That he had
said there would be a next time meant nothing, she knew.
He would be far away, busy with his career;
and while he might write a few letters, she was sure that in time he would find
it too difficult to keep in touch.
There
would be little opportunity to come back to this remote place just to visit for
a few hours.
There would be no reason,
now that he had confirmed his memories, to make such an effort.
He was naive to believe they had anything in
common beyond those few hours they had spent together that Christmas.
Then his letter
had arrived, just days after his visit.
He had opened so many doors, asked so many questions, as if he needed to
know more about her in order to go forward.
Forward to where?
But she hadn’t
hesitated to answer, feeling that anything she had to say would be honestly
received.
Perhaps it was easier to put
the words on paper without seeing his reaction.
She had at
least made herself clear with respect to his survival.
It was important that he understand and not
go on thinking she was some kind of hero.
As for the rest, he had asked and she had answered, telling him as much
about herself as she dared.
She was afraid
to imagine that he might have been as attracted to her as she had been to
him.
There had been a moment or two,
when he had looked at her as if he'd never seen a woman before, as if she had
stunned him somehow.
Was that just her
imagination or some quirk of his personality?
Whichever, that gaze had produced a peculiar
spiraling tingle deep within her, unlike anything she'd ever felt.
It didn't matter in the long run.
Nothing had happened to lessen the vast
distance between his world and hers.
She
had tried to point out how different their lives were, but he had been caught
up in the charm of the unfamiliar setting, she suspected.
Once back in his own environment, he would no
doubt see that she’d been right.
In
reality, there was no common ground.
That
thought, and the memory of his presence here, threatened to make her regret her
own situation.
If she were free to
leave, to follow him, provided he asked her to, what kind of future might they
have?
But why indulge in fantasy?
Why start down a road she could never
follow?
She loved her life here; and
when she never heard from him again, here would be
the source of comfort she could turn to.
Chapter Thirty-four
When Stani first read her
letter, he was at a loss to respond.
She
spoke of faith, of miracles and of a God she seemed to know intimately.
Clearly, she thought he shared her beliefs.
He felt ashamed at his lack of understanding.
While he acknowledged there was some higher
power, he had never known the relationship she described.
As to faith, he knew himself to be completely
wanting.
Yet the thought of admitting
such a thing to her, risking her disapproval, left him terrified.
If he were honest about his lack of belief,
would it destroy her regard for him?
Or
if he pretended to understand what she was saying, agreed with her, would she
sense his dishonesty and lose all respect for him?
Her ideas intrigued him, her
belief that he had somehow done something to help her.
As with everything he learned about her, he
wanted to know more.
She was so far
removed from any woman he'd ever known, so completely genuine and
unaffected.
Yet there was a maturity
beyond her years, a wisdom and depth.
In
spite of all she’d suffered, the loss of her parents and the uncertainty of her
future, she seemed content with her life, cheerfully determined to follow the
path she had chosen.
Was that also a
result of her faith?
Honesty was essential if he
hoped to gain her trust and affection.
He must start out in the way he intended to go forward.
And he knew—had known the moment he looked
into those smoky gray eyes—that he wanted her, as much of her as he could have,
in his life.
How to make that happen, in
the midst of his ever faster moving career, he had as yet no idea.
But he knew he felt more
alive, more at peace within himself, than he had in his life, before or since the
accident.
Surely, he hadn’t found her
only to lose her again?
He would find
some way to bring her into his chaotic world.
She believed in miracles; perhaps some miracle would bring them
together, as she thought it had before.
Not willing to wait for divine intervention, however, Stani was
determined to do what he could on his own.
Dearest Emily,
Now it is I who has been overwhelmed.
Had I not just seen you, your youth and your
beauty, I might have imagined such wisdom from the pen of an aged sage.
When I read of your loss, I grieved with the girl whose
world had been so tragically overturned.
But I also celebrated with the woman who found her way to a new life in
the home she so obviously loves.
Having
never had a real home, not in the sense that you have anyway, I can only
imagine what comfort that must be to you.
I can also imagine how proud your parents must have been of a daughter
with your strength and vision.
I see
more and more just how extraordinary you really are.
And I'm afraid I must persist in regarding
you with awe and admiration.
As to all of your favorite things, you made me laugh with
delight.
(No small feat.
I’m accused of being something of a dour
Scot.)
I would have done better to ask
your dislikes, I think, though that list might have been even shorter.
Surely you could elaborate on your favorite
music as I have some knowledge of that subject.
Your top ten favorite composers, perhaps.
Baroque or Romantic?
Or maybe you are a fan of rock and roll, and
only have that brilliant collection of classical recordings to impress visiting
violinists?
And I should love to hear
about your friends, no matter the number of pages.
As to my history, it is the stuff liner notes are made
of.
But I can tell you that I was born
in East London, Lambeth to be precise, of somewhat shadowy parentage.
