by L. R. Olson
His music got me through my chemo, not that he would know. The nurses assumed I was listening to hard rock, rap, or pop like any girl my age. But it was always classical for me, thanks to my Dad. Sudden tears sting my eyes.
“How…I didn’t...”
He’s smiling now, looking amused and a little more than pleased with himself. The Christian I have come to know, come to care about, is back. I want to see him happy like this always. “It was on your playlist. Edvard Grieg.”
I vaguely remember him going through my music one evening when we were in bed, discussing our favorites. He planned this days ago. A sudden rush of affection washes over me. He’s too good. Too good for me. Certainly too good for Kirstin. Too good for this world.
“And then I saw your bucket list.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he says quite calmly.
With a squeal, I throw my arms around his neck. He laughs, hugging me back. I’m not sure which makes me happier, that I’m here, or that he has done something so thoughtful for me. I pull back and mold my mouth to his.
Kissing him feels right. So very, very right. Like coming home. Like finally finding someone you’ve been searching for, yet didn’t even know was missing. Why does it feel so natural to be in his arms? Touching him? Him…touching me.
When I pull away, we’re both breathless. “I wanted to come here, but Heidi refused.”
He takes my hand. “I know. Now, come on, we’ll be late.”
What else does he know? And late for what? I don’t ask, I’m too excited to care. My slippered feet whisper over the path as I scurry to keep up with him. We move by the information center and toward the performance hall nestled in the hillside. Suddenly, I adore surprises.
Large bushes of pink and purple rhododendron grow in abundance, giving color to the otherwise green and gray landscape. And down below, at the bottom of the hill, is a large lake. The same lake where our rental cottage waits. I try to take it all in at once, to file away every detail.
“It’s beautiful here,” I whisper.
The historical house beyond the music hall is a small summer cottage of yellows and greens. Much smaller than I expected for a man like Grieg, who was so famous. But the view is to die for. And as I look out over the lake, I realize how incredibly lucky I am. Christian did this for me. Just me.
Here, now, I feel closer to him than I have to any other person. I turn to face him. On tip-toe, I press my lips to his again. This time the kiss is slower, more thorough. When I pull back we’re both flushed, unsteady.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He squeezes my hands. “Shall we go into the concert hall?”
The sign on the easel out front shows an older, smiling man in a tux, his hair a cloud of white. We’re going to a concert. At my nod, he slides his arm around my waist and leads me through the door.
Rows of chairs run down to a small stage where a piano waits. But it’s the large windows behind the stage with a view of the lake and a tiny red cottage near the shore that really draws a person’s attention. It’s getting dark and lights twinkle along the lake from other homes. It’s magical. Completely magical.
“That’s where he used to write his music, in that little red shed by the water,” Christian explains.
A man in a tux spots Christian and meets us near the stage. There’s a familiarity between the two as they hug. I have a feeling they’ve known each other for a long time. They speak in Norwegian and I understand nothing of what they say. As the older man glances at me, I realize he’s the pianist for the evening, the man on the poster outside.
“Hope, this is Mr. Bartosz.”
“Victor, my dear.” His sparkling blue eyes hold a happiness and mirth that pulls a person in and makes you feel at ease. I love him already. “Christian tells me you’re an Edvard Grieg fan?”
He has an accent and a smile I adore. I want to sit down and drink tea with this man, pick his brain. Get a hint of what he knows, what he’s experienced. I want to take a picture of him with his sparkling eyes. “Yes. My father used to play his music.”
“Wonderful memories, then,” he says, taking my hands in his. His palms are strong and warm, comforting in some way. “Music always provides such wonderful memories.”
I nod, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the emotions roaring through me. As he releases my hands, Christian is there, his palm at my back, providing support as if he knows I’m close to losing it.
“My father used to play In the Hall of the Mountain King and chase us,” I explain. “Pretending he was a giant troll. He said you’re not a real Norwegian if you don’t love Grieg.”
