Esme came up the ramp. “I don’t know how long you stood there or how much you heard.
But you took that last part wrong.”
“Really? Is there some different interpretation for making you feel suffocated that I don’t
know?”
“I’m not...that’s not what I meant. I’m just...I—”
He turned and started back inside. “Please come here.”
She had no clue what to expect. His inscrutable expression and flat tone offered no hint.
Inside, she stood at the end of the kitchen counter looking for the chance to explain. But he
disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later.
“Stephen, let me explain.”
He stopped in front of her, a fistful of fifty pound notes in his hand. He counted out
twenty, sought her hand and finding it, tucked the bills into her palm. “Here.”
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Your pay for services rendered. I thank you for your patience, which was clearly
strained. I wish you happiness. Good day and goodbye.” He stepped around her and poured
himself a cup of coffee.
“Are you sacking me?”
“I don’t know what you mean by sacking. If it means I no longer require your services,
then yes.”
She stared at the wad of money. The job lost its importance compared to the loss of
Stephen and everything she took for granted...the warmth of his friendship, the humor in his smile when he teased her, his thoughtfulness, what other man would present her with fresh flowers
every day? He’d insisted on riding when she’d feared him trying. He’d begun judo lessons so he’d never feel defenseless. With his strength of character and determination, only a colossal idiot would question his desire for self-reliance. How stupid she’d been.
The bills spilled to the floor and she reached for him, gripping his arm. “Please don’t do
this, please. You’re not an embarrassment. You could never be suffocating. I don’t care about the job. Don’t pay me. I want to continue working with you just to be with you. I enjoy our time
together.”
“I too liked our time together, but now it’s over.”
“Please, give me another chance.”
“I almost forgot.” He set his cup on the counter, peeled her fingers one-by-one from his
bicep and went into the drawing room. He picked up a CD lying on the top of the player and came over to her. “The CD you requested in trade for my new trainers.”
A smidgen of hope rushed through her. Maybe if she worked it right, she could use her
appreciation of his singing and the CD to soften him up.
“Thank you. You know how I love your voice,” she gushed in a breathy, teenage girl tone.
“I’d love to have you put it on and sing along to the songs.”
“I appreciate the compliment but no. Now, please go.”
She picked up her purse, went to the door then stopped. To walk out now seemed so final.
She opened her mouth to speak, to protest one more time but didn’t. Nothing she could say would convince him, not today.
She left and sat in her car for a long time listening to the CD. She held up while he sang
the Phantom songs. The next was his version of Unchained Melody in French.
Then, the tears came.
Chapter Twenty-Four
One week later
“Esme’s devastated. I think you should talk to Stephen. He never gave her the chance to
explain,” Shakira said as she finished setting the table in their compact kitchen.
Alex tasted the beef bourguignon, added another pinch of salt, a spoon of sugar, and a shot
of cognac. “I’m not getting involved. She said she was afraid he might suffocate her. That’s a
one-two punch. She hurt his pride and his feelings. What can I say to undo that?”
“First of all, he wasn’t meant to hear her comment. I brought up the topic of not hurting
him. She just expressed her concerns because she does like him.”
“The fact he wasn’t meant to hear her doesn’t change what she said.”
Shakira stood on her toes, leaned in and kissed Alex on the cheek. “Will you at least feel
him out? See if the damage is irreparable.”
“Seriously, I do not want to get in the middle of this.”
“Please, please, please.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“While you’re thinking, and since we’re talking about Stephen, I want you to hear a CD he
made.”
Alex took the bourguignon off the heat and stepped into the drawing room where Shakira
was putting the CD in the player. “Obviously the two of you made it here in our modest studio.”
“Yes, keep that in mind when you hear this.”
“Did he say why he wanted to make a CD?”
“Some kind of trade with Esme. Listen.”
She skipped the Phantom songs ahead to the pop classics. “I fiddled here and there with
the arrangements for him to try and give his versions something of a different spin.”
After hearing The Winner Takes It All, the great ABBA song, Alex sat on the sofa for
the full stereo effect. Where or When, Night and Day, The Look of Love, came next, followed by Can I Have This Kiss Forever and ended with the hit by Exile, Kiss You All Over.
“Damned good isn’t he?” Shakira asked. “Can you imagine how fab he would sound
recording in your London studio?”
“He’s more than ‘damned good.’ He’s also chosen an interesting mix of songs. If he
wanted to go professional, there’s definitely a market for the old classics. Look at the popularity of Michael Buble, Harry Connick, and Diana Krall.”
“I like the mix myself, the way he thought out of the box. He won’t paint himself into an
artistic corner.”
“I’ll pull up what songs those folks have covered and eliminate the most overdone ones
from Stephen’s repertoire. Look into some of the rock hits and make a list. I’ll have him pick his favorites and then we can tinker with the arrangements to give him a unique approach.”
