinking from behind snow-blinded goggles. He wiped them, expecting to see even higher crests. He was not disillusioned. He fell to his knees. I have lost my destiny. And the girl, he had lost her, too. She had been part of that world, with all its promises and gentle traits.

  A sudden wind blew, scooping the snow at his feet and spiraling it upward. He raised his arms to fend off the blast’s icy teeth, and from the corner of his eye he saw it, to his left, an unexpected opening, cave-like, in the mountain. He climbed to his feet, fighting the wind, yet not daring to take his gaze from the opening, afraid if he looked away, it would be lost to him forever among the maze of ice and snow. He trudged relentlessly toward it and saw the wooden posts driven deep into the snow. He recognized the entrance that led into another world, a timeless world where wisdom and sensitivity reigned. He entered.

  As he moved further into the cave, the air began to warm. He unlaced the furs. By the time he had reached the end of the cave, he was down to his shirt and trousers. Tears sprung to his eyes, for below him stretched the hidden valley and the small farms and houses and the temple. She would be there as well, the girl. He hastened down the long sloping path and then he was running. And soon he could see her small cottage with its garden. He could see her sitting quietly, watching the path. She was rising. She had seen him.

  “Laura!” he cried.

  Stephen woke with a start. He was sitting beside Laura who was asleep. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he had ever known. He remembered a play he had once read about an enchanted cottage where only lovers had lived. And where an ugly couple had suddenly become beautiful. They had eventually learned that only to each other were they fair, and the secret of the enchanted cottage was that those who love are beautiful to each other. Stephen bent and kissed Laura. So gentle was his kiss it might have been the wind touching her lips. She stirred, breathing deeply, and opened her eyes. I’m still dreaming, Laura thought. She had been waiting in the garden for Stephen, as she did every night since he had left the hidden valley, hoping, praying, wanting to believe he would return. And now he was sitting beside her, the look on his face telling her that he would never leave again.

  “I love you,” Stephen said. “Marry me, Laura.”

  “I knew you’d come back.”

  “Laura, we were meant to be together, as we’ve been in a thousand dreams and a thousand lives, and will be in all the others to come.”

  “Hey, Laura,” it was Jackie’s voice. “What are you doing up there? Who’s that with you?”

  Laura froze. She glanced about. She was awake, in the park. She stared at Stephen, expecting him to dematerialize, a momentary residue from her dream, but Stephen was smiling, laughing, and remaining solidly beside her. She reached up and touched his face. Gasped, as she realized Stephen was really there. And before she could utter a word, Stephen’s lips were tenderly exploring hers. Jackie had reached them and others had drawn near, whispering excitedly as they milled about the seated couple. “That’s Stephen De Bourne,” someone said. “Laura and Stephen?!” someone else remarked. “You’re kidding.” The answer came. “No. Go figure.”

  Exactly what several of the tabloids wrote when they learned of the couple’s upcoming nuptials. The Dellisognis, however, were not surprised. Mrs. Dellisogni was glad she had trusted her instincts. All was well. Jim, earlier, and now Laura. Now that they were settled she felt confident that soon Mark would follow. With Mrs. Dellisogni happy, her husband was content.

  Stephen, during an interview on television, when asked once why he and his wife were noted for leaving parties early, and hardly ever staying up late, gazed tenderly at Laura sitting in the audience. The pair, in unison, Laura’s lips moving silently, answered, “Heartsongs.” To the host’s dismay, no further explanation was offered or ever given.

  The End

  Novels, novellas, short stories and articles

  by Paula Freda

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