“Are there servants?”
He started to say no, but
thought better.
“I don't know that I
would call them that, but there are people who work for us, who are on the
payroll.
Not a butler or housemaids,
certainly, but the housekeeper who comes three or maybe four times a week.
And there's Robert, Milo's chauffeur.
And then there's Milo's secretary, without
whom we would all be totally lost.”
“What’s the housekeeper
like?”
When he answered with a blank
stare, she prodded, “Old, young, small, large?”
“Ah, I see.
Mamie is tall, and I think it's fair to say
she's somewhere between young and old.
She's kind, very forgiving of our disorganized lifestyle; and I'm pretty
sure of all the members of our eclectic household, I'm her favorite.
She and Robert are related, sister and
brother, I think.
It makes for a nice
arrangement.”
“How long have they worked for
you?
Robert and Mamie, I mean.”
This was some sort of test, he realized, to
determine how much attention he paid to things he most likely took for granted.
He paused to think.
“Just after we moved to New York I
guess.
It seems to me they've always
been there.
Mamie was always watching
out for me, reminding me to wear my overcoat in winter and such.
I'm afraid I tended to be pathetically
absentminded as a boy.
Still am, I
suppose, but now John takes care of most of the details.
Robert drove me to school, I remember, so
yes, they've been there since we moved from London.
He's a really fine man, Robert, very considerate.
He had driven me to DC, before the
accident.
He's told me more than once
how terrified he was when he found I'd disappeared.”
“And John?
Is he 'on the payroll,' too?”
“It would be more accurate to
say John works
with
us, rather than for us.
He gets paid far too little for all he does,
I'm sure.
In truth, John is a good friend
who has graciously agreed to put up with me in exchange for a pittance plus
room and board.”
Apparently satisfied, she
moved on to his education, through his New York debut, to the history of his
career.
The personalities he'd worked
with, the places he'd stayed and the music he'd played.
How did he travel around when he was touring?
“Planes, trains, cars.
It all blends together after a while.
And someone else is in charge of the
arrangements.
I just show up, more or
less on time, and get taken to wherever I'm supposed to be.
Now, on this tour, it's been a bit different.
Just John and myself, we’ve traveled by car
most places.”
“But today, Robert drove you,
or I assume that was Robert.”
“Yes, since we'll be on the
East Coast for a few days and Milo's in Europe right now, we had Robert come
down.
Gives John a break.”
“Don't you ever drive?
Go places on your own?”
He chuckled.
“Not if John has anything to say about
it.
I have a license, but I rarely
drive.
When I came off tour, Milo even
suggested I think of buying a car, but the very suggestion of driving in
Manhattan gave me nightmares.
Once in a
while, if his eyes are bothering him, John will let me get behind the wheel,
but not for long.
No faith, I guess.
He's afraid we'll end up hopelessly lost if
he isn't watching the entire time.
I
tend to nap when we’re traveling, so I rarely notice where we’re going.”
That opened the subject of how
much rest and when and what he ate while touring.
He could see her disapproval as he described
the late night receptions with their less than nutritious buffets and open
bars.
What sort of people did he meet at
these affairs?
He grimaced as he listed
the blue-haired matrons and elder-statesmen who demanded his attention by
virtue of their positions on the contributors list.
Then there were the younger girls, college
students and debutantes, with their very proper and obviously bored
escorts.
Rarely a genuine music lover in
that lot, but they all seemed to feel he had something in common with them because
they were of the same generation.
“Unfortunately, I've never had much at all in common with people my own
age.
It's not as if I went to college or
did any of the things most kids do.”
“Have there been lots of
girls?” she asked, one expressive brow arching slightly.
“What?
You mean on tour?”
He sensed rapids ahead on this winding river
of her curiosity.
“Anywhere.
You said I was the most unusual girl you'd
ever known.
Have there been lots of
girls you've known?”
She fixed him with
an expectant stare.
“What would you consider
lots?
Dozens, hundreds?”
He grinned at the very idea.
“
Were
there
hundreds?”
Her eyes were wide and
slightly amused, but the tone of her question was undeniably serious.
“Of course not!
I'm only twenty-four and I got a very late
start.” He pulled her close with a sigh, pressing her head against his
shoulder.
“If you must know, and
apparently you must, there may have been a couple dozen or so, but no one the
least bit important.
Back in my slightly
wilder days, I wasted a fair amount of time on the town in New York, clubs and
parties and such.
There was no shortage
of women bent on slaying every man in sight.
I fell victim to a few, but I was too easy for them I think.
I'm not aggressive enough, apparently.
If they wanted me, they took me, and I just crawled
off afterward, licking my wounds.