I know that my father was born in Scotland
and returned there before I was old enough to have any memory.
With my mother, I have only an occasional
card or call relationship.
I was
“discovered” at the age of five and shuffled from teacher to ever more
brilliant teacher.
At the age of eight,
I was introduced to Milo Scheider, and he and his gracious wife Jana took me
into their home.
Milo is responsible for
crafting my career, and the rest is history.
I never had anything resembling a normal childhood or education.
I'm afraid I missed out on learning how to
live because living at the time was all about music, learning, practicing and
performing.
I don't blame them, you
understand; but Milo and Jana placed so much importance on growing my talent,
they inevitably neglected to grow the rest of me.
If it had not been for a wonderful friend who
took me in hand just as I was about to begin my solo career, I would have been
an even greater disaster than I am.
As to your other questions, my accent is often a source
of confusion, though of course I am not aware that I have an accent at
all.
I would say it is a mixture of
lower middle class Brit, transplanted Hungarian (Milo and Jana are both
immigrants) and a bit of New York teenager.
(My only formal schooling past primary school was a brief stint at a
performing arts high school in Manhattan, where I tried desperately not to
stand out.)
I can say phrases like
“Beautifully done” and “Where's the loo?” in at least six languages, but in reality
I'm just a kid from London who travels under an assumed name.
The truth is I was christened Stanley—you're
laughing now—but my mother for some reason called me Stanny, like Danny.
Somewhere along the way the spelling was
changed, which makes for great marketing in the eclectic realm of classical
music.
Now you know a great deal more
about me than almost anyone in the world.
Please don't expose me for the fraud that I am!
No, I don't always wear black.
I often wear gray.
It keeps things simple.
(In case you hadn't noticed, I have hair the
color of which clashes with almost every other color of the spectrum!)
As to my taste, I may not have any.
I know what I like when I see or hear
it.
But I can't say I have enough
education to hold any valid opinions.
Refined, I'm sure I'm not.
As to
music, I love the Romantic period best but am open to anything well done.
Jazz intrigues me though I don't pretend to
understand it.
I must admit that rock
and roll offends me somewhat.
I have a
particular love for the traditional music of the British Isles.
It may be that it is in my blood, but it
seems to speak to me in a familiar voice.
I apologize if I seem mercurial, but perhaps that is part
of my artistic temperament.
I must tell
you that I am rarely as relaxed as I found myself in your company.
Even my friend (and bodyguard) John (who by
the way, was not in the least offended at being sent away for lunch) made note
of the fact that you had put a rather foolish grin on my face.
And now I have a question for you.
While I admit my only first-hand knowledge of
growing things was a tiny garden behind Milo's house in London, yours seems a
very large patch of earth to dig and plant.
Is that not a very big job for such a slender, beautiful girl to undertake?
I ask because I am concerned that you will do
yourself some harm.
I'm sure you know
much more about these things than I do, but still, I will worry.
Your well-being has become of the utmost
importance to me, as I look to our future.
You will take care of yourself, won't you?
Until,
Stani
P.S.
Are you aware
that you too have an accent?
It's quite
lovely, so much softer and more refined than I would have expected in a
southern girl like yourself.
The way you
say my name, I find absolutely musical.
P.P.S.
One last
thing.
In addition to your more obvious
charms, you also have this very sweet habit of blushing.
I hope I have caused that most becoming shade
of pink to rise in your cheeks, as you also consider our future.
Dear Stani,
If the next stage of overwhelmedness (???) is undone, I
am undone.
Your letter did indeed make
me blush, to the roots of my hair I'm sure.
I greatly enjoyed the brief history of your life and found you much too
self-effacing.
I'm sure your experiences
have provided you with a fine education.
But the last portion of your letter was so outrageous I have no idea how
I'm expected to reply.
How can you talk
of a future when we barely have a present?
We have spent a little over three hours together; and even if you count
the time three years ago—which you can't, since I was the only one conscious—we
have known one another for less than two days.
I appreciate that we have revealed quite a lot of
ourselves in these letters, but that cannot substitute for time spent
together.
If such time ever presented
itself, I'm sure you would find me far less awe-inspiring and quickly bore of
my very ordinary self.
I am a farm girl,
as I tried to point out, not some rare, delicate creature to be pampered and
fantasized over.
Stani, for your own sake, please don't make me into more
than I am.
I'm afraid you've been swept
away by your need to see me as exceptional, when in fact I'm a simple country
girl who happened to be on hand when you needed help.
My life here is all about providing a living
for myself and keeping my home and the memory of my parents alive.
To that end, I trained as a nurse in order to
have an adequate income.
I have no
intention of living anything but the most modest kind of life.
I can't imagine ever meeting anyone willing
to share that with me at the expense of their own ambitions.
This is my choice, one I'm quite content
with.