“The detail and color…it has to be Kate’s.” Excited now, she lifted the first painting and handed it to Stuart. The second painting was of a brown trout as it rose toward a brilliant dragonfly hovering at the water’s surface. The bright red dots across the body stood out like neon against the yellow-brown. She lifted this one and Stuart took it.
The final painting was of the wild brook trout, the most elusive of all the trout in the area. In the painting the small brookie was caught by an elaborate dry fly, all bright yellow with spiked hackles. The trout’s smooth, dark brown coloring and wormlike markings along its back contrasted sharply with its brilliant ruby-colored belly and fins. The fish was rolling to its side, as though relinquishing the long fight. Kate, she knew, had once compared herself in the diary to a brook trout.
“The glass is cracked on this one,” she said, concerned about the condition of the painting. Dirt and insect wings were embedded under the glass, staining the paper. “It has to be cleaned and remounted before it’s ruined.” She pulled her shawl off and bent over the painting. Carefully she removed the pieces of cracked glass, then used her shawl to gently brush off the insects. She clucked her tongue. “There’s mold peppering all of them.”
She turned the painting over and began to peel away the cheap cardboard backing. “It’s so primitively done. She must’ve framed this herself,” she muttered as her fingers dug in at the corner to tug the old cardboard away from the frame. “Damn,” she exclaimed as she scraped her skin against a small nail.
“Careful,” Stuart said, coming closer.
“I’m OK, it’s just a scratch,” she said, determined to see the back of the painting. The cardboard sagged and tore back, and she got purchase with the corner. “I’ve almost got it.” With pressure from the front she pushed out the cardboard and peeled it out from the frame. A yellowed sheet of paper fell from the back of the frame. She caught it in her hand, surprised. It was as light as tissue.
“Look,” Stuart said, pointing to the back of the painting. “There it is. She signed it.”
In a bold red ink Mia saw the initials KW on the back. “You were right,” she exclaimed. “They were hers.” She looked up and in his eyes she saw the shared elation of discovery.
Stuart put down the other paintings and drew closer, curious. “What is that paper that fell out?”
“I don’t know.” Mia lifted the tinder-dry sheet. Three stanzas were handwritten in a tight script. The ink had paled and it was hard to read, so she had to hold it close to make it out.
“It’s a poem,” Stuart said, standing behind to read over her shoulder.
“Not just any poem,” Mia replied soberly. “It’s from Dante’s Inferno. It’s one of the most famous cantos, where Francesca tells Dante the story of her love for Paolo.”
He shook his head, not understanding the reference.
Mia brought to mind this section of Dante’s great epic poem, which she’d always found so poignant. “In the Inferno, Dante visits different parts of hell and he comes upon Francesca and Paolo, two lovers condemned to hell for adultery. In life they were reading together the story of Lancelot and Guinevere and they were moved by how similar that story was to their own.” Her smile was bittersweet, remembering the words. “They kissed and they didn’t read any more that day. It’s really a story of love versus lust. Their hell was to spend eternity circling near each other but never together.”
Stuart brought the thin, yellowed paper closer and read aloud. Mia leaned against him, her cheek against his shirt, moist from the intense heat. She closed her eyes and listened to her love read to her a love poem.
Full many a time our eyes together drew
That reading, and drove the colour from our faces;
But one point only was it that o’ercame us.
When as we read of the much-longed-for smile
Being by such a noble lover kissed,
This one, who ne’er from me shall be divided,
Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.
Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it.
That day no farther did we read therein.
Stuart stepped back. She felt the space open between them.
“Do you think there are more letters in the others?” he asked.
The thought stunned her. Could it be possible? “I should remove them from the cardboard anyway.”
He carried a second painting, the rainbow trout, to the table. Once again she clawed at the cardboard backing until she got a corner open and pulled the backing away. A photograph fell from the back.
They both reached for it, their hands touching over the photograph. His hand darted back, as though burned. “Sorry.”
Mia picked up the photograph and held it so Stuart could see it. It was a black-and-white portrait of a handsome man in a business suit, just the shoulders and head. His hair was sandy colored and combed back from his forehead in the style of the day. It was his expression that arrested her. He wasn’t smiling but his eyes kindled so that she felt the power of his personality.
“It has to be DeLancey,” she said, sure of it.
She looked up and saw the thrill of the hunt in Stuart’s eyes. They both turned simultaneously to look at the third painting. Stuart lunged for it and this time he tore off the back cardboard. Mia’s heart was pounding, wondering—knowing—some treasure had to be there.
His hands tore back the moldy cardboard. This one fell back readily.
“Oh, look,” she gasped when folded pieces of paper fell from the back. Like the poem, these papers were yellowed and dry.
Stuart picked up the papers and handed them to Mia. She wiped her hands on her shawl, then took the papers and unfolded them. At the top of the stationery a family crest was embossed. It was a dragon with claws out and a star at each corner. The fine script was the same as for the poem. “It’s a letter,” Mia said breathlessly. “To Kate.” The pages were filled with a fine script in ink pen. She flipped to the second page for the signature. “Oh my God, Stuart, it’s from DeLancey.”
