by Caroline Lee
After a long, silent minute, he knew. “Does this town have a bookstore? A library?”
“Mrs. Mayor’s store serves both purposes.” He could hear the confusion in the other man’s voice.
“Does Mrs. Mayor have a nice voice?”
“I hadn’t thought of it, but I suppose it’s unobjectionable.”
“Good.” He nodded, and put down the glass of brandy. “I used to read, before I lost my eyes. Gordy has been a poor substitute, not least of which because I had to teach him to read in the first place, and he was a stubborn learner. The damn brogue of his is annoying, and a man can’t enjoy the paper or the book with him dropping his ‘Gs’ and rolling his ‘Rs’ all the time.”
“You want Mrs. Mayor to read to you?”
“Perhaps. You asked if there was anything that this town could offer me, besides the solitude I’m obviously not getting. Well, I suppose that I wouldn’t be adverse to meeting Mrs. Mayor, and working out some sort of arrangement.”
“Meredith did tell me that she thought Mrs. Mayor—she’s a widow with a rambunctious son—could use another income…” The doctor sounded as if he didn’t like gossiping. Excellent; Vincenzo didn’t want to hear any more about Everland’s denizens than he had to.
“Then I’m sure we’ll work something out. Shall I have Gordy arrange a meeting?”
“Has he met her?”
“How should I know what he does while I’m playing? I assume he’s wandering the streets of his new home, wailing and gnashing his teeth because I’m not available to be waited upon.”
A chuckle from the other chair. “I’ll arrange for Mrs. Mayor to meet with you, Vincenzo. And I’ll take Gordy around to meet your other neighbors.”
“You’re bound and determined to involve me in this blasted town, aren’t you?”
“I’m a doctor. I heal people. And I think that becoming part of our community would heal you.”
“You’re wrong.” Vincenzo’s voice had gone flat, and Rajah hissed in response. “I’m beyond healing, and I’ve made my peace with that. I’d appreciate it if you’d respect my wishes.”
The other man stood, and Vincenzo heard the sounds of him picking up his bag and moving towards the door. “I can’t say that it’s been a pleasure, Signore Bellini, but it certainly has been an experience. I look forward to my next visit.”
“Assuming I’ll allow it.”
“I think you’ll find Wyoming to be a bit… wilder than London or Paris or wherever you’ve been touring. Here, people are nosier, and there’s not a hell of a lot you can do about it. Good afternoon.”
Long after the door shut behind the other man—the man who Vincenzo was flatly refusing to consider a friend—he sat and petted Rajah, thinking about what the doctor had said. Why was he here? Why had he decided to stop touring, to leave it all behind him? To settle down? Did he really want solitude, or was settling here a subconscious way of desiring a place in a community? Did he know what he really wanted, now that he was putting that other life behind him? Had he thought about it before, thought about his future?
He thought about it now, sitting with only the large cat’s company. In the darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
Dear Mr. Bellini, she’d written last week, after Jack had returned from their mysterious new neighbor’s home. I have heard from Dr. and Mrs. Carpenter that you are searching for a reliable source of news and books. I flatter myself to believe that I might provide you with those things, and might even read for you, as the doctor mentioned. However, it is hardly proper for a widow in good standing to appear unchaperoned at a gentleman’s home, so therefore I will wait for you to call upon my store during business hours. Very sincerely your neighbor, A. Mayor
She’d read the letter over three times before she was satisfied with its propriety. Surely there was nothing objectionable in it, but still kind enough to keep Signore Bellini interested in hiring her.
When his manservant told Jack that she was expected to present herself at a single man’s residence, she couldn’t believe it. Milton would’ve had one of his fits over such a proposition. Visiting a man’s home, alone, was definitely breaking Rule Number Two: be proper.
Of course, there’d been a time when she’d have thought nothing of being alone with a single man, whether in his house or hers or some lovely garden somewhere. She and Edward had always been popping in and out of each other’s lives, and their families were used to seeing them together in—
That was when she’d creased the folds of the letter a bit more forcefully than necessary and thrust it at Eddie to deliver on his way to school. Edward is dead. As if she needed reminding.