“True. Very true.” He laughs, a delighted chuckle. “The wonders of classical music. They are like plays, they tell stories, bring up such emotion. And your favorite composition?”
“Morning.”
He shares a glance with Christian, a silent communication I don’t understand. But it makes me suspicious. More and more people are filling the hall, the murmur of conversation growing in volume. A few important-looking people wait off to the side for Victor, but he continues to speak to us.
“And why do you like it so very much?”
I hesitate. Why did I fall in love with the composition? “Because it’s full of light. Of happiness. Of hope.”
Christian stands quietly and stoically beside me, watching our interaction as if trying to commit it to memory. Victor smiles at me, the sort of smile shared between two people who understand something others just might not get.
“You are lovely.” He takes my hands again and kisses the back of each. “Enjoy the performance.”
There’s a strange gleam in his eyes as he bows. But before I can decipher its meaning, he turns and heads toward the stage, appeasing the important people waiting impatiently for him. All around us visitors are taking their seats. Christian leads me to a row up front.
“How do you know him?” I ask.
“He used to teach me piano a long, long time ago.”
I’ve never heard him play. I wonder why. Does he still practice? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I don’t want to bring up bad memories again. Maybe it was just a hobby for him. Or maybe his sister’s death squashed the joy. Maybe it’s too hard to experience something so pure, so beautiful anymore. I’m not about to ask and ruin this moment. I learned my lesson.
“Here.” He indicates a chair. “I’ll be back soon.”
Before I even realize he’s abandoning me, he’s gone. Bemused, I settle in my chair. Around me the hall is filling up, seats being claimed. So many people in fancy clothes that I feel like I’m back at that museum benefit where I met Christian’s dad. But these people are happy, smiling, excited, far from the aloof, dreary society of the upper crust. These are people who appreciate beauty and art, not status and money. These are my people.
Christian heads toward the front of the hall with a natural ease, as if he belongs there. What is he up to? He walks onto the stage, pausing next to Victor. His eyes meet mine. The world grows small. Although I’m surrounded by others, it seems as if it’s just me and Christian.
Christian, who is so handsome it hurts. Who is so kind, he doesn’t deserve my lies and half-truths. He stands confidently next to his mentor, that suit molded to his muscled form. I don’t need to look to see if other women notice, I know they do. Hell, those tiny claws of affection are piercing, clinging, digging into me and not letting go. My chest grows tight. It’s hard to breathe when I look at him.
“Welcome, my friends,” Victor says, momentarily drawing my attention to him. “How very happy I am to see you all, and to experience this night of music and magic together.”
There’s excited clapping, but I barely notice. My attention is back on Christian. He is the only one of importance in this room. That connection between us has tightened. I feel the pull as if he’s actually drawing me closer. Feelings that I’ve been trying to keep locked away, ease through my barriers.
�
�However, before I begin,” Victor says. “I have a special guest to start the night. One of my former students…Christian Lund.”
Everyone applauds again. I’m too stunned to move. Christian gives a shallow bow, then settles at the piano bench while Victor moves to the side of the stage. It happens so fast that I barely have enough time to understand. Christian pauses for a moment, his fingers over the keys. Tingles of apprehension tiptoe through my body. Audrey said he hasn’t played in a long, long while.
Please, please let him remember how to play.
He glances my way. Our eyes connect and he shatters me. Completely shatters. The emotions I’ve been trying to keep buried burst to the forefront, leaving me breathless, aching.
For you, his gaze seems to say.
He’s doing this for me. And I’m terrified and amazed all at once. I clasp my hands tightly together in my lap, my back ramrod straight. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to burn. And then he looks away and lowers his fingers to the keys. A variety of notes clang through the air, coming together in perfect harmony. My heart expands. I feel those notes all the way to my soul. It’s as if the music draws me into its arms, holding me close. Just the two of us.
Morning starts, and I still get that same thrill I felt the first time I heard it…like something wonderful is about to happen. And I know it’s stupid. But for now, for this evening, I imagine that maybe, just maybe it’s true.