He came close to look over her shoulder. “Read it.”
Mia lifted the pages closer. Every nerve ending came alive in the heated room. She could feel Stuart’s hand on her shoulder, the heat of his body beside her, and his warm breath against her hair as he bent his head to read along.
My darling Kate,
I am alone, riding the train north. I hear the hum of the rails beneath me, feel the rocking of the car as it carries me miles away from you. I am desolate. Each time I leave you my course is harder. I close my eyes and see your dark hair spilled against the pillows, your eyes shining with love, your arms stretched out to me in welcome. This vision tortures me and yet I return to it, over and over. I am as doomed as Paolo to circle around you, never able to have you—my Francesca—day after day, year after year, throughout infinity, in this, my beloved Inferno. Over the cabin door I should erect the sign: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!
Except that upon entering, I am in paradise.
I know you do not want to discuss that I am a married man. You accept that I will never leave my family. Ah, Kate, what I am asking of you is too much. It is wrong. I should ride this train north and never look south again. Yet I am too weak. When I am away from you I am in hell. Being with you is the only heaven I desire.
I love you. I love you as much in the heart as in the mind. I love you as much on the river as in my bed. I love you when the sun rises and when it sets. My love for you is all-consuming.
So knowing that I must pass through the flame before entering Earthly Paradise, I will return in the fall.
To you, my Francesca…my Kate.
DeLancey
“Oh, Stuart,” she said, feeling a rush of emotion. “It all makes sense. DeLancey’s letter, the poem. This is how they saw themselves. As Paolo and Francesca, two lovers damned to be near each other but never able to touch. Their hell was having no hope that it would ever change. It’s all so beautiful. And so sad.
”
Mia lowered the letter, swept away by the powerful emotions swirling inside of her. She felt Stuart squeeze her shoulder. Looking up, she saw DeLancey’s passion in Stuart’s eyes.
Mia folded the letter in crisp movements, then busied her hands to deflect her nervousness, smoothing the painting, moving the pieces of broken glass.
Slowly, tentatively, Stuart brought his hand up to stroke her hair, then let his hand move down her back, gentling her with tenderness. His hand trembled. Mia’s hands went still on the table and she closed her eyes.
Stuart lifted her hair from her neck and lowered his lips to gently caress the tender skin. She felt her senses come alive, so powerfully it bordered on pain. His kisses traveled along her shoulder; then he buried his face in her neck. She shivered, then froze when she felt his hands move across her arms to her chest, cupping her right breast in one and her prosthesis in the other.
“Shh…,” he murmured, gentling her, murmuring words she couldn’t make out in her terror, aware only of the sensation of a palm against her nipple, caressing in circles on one side. And on the other side, though she felt nothing, she was intensely aware that this hand moved over her body in rhythm with the other. He turned her to press against her as he wrapped strong arms around her. “You’re beautiful,” he told her.
She looked away, her face against his chest. He cupped her chin and tilted her head. When she raised her face to his she read the question in his eyes.
Enough of reading and long kisses and swirling in hell, she thought. She relinquished and offered him the desired smile. He took her hand and led her from the sweltering room, out from the carriage house and across the sweet-scented meadows to his bed.
Chapter Eighteen
Fly-fishing is a celebration of the senses and the spirit. On the river you feel whole again, ready to say yes to life.
—BELLE CARSON
Mia blinked heavily in the piercing sunshine, then brought her hand up to shield her eyes. Gradually she moved her palm, growing accustomed to the light, and looked about the room. The curtains were drawn and the sun shone freely through large, expansive windows revealing a brilliant blue sky.
Dazed, Mia realized those were not her cabin windows. Awaking fully now, her gaze darted around the strange bedroom—at the taupe walls, the large television, a long dresser and mirror. She turned her head on the pillow. Stuart was lying on his stomach, his head turned away from her, his dark hair rumpled on the pillow. The long length of his tanned back was exposed and the white sheet lay across his hips.
Memories of the night before returned in a flood. She closed her eyes for a moment as the rush of feelings washed over her. Sighing, she felt a shiver of contentment. The passion from DeLancey’s letter had ignited their own. It was an explosion of desire and they’d moved to his room, groping and kissing, unable to keep their hands from each other. There had been only one awkward moment. When he’d started removing her dress, her hands shot up and clung to the silk, a last, wretched gesture of panic.
Stuart had taken her face in his hands and compelled her to look into his eyes. Their gazes locked and his hands moved to gently tug the dress from her. It slid like water down her legs. Whenever he sensed her shyness he brought her gaze back to him, over and over, until she was caught in his rhythm and released the last remnants of hesitation and doubt in a cry of release ripped from her heart.
She smiled and felt the sunlight swirling inside of her. She looked again at the man beside her, feeling so grateful. She had not been sure that she’d ever feel again the passion, or the fulfillment, she’d felt last night. She longed to reach out and run her fingers along his beautiful, tanned skin and the dark hairs along his soft arm. She put out her hand and held it over his back, then withdrew it, not wanting to wake him.