To her chagrin, though, she’d received a note back in response, that very day. It was a full sheet of paper, turned on its side, and a single sentence was scrawled heavily across it diagonally, as if the writer couldn’t see the logical line for the text to follow:
I do not make house calls.
That was it. He didn’t make house calls, meaning he was still expecting her to come to him, even though he was the one asking a favor. Deciding to make him wait, she let her irritation simmer for another two days. On the third day, she’d had a major argument with Eddie over the china he’d unpacked; she was furious with him for undoing all of her hard work, and he was in tears because he didn’t want to move out of his home in the first place. She thoroughly lost her temper, and then so did he, until they were both screaming.
It had felt… good. When was the last time she’d let herself get that emotional? Or screamed loudly enough for a passing stranger to hear her? Or so completely disregard Rule Number Three? Eddie had broken into tears at the exact same moment she had, and they both knelt on the floor of their apartment—soon to be the Cutters’ apartment—and bawled their eyes out all over each other.
After, she sat rocking him on the living room rug, just like she had for years when he’d cry at night over Milton’s strict rules. And for a moment, she felt like she had her baby back.
Leaning over to kiss his forehead that night, knowing that he wasn’t as grown up as he wanted to pretend, and that maybe she wasn’t either, she’d had a realization. If Signore Bellini was as hideous as Jack claimed, then perhaps he was keeping his own Rule Number One by not going out in public. Perhaps he was hiding away as best he could, as sometimes she wanted to, since her beauty had faded.
So, feeling charitable, she accepted his invitation. His dictate, really. She’d dressed in her most austere gown, tucked every wayward strand of her hair into the strict bun, and pinched her cheeks for color. Critiquing her reflection in her hand mirror—a gift from Milton on their first anniversary, so she’d always look perfect—she nodded primly. While she might not be beautiful anymore, at least she was proper.
And now, standing on the porch of the newest Everland resident, she was glad she’d taken the extra minutes with her appearance. While Misters Cole and King had built many of Everland’s buildings—including her bookstore—and thus most of the town showed their distinctive “Swiss chalet” style, this one was special. All one level, its wings stretched away from Perrault Street, sweeping towards the mountains in the distance. It was obvious that the owner was wealthy, and Mr. Cole’s choice of woods and Mr. King’s elaborate scrollwork reflected the fact. Self-consciously, Arabella smoothed her palm down the front of the dress and adjusted the basket of books hooked over one elbow. Taking a deep breath, she knocked again.
When the door opened, though, she let out an embarrassing little squeak and stepped back. The man was tall enough that his head almost brushed the door jamb, with his sleeves rolled up and a long cleaver gripped tightly in one hand. “What?”
Her heart beating loudly enough that he surely heard, Arabella took a step backwards. “I’m… I’m Mrs. Mayor?” She railed inside at how hesitant she sounded, but he really was intimidating. His hair was as long as hers, pulled back in a sloppy queue at the base of his neck, and he wore a bloody apron above completely out-of-fashion
tall boots.
But as soon as she introduced herself, his scowl eased into a smile, and she realized that this must be the manservant. “Well now, missus, we weren’t expecting ye, but m’lord’ll be pleased ta meet ye, I’m sure.”
M’lord. Maybe some of the rumors about Signore Bellini were true, after all? But she just nodded, perhaps a little more stiffly than necessary.
He stepped out of the way, inviting her inside with a gesture. “I’m Gordon McKinnon, an’ I’m elbow-deep in cubin’ beef fer dinner t’night.” When she stepped into the foyer, he kicked the door shut behind her and jerked his head down the hall. “But I’ll show ye ta the study first.”
His smile was kind, and Arabella felt herself slowly relax as she followed him. Perhaps he’d just been abrupt at first because she’d interrupted his chore, or because they were used to nosy neighbors? Whatever the reason, he’d recognized her name—he’d been part of the chain that got her here, after all—and seemed welcoming now.