****
Christian has rented a small cottage on the lake, across from where Edvard Grieg lived. For me. All of it for me.
In two days I’ll be gone. I shouldn’t be having feelings, inexplicable feelings, for him. But he’s playing pianos for me, offering me cottages and moonlight, more importantly…offering himself, and I can’t seem to say no. How can I possibly say no?
I take in a deep, shaky breath. From the small stone patio where I sit, I can see Grieg’s cottage, nestled in the darkness beyond the lake. I think about the man and his wife, and their love story. I think about how quiet and still it must have been back then. How much time they must have spent here, alone together. He wrote his music for her, or so I’ve heard.
And Christian played the piano for me tonight. Perfectly. Wonderfully. Boldly. The stirrings of pleasure whisper through me. No one has ever done anything like that for me. How will I possibly leave him?
Tears sting my eyes. I squeeze them closed. A drop escapes, trailing down my cheek before dropping to the bodice of my dress. How stupid of me to think I could keep him at arm’s length. How reckless of me to travel with him to Norway. How naïve of me to think that this could be a fling, each of us going our merry way at the end of my vacation.
But as much as my heart aches, I don’t regret what I’ve done. How can I when I’ve experienced so much? I brush away the tears, and I picture Christian playing the piano, the way those strong, wonderful hands moved over the keys, producing magic. He’s more than talented, he’s gifted.
No, I can’t regret what I’ve done. I can’t regret opening my heart. Taking a leap. I can’t regret falling for him, not when he’s given me a taste of life. Outside, the wind is cold but I’m not ready to go indoors. It’s just me and the cancer marinating in my body, slowly killing me.
“Damn you,” I whisper.
I want Christian.
I want a life.
I want a life with him.
For how long? Two years? Three? Four? I can’t ask him to give up college and move to Florida. I can’t move here, and expect him to take care of me when I’m ill. This is it. This night. These next two days. This is all we have, and I will be grateful, even while my heart is shattering.
It starts to rain, a cold, hissing, bitter drizzle that pierces my clothing, chills my already cold skin, but I don’t move. Moving means facing reality. I’m not ready for that. Besides, the cold rain is fitting for this night, this moment.
It’s time.
It’s time to leave. Leave Christian. I’ve known for a few days now. Hell, I probably knew it back in Copenhagen. But I would have done anything for a few more moments with him. How do I break things off? How do I say goodbye?
I hear Christian open the door. His scent teases me right before he leans over, enveloping me in his heat. I sigh. My rational mind knows it’s time to leave, but my body wants to stay. Stay with him. Sink into him.
He presses a kiss to my neck. Chills race down my spine. Desperate, I tilt my head back and his hot mouth finds mine, searing. It’s raining, but I don’t care. We could be in the middle of a thunder storm and I probably wouldn’t notice.
He tears his mouth from mine, and scoops me up. As the rain thickens, pattering in earnest, drops trailing down the hard angles of his face, he holds me tight to his muscled chest. His desire pulses around me, mixing with my own in an irresistible combination. It’s too much. I press my head to his shoulder and breathe in his scent, savor the feel of him.
The door is only a few steps away, but by the time we reach the safety of the living room, we’re soaked. My ballet flats fall off. Slowly, he releases me. As I slide down his hard, wet body, his hands grasp the hem of my dress and he pulls it over my head, leaving me in my bra and underwear. I feel dizzy with passion, with need. We don’t touch but I can still feel the connection between us.
“Look at me,” he demands. “No more hiding.”
I peek up at him through my lashes. There is a fierceness to his gaze that frightens and excites me. He wants all. The good, the bad. No secrets. No holding back. I shiver, although more from the intensity of his presence than from cold.
His gaze is all warm concern as he cups the sides of my face. “You’re freezing.”