Instead she slowly, carefully rose from the bed. She looked for a robe and, finding none, she went to the bathroom and wrapped a large towel around herself. She tiptoed from the room and closed the door soundlessly behind her.
His condominium was handsomely done in mountain decor. It was sophisticated and not cabinlike thanks to its lofty ceilings, a stainless steel and wood kitchen, and rich, colored palette. He’d told her the resort had arranged for him to stay in this furnished condo for the duration of his job. Outside the windows the steel blue lake glistened in the morning sun, and beyond, his beloved mountain range was cloaked in every conceivable shade of green.
She prowled through his kitchen, surprised to find the cabinets nearly empty of any food save a few condiments and nuts. His fancy refrigerator held only a few bottles of beer and water, some old cheese, and a half bag of withered carrots. She began to worry when she found the coffee machine in the cabinet, pristine and obviously never used.
“Good morning.”
She jerked her head from the cabinet to see Stuart leaning against the granite counter looking disheveled, a navy cotton robe loosely tied around his waist. Dark stubble lined his jaw and lip, and his hair stuck out in spikes.
“I was going to make you coffee,” she said.
“Never drink it.”
“I figured that out,” she said, rising slowly. She tightened the towel around her chest, feeling suddenly awkward.
He reached out toward her and wiggled his fingers for her to come closer. Relieved, she closed the distance and he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight against his chest. She felt enormously reassured and took a deep breath, exhaling a long plume of air.
“You were lovely last night,” he said in his gruff morning voice against her head. “Are lovely this morning.”
She smiled, enjoying the feel of his soft, furred chest against her tender lips.
“I’m hungry this morning,” she replied, unable to remark on the night before.
“I don’t cook but I can take you to a proper country breakfast. Grits and eggs and bacon. And coffee.”
“At the inn?”
“That’s what I usually do. They serve breakfast on the patio.”
“Don’t you think they’ll notice I’m wearing the same dress I wore last night?”
She felt his shoulders move with his chuckle. “I’ll gain some points. And it will make you very exotic. A wanton woman on a one-night stand.”
She didn’t reply, uncertain about the one-night stand element of the comment.
He moved back so he could see her face. “Except it’s not a one-night stand, is it?”
“Isn’t it?” she asked, looking up at him.
“What do you think?”
She nestled her head in the crook of his arm and softened her spine. He tightened his arms around her again. She heard his heart beating, felt his chest rise with a deep inhalation of breath.
“What about if I drive you back to your cabin, you shower and change, and then we’ll drive to Shaffer’s for coffee and breakfast. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Things went according to plan with a few minor changes. Stuart drove Mia to the cabin, where she quickly showered. When she returned to her room dripping wet he kissed her, and one kiss led to another. Later, en route to town, they stopped at the overlook outside Watkins Mill. Mia was feeling expansive and wanted to share with him the view that had brought her so much pleasure over the past months. The distant mountain peaks were visible in the clear sky. Below, the wide, verdant valley showed off its earthy greenery.
Mia sat on the small bench at the overlook. Her long, tanned legs extended far out before her on the grass. Stuart’s longer legs, in jeans, stretched out next to hers. They’d been sitting here for several minutes, shoulder against shoulder, silently staring out. Mia tapped his sandal with hers.
“What?” he asked.
“So, what do you think? Isn’t it wonderful?”
“It’s nice.”
“Nice?” she asked, feigning insult. “Is that all you can say? This is the finest view anywhere for miles. I can see clear to Tennessee from here.”
“That far
, huh?”
“Really, Stuart, it’s marvelous, isn’t it? It’s my favorite haunt. I have to pass here every day to get home from town. It’s so high up I feel like an eagle perched on some ledge overlooking her domain.”
“It’s high enough, I give you that.”
She tucked her arm under his. “Sometimes I stop on the way back home and sit here to make phone calls. Sometimes I come to sit here and just think. And sometimes I’m drawn here for no reason at all. It’s so majestic. So powerful. I feel so small and insignificant before all that.” She raised her hand to indicate the vista. Lowering her hand, she sighed. “Looking at this sight helps me believe there is a God.”
He turned his head and cast a sidelong glance her way. “Did you stop believing?”
She laid her head against his shoulder, feeling the coarseness of his cotton shirt against her tender cheek. Looking out, she nodded. “There were times it was too hard to believe.”
“And now?”
“Now it’s easier to believe than not believe. I’m thankful He let me live to see this,” she said, expressing more to him in those few words than she’d confessed before. “To be here with you. At this moment.”
She lifted her head to see him looking at her, his gaze penetrating. She reached up to gently stroke his jaw with her palm, then lowered her hand and tucked it back under his arm. “That’s all I’m asking for,” she said quietly, her eyes looking out to the distance.
When they walked into Shaffer’s, the bell chimed and Mia heard Becky’s cheerful voice ring out, “Mornin’, Mia!” Becky’s smile froze when she saw Stuart walking in behind her. She was sitting at a table with Flossie and Phyllis, all of whose eyes were fixed on the tall man behind her.
“Good morning, ladies,” Mia said as she walked up to their table. “Have y’all met Stuart?”
Time Is a River Page 27