For all of the home’s grandeur on the exterior, the inside was…plain. There was no decoration, no wall hangings, no pretty paint. The lamps were few and far between, so the hall was dim, and there wasn’t even a bench or tables for knickknacks. Then she remembered that the home’s owner was blind. He’d obviously spent money on the outside of the house to keep up appearances—maybe he knew about Rule Number One?—but didn’t bother inside, since it would all be wasted on him. And the lack of furniture just meant there were fewer things for him to navigate around in his daily routine. Perhaps—
When the music started, she stopped thinking. In fact, she stopped in her tracks, and thought that her heart might have stopped too. Meredith had said that Signore Bellini was a world-renowned violinist, but Arabella hadn’t realized…hadn’t realized what that would mean. Hadn’t realized that with that first graceful pull of the bow across the strings, the note would leap down her chest and into her stomach and then her tears would climb up her throat and run down her cheeks and she’d be reminded, in that one horrible, glorious moment, of a life she’d lost long ago. A love she’d lost long ago.
Gordon turned to her, and his expression softened when he saw hers. She was standing in a strange house—a strange, dark house—weeping in the hall, because of music. No, not just any music. Powerful, humbling, heart-wrenchingly beautiful music that flowed from behind the last door on the left. Music that touched a part of her soul she hadn’t remembered existed.
With a little smile, the manservant pushed the door open just enough for a small body to slip through, and gestured for her to do so. She hesitated, wiping her palms across her cheeks and wondering if Signore Bellini would be able to tell she’d been crying. It certainly wasn’t proper, but she discovered that Rule Number Two didn’t seem to matter at that moment.
When Gordon jerked his chin and smiled, she squared her shoulders, took a firmer grip on her basket of books, and slipped through the partially opened door. He’d called this a study, but it was really a room for music. High ceilings, tall windows to let in the spring light, and everywhere testaments to a master’s talent. She counted three violins on stands, a cello in a case beside the hearth, and tools and accoutrements galore. All of this, though, paled in comparison to the room’s occupant.
Signore Bellini stood with his back to her, in the center of the room. His brown hair was long and shaggy, even though he was dressed in a fine suit. He’d removed the jacket—there it was, thrown over that chair—and rolled up his sleeves. She could see highly improper glimpses of his skin, covered in little hairs, as his elbow sawed in and out, creating the most…the most incredible music.
He hadn’t noticed her presence. He was engrossed in his music, and she couldn’t blame him. Even after ten years, she couldn’t forget the stance of a man completely absorbed in the magic he could make with a violin; Signore Bellini stood on the balls on his feet, as if he’d take flight any moment, his entire body moving with the stroke of the bow across his strings. He was throwing his entire being into playing, like Edward used to.
But this music…this was greater, more beautiful, than anything her first husband could’ve aspired to. This was what the violin had been created for. This was pure magic.
Arabella realized that she was crying again, but couldn’t risk wiping her tears away. Couldn’t risk moving, couldn’t risk breathing, for fear that he’d know she was there, and stop playing. And at that moment, the absolute last thing that she wanted was for him to stop playing.
His music brought back so many beautiful memories: teasing Edward about the amount of time he spent transcribing the songs in his head; lying tangle-limbed beside him while he stroked her skin and told her about the music school he’d one day start; him carefully packing away his first violin for their future child.
Eddie! More than once, she’d wished that her son could learn to play the instrument, even a quarter as well as his father. And maybe he could have, if they were still living in Boston, where there were teachers. But here, in Everland, there was no one to teach him how to use his father’s violin.
Until now.
Vincenzo Bellini hinted to Jack that he wanted to hire her to read to him. And she would’ve happily accepted that arrangement, because she and Eddie needed the money. But it wouldn’t be enough to keep them from having to rent out their apartment; they’d still need more. No, Signore Bellini’s payment wouldn’t be grand enough for that. But maybe, just maybe, she could talk him into a different kind of payment. A barter, perhaps?