Shakira sat on the arm of the sofa. “This opportunity could be a lifesaver for him. I know
he’s distressed over what he considers charity from us. If he could have even a semi-successful career, I think it would really raise his spirits.”
“Absolutely, if he can handle the craziness of entertaining. That issue worries me some in
his condition. It’s one thing to know about the big audiences popular singers attract and another to actually step on stage and perform for them. Stephen hasn’t any idea what to expect and no telling how he’d react.”
The way Shakira saw things, not knowing how huge the audience is could have the
opposite effect. “It’s hard for a person to conceive of what they haven’t seen. Your great hall was filled with people the night of your birthday. To Stephen, I imagine when you tell him he’s singing for a modern great hall, he’ll picture what yours was like and be fine.”
“Maybe but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s see if he wants a singing career.”
Alex went into the kitchen, stirred and tasted the bourguignon. “Dinner’s ready. We’ll both go
over to his place after we eat.”
“No, no. You go by yourself first and I’ll come a bit later. You said you’d talk to him about
Esme.”
“I said I’d think about it. I have. I believe you talking to him will have more success.
Women are better at relationship damage control than men.”
“Really? You’re going with the I’m better at this by virtue of my sex excuse?”
“Yes. It’s true. For the record, most men want nothing to do with sorting out other c
ouples
troubles. We have enough trouble navigating the waters of our own relationships.”
“I’ll go, but for the record, you’re full of beans.”
#
Stephen turned the lights on as he went to the door. “Shakira, come on in.”
“I brought you dinner,” she said and stepped inside the trailer. “The bourguignon is still hot, but you’ll have to reheat the mashed potatoes.”
“Bourguignon?”
“It’s a fancy word for French stew. You’ll love this. Alex marinates the meat for two
days before he makes the dish. It practically melts in your mouth.” She went into the kitchen and set a dish onto the counter. “Bend down and smell.”
From the crinkling sound, Shakira peeled back what Stephen had learned was called
aluminum foil and put the bowl under his nose.
He inhaled the mouth-watering, rich beef scent of the dish. He’d had plenty of stew in his
life but none smelled this good.
“Pardon,” he said and squeezed past Shakira to get a bowl from the cupboard. “I don’t
need to reheat the potatoes. I’ll ladle the warm bourguignon over them.”
“I’m impressed. You didn’t stumble over bourguignon.” She took the bowl from him. “I’ll
fix your dish.”
“Please. I can do this for myself.” He took the bowl back. As to my language skill, my
French is excellent. You need only say a new word to me once, twice at the most, and I will know how to pronounce it.”
“I never heard you speak the language when I was at Elysian Fields last year. I thought
the only French you knew were the lyrics to Unchained Melody.”
Stephen scraped half the container of mashed potatoes into his bowl. Then, he poured a
ladle full of stew over them. Shakira was right. The tender meat practically melted in his mouth.
He swallowed and said, “The word bourguignon was unknown to me, but I’ve spoken the
language for ten years.”
“Did you learn it because of the war?”
He nodded. “After Crecy, when we traveled through the towns and villages, I never knew
what the people were saying. I had to rely on others to translate. I thought: who’s to say they got it right? Once we returned to England, I made it a point to learn the language.”
“Good for you.”
He ate another bite of food as Shakira gave a heavy sigh followed by another. It seemed
odd she neither spoke nor made to leave. She usually did one or the other.
At last she said, “Have a seat at the table. I want to talk to you about Esme.”
“As I told you both then, I don’t wish to discuss the matter.”
“Just hear me out.”
Now it was Stephen’s turn to sigh heavily. Women. Why must they always insist on
talking over that which you do not wish to talk about?
“Please, as a favor to me,” Shakira added.
Stephen carried his bowl of stew to the table reluctant to stop eating while Shakira pled
Esme’s cause. He pulled out a chair and sat prepared to listen to Shakira’s tale and then tell her he wouldn’t change his decision. True, sending Esme away pained him. He missed her terribly.
Just straightening the sofa the morning he sent her away was torture. Her perfume had clung to
the pillow where she’d laid her head the night before and the throw that blanketed her.
Shakira followed and sat in the same chair Esme always did.
“Stephen, I understand your feelings are hurt along with your pride. You have every right
to feel bad.”
He ate while Shakira talked, a little curious about what defense she’d present for the truth
behind Esme’s words.
“Esme’s deeply attracted to you and cares for you more than you know. She told me so.”
Swallowing, he rose from the table. “Excuse me, your story requires wine.” He went into
the kitchen and brought back the bottle of burgundy he opened a short time earlier and two
goblets. He filled both glasses. “Here,” he said and handed her one, then sat. “Let me understand this. She cares deeply but fears my being around her too much, to the point of stealing her air.”
