Queer Patterns

by Lilyan Brock

  Nicoli’s look was tender. Her words were softly spoken: “I promise.” Taking Sheila by the arm, she hurried her back to the car.

  Shortly they were passing through the old gates of the city, gates which for hundreds of years had guarded its entrance. Ahead stretched a narrow street, wide enough for only one vehicle; and everywhere there was the spirit of those ancient Spaniards who had come so long ago to a New World.

  “I love this place!” Sheila exclaimed, her eyes alight with interest. “For the first time in my life history is something besides colorless facts.”

  “I thought you’d like it─”

  Nicoli’s sentence was broken as Sheila rambled on.

  “I’ve heard of St. Augustine from childhood in terms of the oldest city, and the oldest house, and the old fort which had been under three flags but had never been taken—I had to study all of that—but it never struck a responsive chord; it was just so many words that I had to learn. But now that I’m here, it’s so different. I love it.” Sheila gripped Nicoli’s arm for emphasis. “I want to see every bit of it. I want to absorb the very atmosphere of it.”

  Nicoli took up the theme: “That’s one reason I thought we wouldn’t stay at a typical resort hotel. I think we’ll both enjoy ft more if we find some place instead that is more or less typical of the old St. Augustine. What do you say?”

  “I’d much rather do that,” Sheila agreed. “Then we’ll be in the mood for history. My only regret is that I didn’t learn more about the town—it’s positively fascinating. It reminds me of a picture book!”

  Nicoli laughed fondly. “This does me good, darling. It’s so good to see you entering into the simple things with so much spirit. You’ve seen so much of the world and of worldly things that I wondered at first if the simplicity of all this would bore you. I’d hoped that it wouldn’t because secretly I have always been intrigued by its legends and I wanted to stop here for the mental satisfaction and the rest I thought it would afford us both.”

  “But I love it, Nicoli. Perhaps I shouldn’t if I were not with you, but with you, it’s perfect. I’ll admit I have been thinking of Florida altogether in terms of the smart winter colonies at Palm Beach and Miami, and of warm blue water and lazy days on a white beach—but now I find that’s only a part of its attraction.”

  “Let’s go hunt our little hotel on the inlet now,” suggested Nicoli in her decisive fashion. “We’ll unpack our things and then go for a ramble through the interesting spots—that is, if you are not too tired.”

  “If you only knew how I love for you to plan things for me, Nicoli,” answered Sheila. “It seems that all my life I’ve had to plan for others, and when you take things in your own hands, and say what we’ll do, where we’ll go, it makes everything so much more exciting.”

  “It’s what I intend to do from now on,” was Nicoli’s low terse reply. Then in a different, brisk tone: “Here’s our hotel—suit you?”

  “Decidedly—but look, Nicoli, at the bridge. Doesn’t it seem out of place so close to these old buildings?”

  Nicoli’s eyes fastened themselves on the giant white structure. What a sharp contrast this touch of modern civilization struck against the quaint architecture of other years. How extraordinary it was to find the ancient turrets and stolid gray rock walls of old Fort Marion and the modernistic lines of the imposing bridge within a stone’s throw. Somehow it rather accentuated the exotic beauty of the town that was.

  Nicoli looked into Sheila’s eyes and forgot to answer her question.

  *

  “Sheila,” Nicoli asked the question as she sat back comfortably in a deep chair lazily smoking, “does it seem possible to you that this is really winter with all the flowers and trees looking as though if might be July?”

  “It is a new sensation to be able to run away from sleet and blizzards,” Sheila replied, sinking to the floor beside Nicoli’s chair. “There was never a winter when I didn’t want to do it, and it’s heavenly to be able to do it with you.”

  Nicoli studied Sheila’s vivid face and shining eyes; then in the soft tones which Sheila loved to hear, she queried: “Do you realize that in a very few days it will be Christmas?”