I don’t miss the bed of blankets he’s made by the fire. Determined to make the most of this night, I start to unbutton the damp dress shirt that clings to his muscled chest. I need to feel him against me. One more time, I tell myself. One more time together. “You’ll warm me.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely catch hold of my breath. When the shirt falls to the floor, I reach for his belt. His large hands cover mine. I peek up at him. He’s watching me closely. Curiously. Does he feel the desperation pulsing from me?
One more time.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my sister.” His breath is warm against my chilled skin as he leans over to kiss my temple. The fire in the hearth crackles, the pieces of wood popping. “It’s not something I talk about.”
“I understand.” And I do. And I feel like an ass for blurting it out. “I’m sorry I brought it up. You don’t owe me anything.”
He shakes his head as he unlatches his belt. “I want to tell you.”
I pull his belt free and toss it aside. With deft fingers, he unhooks my bra, and drops it to the sofa. His body is like stone that has been warmed in the sun. Carved marble. He unbuttons his trousers and undresses. We move slowly. A brush of fingertips here, a press of lips there. It’s as if we both realize this could be our last time. We savor every moment.
He’s completely naked as he helps me gently to the mound of blankets, pressing me back into the bed with his heavy, warm body. I wrap my arms around him, holding him so close I can feel the strong beat of his heart against my breast. His very heat seeps into me, every cell sighs with contentment, at peace for now.
He brushes back my hair, his fingers lingering along the shell of my ear. The light from the fire glows against his face, highlighting the sharp angles. “I want to tell you what happened.”
His touch makes me dazed. He’s so delicious, I could grow obsessed with him. His hands trail lightly over my body, soft as a feather, gentle and sweet. How strange that I can feel helpless and powerful at the same time when I’m in his arms.
“Max and I were drunk at a party. His sister and mine heard about it. They decided to take my dad’s car and come pick us up before we got in trouble. Neither of them were old enough to drive.” He smiles sadly. “I think they really just wanted an excuse to go t
o a party. On the way, they got into a crash and…they died.”
I release the air I didn’t even realize I held. Of course it wasn’t his fault but that doesn’t make the pain any less intense. I feel his heartache keenly, deeply. I draw my fingers down his six-pack, tracing the taut muscles. He’s braced himself upon his elbows so he doesn’t crush me. “I’m so sorry.”
He takes in a deep, shuddering breath. I have a feeling he needs to get this out in the open and off his chest. Has he ever truly talked to anyone about what happened? I hate the thought of leaving him here alone to deal with his past. Hate to think that his guilt might keep him from finding true happiness.
“If I hadn’t…If I…”
I trace the bridge of his nose, his lips, his square jaw, trying to memorize every detail. “It wasn’t your fault, Christian.”
His jaw clenches, and I can see him struggling for composure. He doesn’t agree with me. I smooth my hands down his back. It makes sense why he feels the need to save Kirstin. Why he has a hero complex. But I don’t want to be one of his charity projects. I want him to want me. Just me.
“I want you,” I whisper. “Kiss me.”
“Hope,” he groans.
No more depressing thoughts. I don’t want to dwell anymore on what tomorrow will bring. In this moment, I only need him. His firm lips brush softly against my neck, kissing the pulse that flutters there. Lower to that valley between my breasts. With a sigh, I relax into the blankets and close my eyes.
Under my breasts, down my belly, his mouth travels. Sensation flares through my body. His fingers and lips brush every inch of my burning skin as I lay there listening to the crackle of the fireplace and the patter of rain outside. It’s too good. Too much. The deep physical ache that pulses between my thighs, the way his body feels rubbing against mine, is almost too much.
“Christian, please.”
He cups my breasts in his warm palms, and the nipples instantly harden. I want to rock up into him, to become one. We aren’t frantic this time. We’re slow. Thorough. For the first time we are making love instead of having sex. His hands skim down my body and he slides his thumbs under the edges of my panties. I quiver underneath him. He pulls my panties down my legs. A variety of emotions tumble through me at once, an avalanche of feeling that leaves me panting for more.