“I wouldn’t phrase it that way.”
“Has the definition of suffocating changed over time?”
“No.”
Stephen ate another bite of food, chasing it with a mouthful of wine. He took another sip
and let it sit on his tongue while he considered how to continue. He liked Shakira and had no wish to offend her. But the truth was, he didn’t see a way to pretend her story moved him.
“Milady, were you in danger, I would lay down my life to protect you,” he said at last.
“I know you would.”
“But as for believing the tale you weave that she has strong feelings for me, I say
balderdash.”
“Stephen, you’re still learning to adjust to blindness. For her, this is a new experience too.
If you two were to take the relationship to the next level, she doesn’t know what day-to-day
challenges she’d face. She wouldn’t for the world wish to hurt you and worried how you’d feel if after you two developed a more personal relationship she found she couldn’t cope with them.”
The last thing he wanted was to lose his temper with Shakira. To hear her paint Esme’s
words with such a benign brush, his temper got the better of him.
Stephen slapped his palm down. “You sound like you believe this is a good reason. I am
adept in French, but I am even better at comprehending my native tongue. She said she ‘fears’ my
‘suffocating’ her, which translates to destroying her life.” Embarrassed by his outburst, Stephen slid his hand from under Shakira’s who’d reached over to calm him no doubt. “I apologize. That
was most unchivalrous of me. You mean well, I know.”
“Esme chose her words poorly, yes, I agree. But, you would abandon the chance for a
lovely, happy relationship because she misspoke?”
“Her words aren’t merely a bad choice. She thinks me so weak that I cannot bear the
possible end of a relationship.”
“Not weak. She knows you’re not a weak man but a man with great heart, a heart she
wouldn’t want to break. That doesn’t make her bad nor does it reflect poorly on you.”
He had to think on what Shakira said. He wished to believe her. He just didn’t know if he
was capable.
They sat silent for several minutes. Stephen pushed the bowl away, his appetite gone. He
kept the goblet at his lips and gulped the rest of his wine in three swallows. From the soft sounds Shakira sipped at hers and set the glass down twice.
“What did you do all day?” she finally asked.
“My Braille lesson was to label the jars in the cupboard and refrigerator. The lessons are
boring, but Andrew insists they’re needed. After he left, I rearranged the jars in each place
according to how often I use them.” A tedious chore to pass the time until Owen was free to
saddle Vidar for him.
“I spoke to Owen earlier. He said you’ve been out riding. Where did you go?”
“The ruin of Elysian Fields. When we went shopping for my talking watch and compass, I
purchased an iPod in town also. Which I owe Alex payment for; I’ll give you the cost before you leave.”
“You don’t need to pay for the iPod.”
“But I will. Convenient little thing, I’ve many songs on it. Esme helped me with what she
called playlists. I spend quiet time at the ruin listening to them.”
“Why go there? Alex and I rarely visit. I think seeing it now pains him more than he
admi
ts.”
“It’s a manner of lodestone, I guess. Wreck that the castle is—I am pulled there by what
it was to me, home, and a different life.”
“That’s why Alex bought all the land his family owned centuries ago. Elysian Fields was
once so much a part of his life too.
“About your iPod, I’m glad you’re familiar with what playlists are. I copied the CD you
made for Esme and played if for Alex. He wants to record more with you but in his London
studio, which has amazing equipment. If I make a playlist of the songs he’s interested in you
singing, would you be willing to learn them?”
“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “But why does he want me to make another recording?”
“I think he wants to make you a star.”
“A star—like in the sky? I don’t understand.”
“It means people all over the world will hear you sing.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You’ll see as we go along.”
#
Esme stood and waved as Shakira entered the crowded village coffee shop. “Hi. Thank
you for coming,” she said when Shakira reached the table.
“Hi.”
“This is my sister, Electra,” Esme said, nodding at her sister and gestured to Shakira,
“Electra—Shakira.” The two shook hands.
“Did you talk to him?” Esme blurted out while Shakira was still scooting her chair closer to
the table.
“Yes.”
“I can tell from your tone it didn’t go well.”
The waitress came over and refilled Esme’s cup of coffee and took Shakira’s order for a
cappuccino and a strawberry scone with clotted cream.
“I’m sorry. I tried.”
Esme gnawed at a hangnail on her thumb.
“What are you thinking?” Shakira asked.
“After I spent days examining the different troubles I feared might rise between us, I did a
self-exam. I discovered I never want to do that much soul searching again.” Beside her, Electra snorted.
“Have trouble finding your soul did you?” Shakira asked dryly.
“Ow, that hurt,” Electra interjected.
Esme ignored her sister. “I found it. Tarnished thing that it is.”
“And...”
“He works so hard at being bloody independent, I don’t see why I worried about his
possible neediness in the first place. The time travel is a non-issue now too.”
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 22