  Sheila’s face became serious, her eyes a little sad. “Christmas has always been an empty day for me, Nicoli; other women have had their families, or some one who belonged to them, some one to share the day with them—but I never had anyone, and I’ve always felt shut out. You see, I can’t remember my parents—they both died when I was a tiny child. There wasn’t anyone to take care of me, so I was placed in the convent. The sisters were kind to me, darling—but at Christmas so many of the children went to their homes, and I… I didn’t have one to go to—” Sheila’s words faltered. “Later, when I went on the road, the only Christmas days I knew were spent in the theater and in hotels, alone. This will be the first real holiday season I’ve ever known—I’ll have you… no theaters, no work—just you—” Again her voice trailed off.

  Nicoli tenderly laid an arm across Sheila’s shoulders, and drawing her head gently over on to her knee, she said vibrantly, “You know you have me, darling, because you belong to me and I’ll always be with you. You shan’t ever be alone again—ever.”

  So they sat until the last bit of light had faded away and the room was dark, with the exception of the glow from two cigarettes which came and went as they burned, two cigarettes very close together.

  They emerged for a stroll in a star-sprinkled light which made them newly conscious of the feeling of having been suddenly spirited back through the centuries to the days when history was in its making. In the time worn square, the old slave market stood a mute testimony to the days when human beings were bought and sold as chattels. Even so practical and prosaic an institution as the post office in this old city was a relic of the long ago; once the stately mansion of the governor men St. Augustine was under Spanish regime, a lordly house which had then stood in the midst of a wonderful botanic garden, high walled, with a lookout whence the Spaniard might gaze out to sea. On a bronze tablet beside the door was a story of the old structure, and Sheila stood in the uncertain light trying to decipher its wording.

  “Come along, inquisitive; you can read that later,” Nicoli said. “I have to come down in the morning—I’ve asked my office to forward my mail here.”

  “Business first, as usual,” Sheila teased.

  Blessed night enveloping, cloaking their love, followed by its glorious gift to man: silently on soundless white feet new day came upon them.

  *

  Nicoli emerged from the post office carrying a small package which she was plainly endeavoring to conceal behind her handbag. In her hand she held a few letters. Coming up to Sheila she said in a relieved tone, “I’ve very little correspondence from the office, so things evidently are going along very smoothly.”

  Sheila’s eyes took on a mischievous expression as she queried, “And from whom is the mysterious package that you’re trying so hard to hide from me?”

  Nicoli laughed. “You’ll find out soon enough, young woman —but now the important thing is lunch. Where shall we go, my darling?”

  They found a charming little place where soon they were indulging themselves in crisp southern waffles and, creamed chicken. Lingering over their coffee Sheila suddenly brought her eyes back from the window out of which she had been gazing at the small boats as they lazily drifted on the blue-green water of the inlet, and looking into Nicoli’s eyes said, “Darling, tomorrow night is Christmas Eve, and I do want to go to a midnight service with you at one of the churches!. I’ve so very much to be thankful for this Christmas—can’t” we go?”

  Nicoli reached across the small table and took Sheila’s hand in her own. “Of course we’ll go.”

  Slowly they walked back to the hotel. It had been sultry earlier in the day, but now a fresh breeze was coming in from the sea, sweeping through the broad piazzas and breathing into the windows the fragrance of the “Pride of India,” and s
ome times of the orange.

  Sheila linked her arm through Nicoli’s. “I’m so happy, darling.”

  Later, the same soft perfume-laden breeze drifted across Sheila’s light hair as it lay slightly disarranged on the pillow then continuing on, gently brushed the darker tones of Nicoli’s.

  *

  “Nicoli, what did you have to tell me?” questioned Sheila as they sat in a little shop overlooking the plaza, slowly sipping the iced drinks in the glasses before them.

  Nicoli flicked the ashes from her cigarette, then raised her eyes. “I intended telling you tomorrow—a sort of Christmas present, as it were—but I find I’m too anxious to know your reaction to my plan.”

  “Do go on, Nicoli—I can’t wait to know!”

  “Well, simply this: I’m going to send for the manuscript I left in New York, rewrite it to suit you—then, when we return, I want to produce it with you in the title role.”

