He was angry,
most of all at himself.
If he had only
said no to Betsy's impetuous invitation, he'd be sleeping peacefully in a warm
hotel room, instead of freezing on some dark hillside in the middle of the
night.
While Betsy and Mark expressed
their ill-begotten passion on the front seat of a car, like teenagers at a
lover's leap, he was probably contracting pneumonia.
How would he explain that to Milo, when he
collapsed with fever and missed his concert dates?
Not that he
hadn't engaged in the same sort of frenzied, spontaneous sex himself.
It seemed to be what was expected by the
girls who approached him at parties, who dressed themselves in the provocative
uniform of the current sexual revolution.
They were warriors indeed, preferring aggression to seduction.
Stani would have preferred a gentler, more
sensual form of lovemaking to that which always seemed to include the tearing
of clothes and the biting of flesh.
His
first sexual experience had been with a much older woman, who had taught him
well the more considered methods that led to mutual pleasure, rather than
frantic, uninspired coupling in dark corners with a perfect stranger.
He found himself avoiding the inevitable
pairing off.
How had Lil described
it?
Disgusting?
Whisky helped there, too.
He had discovered that if he drank enough
early on, by the time the offer came, he was in no condition to accept.
Stani knew that
deep down, he found casual sex offensive.
How could anything so intensely personal be considered casual?
Although he had never been in love, he felt
sure such an intimate act must be most satisfying when the man and woman
involved actually knew and respected one another.
Surely, through coming to know a partner's
mind, their passions and aspirations, the act of lovemaking would become
something shared, not merely performed, something spiritual, even sacred.
He had yet to experience anything remotely
like his ideal.
He doubted he would ever
find it if he persisted in following people like Betsy and Mark to smoke-filled
lodges, or drinking until he couldn't remember what he'd done the night
before.
Once again, he thought of the
girl at the party.
She had been a flash
of conscience, showing him his world through her eyes.
He would do better, he promised himself.
Exercise a little discipline, grow up.
Just as soon as this unholy night was over,
once he was back in DC doing what he'd come to do, he would try harder to be
the Stani Moss that Lil Salvatore would expect him to be.
Betsy opened
the window and waved to him to return to the car.
He got in silently, grateful to be out of the
blistering cold.
As Mark steered back
onto the roadway, Betsy turned to Stani and smiled sweetly.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He hoped again that she wouldn't be too badly
hurt by this man she believed she was saving.
In the warmth
of the car's interior, Stani quickly fell asleep.
The music from the radio, soft jazz, blurred
the sound of voices in the front seat.
When he woke again, Mark had stopped the car close to the entrance of an
all-night truck stop.
They were near the
junction with the interstate highway that would carry them back to DC.
Betsy ran inside, he supposed to use the
restroom, and for the first time since they'd left the lodge, Mark acknowledged
Stani's presence in the car.
Meeting his
gaze in the rear view mirror, he asked if Stani had known Betsy long.
“Since high
school,” he replied, implying a long relationship.
For some reason, he felt Mark should know that
Betsy had friends who cared what happened to her.
“You're some
kind of musician.
Piano?”
“Violin.”
“Bet that gets
you lots.
Chicks go for that kind of
thing.
Romance.
You ever done Betsy?”
By this time,
Stani knew he was developing an intense dislike for this man.
He wished Betsy would hurry, so this
conversation could end.
“No,” he said
sternly, “we're friends, that's all.”
Mark had
lowered the volume on the radio.
Now he
turned the dial as the music was interrupted by a weather bulletin.
They listened as the announcer read a winter
weather advisory, urging holiday travelers to use caution or postpone travel
until the storm had passed.
Mark muttered
an oath.
“Just what I need, a
snowstorm.”
Betsy returned,
crawling across the seat to snuggle at Mark's side.
He shrugged her away angrily.
“What took you so long?
I've got to get back to New York before the
snow hits.
The last thing I need is to
get stuck here.
I'm supposed to do the
whole family thing on Christmas Eve.
How’d I explain to my father why I'm down here in the first place?”
He was rapidly working himself up to a
tantrum.
Betsy tried to
calm him, stroking his shoulder, pointing out that they should be in DC in an
hour or so.
They would be miles away
from the storm before it started.
He
pulled out of the truck stop with a squeal of tires, bringing the car up to
highway speed so rapidly that Stani had to brace himself against the door.
He was
exhausted now.
He hated any kind of
discord, and he felt sorry for Betsy.
There would be rough going ahead if she tried to continue a relationship
with Mark Stevenson.
He was spoiled and
vulgar, and would always find someone to blame for his own mistakes.
Not, he suspected, that anyone would ever
convince her of that.
Stretching his
legs across the seat, Stani leaned back on the door and tried to fall asleep.
He could hear Betsy carrying on a one-sided
conversation, her voice artificially bright.
They should be nearing the outskirts of Washington, but through the
window opposite, he saw nothing but the blackest of night skies.
He heard Mark curse again, and saw the
spatter of rain on the glass.
He must have
drifted off.