He’d reached a particularly difficult point in the piece—one that she recognized, but couldn’t identify—and the music became solid; a living, breathing entity that wrapped itself around them both and squeezed. His hair swished back and forth, and when he dropped one shoulder she saw that his beard was as thick and unkempt and dripping in sweat as the rest of him. But at that moment, that glorious moment, he was music.
Did she whimper? Was that a sound, deep from her stomach and low in her throat? Was she crying, or keening, or yearning for what was lost and what might’ve been?
And while she was trying to swallow down her passions, the music stopped, abruptly, cut off when he lifted the bow from the strings. That one truncated note froze around them, a moment of perfect stillness so real that she could taste it… and then he tilted his head to one side, and said “Honeysuckle” so low that she almost couldn’t hear it over the ringing silence the absence of the music created.
And then, just when she thought that she’d need to breathe again, or faint, he said it again. He dropped his right hand to his side, straightened slightly, and said, “Honeysuckle. Gordy, you’ve brought me a woman.”
She sucked in a breath at his rudeness, and decided this feeling of light-headedness was just the air hitting her lungs. But when he turned towards her, and she almost took a step backwards, she wasn’t so sure.
Jack hadn’t been exaggerating. Signore Bellini was terrifying. From where she stood across the room, Arabella could see the mass of scar tissue that ran up his right cheekbone from under his thick beard, across where both eyes had once been—mercifully sparing most of his nose—and continued up under his hairline. He wore his hair long, falling in front of the melted-looking scars that now covered his eye sockets, and she supposed that she should be thankful for that little blessing. Even knowing that he couldn’t see her reaction, it was hard not to turn away in disgust at his deformity.
But then he transferred his bow to his left hand, where he still gripped the instrument’s neck lightly, and moved towards her. His steps were slow, deliberate, like he’d memorized the path long ago, and was now taking care that something—she?—wasn’t in the way. She saw his nostrils flare, and he stopped a few feet from her. Thank Heavens, because she hadn’t been sure if she should move out of the way. Hadn’t known if her body would follow her commands to move. Hadn’t known if she could think, not after the way his music had made her feel.
When he spoke again, his voice lacked the authority o
f a moment before, but had the same gravelly tone, like there was something wrong with his throat. “Gordy, no more games. Where is she? I can smell her.”
It took two tries to find her voice, and even then, Arabella winced at the waver she heard. “Gordon went back to the kitchen, my lord.” His hair whipped at his cheeks when he jerked his face towards hers. “I’m Mrs. Mayor.”
He dropped his chin slightly so that he would’ve been staring at her shoulder, had he eyes, and she realized he’d turned his ear towards her. When he inhaled, she tried her hardest not to stare at the way his chest strained against the buttons on his vest, or the way his fingers tightened around the violin, but anything was better than staring at his ruined face.
“Mrs. Mayor.” And then he smiled. He smiled widely enough that the beard didn’t matter, that the scars didn’t matter. It was a miracle that whatever had caused the damage to his face had left his smile intact; neat, even rows of white teeth, and lips that were unaccountably sensual. What right did a man who looked like this have to be sensual? But there was no denying the flutter in her stomach when he turned that smile on her, and Arabella frowned, knowing he couldn’t see.
Then she was wishing she had taken that step back, because he was touching her. He’d lifted his right hand and stroked her cheek. Now her jawline and chin and oh Heavens across her lips. “You’ve been crying, Mrs. Mayor.”
Her heart was beating in her chest—he could probably feel it—and she’d shut her eyes at his first feather-light caress. She had to clear her throat to get any sound past it, when he used the ball of one callused thumb to wipe at her wet cheeks. “I…your music was…”
“Yes, I know.” He didn’t sound smug, just sure. Sure that his music was beautiful enough to bring a stranger to tears. “Shall I tell you a secret, Mrs. Mayor?” His fingers skimmed along her forehead now, tracing each brow before dropping to her temple and then resting alongside her cheek, one finger tantalizingly close to her ear. “Shall I?” His whisper told her that she wasn’t going to escape his notice or his touch.