  Sheila’s face clouded as she remembered the bitterness Broadway and its habitues had brought them. Nicoli saw the change of expression, and sensed the reason. “Wait, darling—before you think too much, let me finish. This will be my last one and yours too. After that I have decided definitely, once and for all, to give up the theater. Our happiness is the only thing that counts now. We’ll leave New York after this coming season. Now—what do you say to that?”

  “I say… it’s what I’ve dreamed of—to live quietly and peacefully with you, away from the rush and noise of New York. I’m so tired of all that, and I’ve never been quite so happy as during the few days we spent together at the Alden place. If we could only go back!”

  “Never mind, darling—who knows? Maybe we shall.” Sheila glanced at her watch and observed, “If we’re going to attend a midnight service tonight, I think it would be a good idea to stroll around and locate the church we want to go to; besides I’ve some shopping to do, and the stores are simply live with people. I think the whole town must be out today.”

  They made their way along the crowded street. Sheila pressed Nicoli’s arm gently. “I can scarcely wait for the time to come when we can go on like this day in and day out. I’ve wanted you so long to make my life complete, and now that I’m really to have you all to myself, I find I can hardly believe it’s almost too good to be true.”

  “But it is true. The long barren months I spent alone, not knowing where you were, taught me that my love for you is the biggest thing in my life, and if taking it means defying people you and I both know can’t understand, then I’m quite willing to do just that. I’m through sacrificing myself and you. From now on they can all go to hell!”

  They came at last to an old cathedral. Its time-scarred walls looked strangely lovely now with the sun striking them fresh clear from across the live-oak trees in the square and through the palmetto leaves in the garden opposite it. In the belfry above was a bell that for two centuries had pealed the joys and sorrows of the sleepy town—a bell doubtless with traditions and memories of its own.

  The cathedral doors stood slightly ajar, extending peace and calm to those who entered—peace such as it had generously allowed to fall over the many troubled hearts that had sought solace within its walls: a peace as great as that which had come to Nicoli and Sheila.

  “Isn’t it impressive?” breathed Sheila in a hushed tone. “So tranquil—so calm.”

  “Yes, it does have an air of peace about it that is almost tangible. It couldn’t be lovelier. Isn’t this just the place we are looking for, Sheila?”

  *

  Christmas Eve… midnight… suddenly there leaped into the sacred stillness a flood of throbbing music—exulting, welcoming—a sustained minor, symbolical of the star which led the Wise Men to His birthplace, rising clear and triumphant over the deeper pealing of the organ as it proclaimed the glad tidings.

  The mellowness of age added to the hallowed beauty of the ancient Catholic church wherein were assembled the devout come to pay tribute to the New Born Babe… its interior a mirror of the faded past.

  Unfaltering flames of countless waxen tapers cast a holy light over the church, touching the faces of the choir boys with an ethereal purity, transforming the faces of the congregation into those of worshipers rapt in contemplation of the beautiful mystery which was His coming.

  Kneeling beside Nicoli in the church, lighted by the burning tapers and a gold altar lamp which hung from the beams before the cross, Sheila found herself wishing that it were possible for their love to have upon it the blessing of the church… wishing that she might kneel before the cross and the figure of her Saviour and take the vows that would bind her until eternity to Nicoli—sacred vows that would make them one forever. At the thought that fulfillment was always to be denied her, tears gradually clouded her eyes and finally, unheeded, coursed down her cheeks.

  Nicoli’s fingers sought hers in the semi-darkness, their warmth giving her courage. Then Sheila knew that Nicoli had, during the fleeting moment she had held her hand, slipped something on her finger. Looking down, she saw two slender circlets not unlike wedding bands—one of diamonds, the other of sapphires. The voice of the priest went on as he chanted the Latin phrases of the service, but to Sheila now they were meant only for herself and Nicoli. Somewhere in the dim candlelight, with eyes blinded by tears, she found the hand of the silent woman beside her and in her heart made the blessed vows of fidelity.