He woke with a start to
Mark shouting, “You let me go the wrong way!”
“Just find a
place to turn around.
We haven't gone
far out of our way.”
The sound of the
wipers scraping the windshield drowned out Mark's reply.
Opening his eyes, Stani could see that
streaks of ice had formed on the glass.
Up ahead, the road glistened ominously.
Without warning, Mark slammed on the brakes, turning the wheel sharply
to the right.
Thrown headlong across the
seat, Stani struck his forehead hard on the window.
He reached blindly for something to stop
himself as he was pulled back again.
The
car seemed to be rocking wildly, side to side.
Once again, he hit his head, this time on the frame of the door behind
him.
Bright points of light sprang
before his eyes.
Somewhere beyond the
roaring in his ears, he thought he heard Mark's voice, swearing in terror now
rather than anger.
Betsy screamed his
own name in warning.
At the front of the
car, something exploded, sending yellow fragments flying past the window.
A fierce blast
of wind seemed to rush in from all sides, lifting him and tossing him
about.
Frantically, he grasped for some
anchor, his head striking first one and then another unyielding object, his
hair snagging on some sharpened edge.
Just when he thought he’d found a hand hold, the wind tore him free with
a vicious twist, hurtling him into blackness.
He lost
consciousness then.
Later, he
remembered, or perhaps he merely dreamed, that he had fallen, drifting slowly
through darkness, at last coming to rest in a nest of soft, sweet-smelling
branches.
Engulfed by purest white,
earth and sky, a distant light seemed to beckon him and for a time he floated
toward its ever-shifting beacon.
Somewhere
nearby, a soft voice spoke to him, pleading, calling his name over and
over.
He tried to answer, but found he
was too tired to force the words from his lips.
Gliding in and out of cold and warmth, he was content to let the dream
carry him, until finally he sank into a place of complete darkness, not in the
least frightening, but utterly peaceful.
Chapter Five
At five Emily
woke to the soft hiss of sleet striking the window panes.
Bundling into her robe, she padded through the
house for more firewood.
It was still
dark outside, but in the light from the back porch a layer of white pellets
shimmered on the grass.
When the fire
was crackling with fresh fuel, she snuggled back under the quilts, hoping to
sleep a while longer.
But she only
managed to doze, keeping her ears open to the sounds of the storm.
When the hissing stopped, the wind began to
rise.
Gradually, the whistling became a
howl and the house shuddered and groaned beneath the assault.
Outside, snow swirled so thickly that, as she
drank her tea at the kitchen window, she could barely make out the shadow of
the barn across the yard.
The storm was
living up to its forecast.
After a
breakfast of toast and jam, she dressed in jeans and her favorite dark blue
turtleneck sweater.
Brushing her hair,
she tied it into a smooth ponytail, adding a trailing bow of red ribbon.
If she was going to decorate the house for
Christmas, she intended to make it a festive occasion.
Locating the recording of the Nutcracker
Ballet, she set it spinning on the turntable, turning the volume high enough to
send the melodies ringing throughout the house.
After some
digging in the closet beneath the stairs, she retrieved the ornaments, garland
and lights that had each year decorated a fresh evergreen.
At last she found the crèche, tucked in its
own box, each china figurine wrapped in tissue paper.
She recalled packing it away, that first
painful Christmas, when she and Pop had pretended not to notice the vast empty
space where her mother should have been.
By the next year, they had given up pretending and barely allowed the
holiday into the house.
Setting out on
her mission to bring Christmas to the room, she eyed the mantel wall
first.
The fireplace, flanked by
glass-front cabinets and two high windows, would substitute for a tree, she
decided.
Humming along with the music,
adding a waltzing step every now and then as she worked, she spread silver
garland and glowing colored lights across the mantel and the tops of the
cabinets.
She added carefully spaced
clusters of glass ornaments, shining spheres of red, green and gold, along with
blown glass figurines of angels, stars and Father Christmas, all
well-remembered from her childhood.
When
she had achieved just the desired effect, she hung the delicate gold star that
had always topped the tree, in the center of the chimney.
Going to the
other end of the room, she spread a shawl of fringed red velvet on the piano,
just as her mother had done every year, and placed an open book of carols on
the music rack.
Finally, she took her
father's violin from its case and gently nestled it in the folds of the shawl,
laying the bow carefully across the strings.
Stepping back, she let out a sigh of satisfaction.
She had paid tribute to the past, mindful of
the obvious changes; but she had also taken a step toward future Christmases.
Finally, she
positioned the figurines facing the fireplace where the little wooden shed
waited, well out of harm's way, on the hearth.
Mary and Joseph with the donkey near the front door, the shepherds and
their flock of three sheep on the piano bench, and the wise men with their
camel on the table next to Pop's chair.
The solitary ox rested in the stable, next to the tiny cross-legged
manger filled with paper straw.
The
figure of the newborn baby with his outstretched arms she tucked on the mantel
near the heralding angel, hidden from sight for now.
Gazing back at the travelers journeying
toward her, she laughed softly.
She was
truly home for Christmas, as she had never expected to be again.