  To Nicoli the placing of the rings upon Sheila’s finger had meant the same thing that it had to Sheila: never any more would she strive to forget their love; from that moment forward she belonged wholly and unrestrainedly to her. The diamonds had to her mind symbolized the durability and agelessness of their love, and the sapphires of deepest blue, the loyalty which would mark the passage of their years together. Just as the precious stones endured throughout time without change, so would their love live on always.

  In the early hours of Christmas morning as they lay with arms entwined, the love of the blessed season flowed over them, filling their souls with an unutterable peace.

  A few hours later Nicoli was awakened by a light kiss on her hair and by Sheila’s cheery voice: “Merry Christmas, sleepyhead!”

  Nicoli roused herself, and rubbing her hands across eyes still heavy with sleep, sat up in bed. Sheila stood looking down at her, her hands behind her back.

  “Merry Christmas yourself, young one,” she answered.

  “Close your eyes,” commanded Sheila, “tight, and don’t peep.”

  From behind her back Sheila brought forth a strand of tiny seed pearls and lovingly fastened them about Nicoli’s throat.

  “There! Now you can go and look in the mirror,” she said as she dropped into a chair and, curling her feet under her, settled back to watch Nicoli’s expression upon seeing her gift.

  Nicoli slipped from the bed and crossing to the dressing table looked into the shining glass.

  “They’re exquisite, darling,” she exclaimed as she gazed at the lustrous white surface of the small pearls. Then she added, “But you shouldn’t have bought them—really you shouldn’t.”

  Sheila jumped up from the chair and putting her arms about Nicoli’s shoulders, questioned, “But you do like them, don’t you? I know you don’t care particularly for jewelry for yourself—but these pearls are small enough for you to wear with your tailored things, and I wanted terribly for you to have them.” Pressing Nicoli to her she continued, “I want you to wear them always, and to know that really they are my arms and hands that are holding you close and loving you so.”

  Nicoli’s voice sounded low and musical in her ear: “My darling, they will ever seem just that—your arms and precious hands.”

  Sheila released her and said, “Wait—I’ve something else for you.”

  While roaming about the shops Sheila had discovered a rare beautiful etching of the old Catholic church in which she and Nicoli had later pledged their love on Christmas Eve. She had bought the etching for Nicoli, and on the back of it she had written the words which
Nicoli at the moment was reading: “The church is old, but no older than our love. It endures, but it will endure no longer than shall our love. Always—Sheila.”

  Nicoli looked up, her eyes suffused with unshed tears. “It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever had, darling—for me, it’s the best part of our visit here.” She came closer. “I wouldn’t take the world for your being sentimental about it. I wanted to feel that last night meant to you what it did to me—” Nicoli ceased speaking.

  She folded Sheila into her arms and kissed her eyes, her soft fair hair, finally her lips… lingeringly.

  *

  Two days later the car nosed its way south. Sheila felt a pang of regret upon leaving the quaint town wherein they had” been so happy. Miles faded away into the distance as Nicoli drove the car at a high rate of speed over the broad smooth ribbon of road. Now they were driving along beside the wide expanse of ocean, the roar of the beating surf in their ears as the white capped waves came in and broke along the smooth white sands of the shore. Far out in the turquoise water, porpoises were at play, their huge black glossy bodies shining in the brilliant sun as they came to the surface and then plunged back into the cool salty waters.

  In the distance, penciled against the horizon, was a steamer, its black smoke streaking upward until, mingling at last with the clouds, it disappeared, only to be succeeded by another spiral of gray black mist which in turn ascended and was lost in the fleece dotted heavens.

  Closer inshore a shrimp fleet moved slowly southward, its saffron hued sails a colorful reminder of old Portugal. In its wake hung a flock of sea gulls, now floating delicately, now swooping with an expert flash upon their luckless prey—the sounds of their quarreling muted by distance into a tenuous murmuring.

  Farther down the coast the sea vanished, and in its stead appeared miles of swamp land and thick underbrush. Pines were giving way to stately palms with their curiously swaying slender trunks. Occasionally a heron started up from the ground, its snow white plumage in vivid contrast to the murky gray of the marsh lands over which it flew.