Since
the accident, I really haven't had much interest at all.
In fact, until quite recently, I'd begun to
wonder if I would ever be interested in that sort of thing again.”
“And now?”
Her voice was muffled against his shirt.
“Now I'm very interested, but
only under the proper conditions.
You
see, I've always been curious as to what it might be like to be
in
love,
not just to
make
love.
I'd be
interested in pursuing that subject if a certain girl would join me in the
experiment.”
“If you mean me, you'll have
to understand that I have no experience whatsoever.
Until a few hours ago, I'd never really
kissed a man.
And I still haven't been
kissed
by
a man, you know.
So I
would have to be considered a totally untrained assistant, I think.”
She sat up, turning to face him.
“Never been kissed by a
man?
How can that be?
Or is it just boys who've kissed you so far?”
“No, not really.
I never had time and there was never anyone
interesting enough.”
She paused, lowering
her gaze to a button half-way down his shirt-front.
“Or maybe it was the memory of a certain
red-haired violinist that kept me from considering anyone else.
Angela told me once that I had fallen in love
with the idea of you.
Maybe it was more
than just an idea.”
He was lost to respond,
watching her poised so primly on the edge of the couch.
Only her eyes, deep smoky gray now, betrayed
the emotion behind her words.
“What are
you saying, Emily?”
The huskiness in his
own voice surprised him.
“I'm saying I want to be in
love with you.
If that's what you
want.
I've pretended for so long that it
could never happen, I almost convinced myself.
But you're here, you're so beautiful, and I don't want to lose you
again.
I'm sorry if that's not what a
girl’s supposed to say to a man she's only known for a few weeks, but it's what
I want to say to you.”
With an unconscious groan,
Stani pulled her across his lap, cradling her in his arms.
In spite of his promise to himself to go very
slowly with her, he kissed her with all the passion inspired by her innocent
little speech.
Her response was
instantaneous.
Her body curved against
him, her arms winding around his neck.
Weaving her fingers into his hair, she pulled his face closer, parting
her lips beneath his.
For just a moment,
he considered taking her where she was clearly willing to go.
He tentatively invaded the open lips, his hands
began to explore, and then, with all the willpower he could summon, he pulled
away.
“Emily, love, please slow
down!
You don't want this--
I
don't want this--not this way.”
Still
holding her gently, he tried to look into her eyes, lifting her chin with one
finger, but she resisted, burying her face on his chest.
“Emily, darling girl, please listen to
me.”
For an instant, just when the words
could finally be spoken, his voice threatened to forsake him.
“I love you, Emily.
And I want you, don't think for a moment I
don't.
But not this way.”
She turned her face up to him, watching and
listening now.
“When I say I love you, I
mean all of you, not some dream of you, not some idea.
I love your mind, your spirit and yes, your
body.
I want all of you, for much more
than the few minutes we would have here now.
This is too important to rush, too vital to our future.
If I made love to you now, and then left not
knowing when I might be back, you would very soon come to resent me.”
“I may be inexperienced, but I
think I know what I want.”
Her eyes shadowed
with pain, she clearly believed he was rejecting her.
Stani smoothed her hair,
pressing her head to his chest.
“When we
make love for the first time, we should have all the time we want.
Every detail should be something we'll
remember forever.
Do you have any idea
what it means to know you want me, would have me even now, when we don't know
how or when we'll be together again?
When you kissed me this morning, it was as if you’d breathed life into
me, given me reason to try to be the best man I could possibly be, just to earn
another kiss from you.
I want to be that
man, or try to be, before I offer myself to you.
Can you wait for me, Emily?”
She reached up to touch his
cheek, burying her face against his neck.
“Of course I can.
I got swept off
my feet, didn't I?
The very first time
you kissed me, I was ready to go wherever you wanted me to.
You must think I'm totally without
self-control.
And apparently I am.
I'm sorry.”
“Not sorry!
Never be sorry for a thing like that.”
He nuzzled her hair, breathing deeply of the
sweet warmth.
Then with a grin, he
turned her face up to look into her eyes.
“Unless you respond that way to some other
man.
Oh, Emily, darling unexpected
Emily, do you realize how rare you are, how unique and original.
You are a rainbow after a thunderstorm, a
soft breeze at the end of long hot day.
How can I convince you that you should never, never apologize for being
you?”
She was silent for a time, her
fingers curling inside his open collar, idly caressing his skin.
“Are you always so poetic?”
“No, never.”
Stani laughed softly, rolling his eyes to the
ceiling.
“I must ask, do you really
think I'm beautiful?”
She raised her head and
studied his face.
“Yes, I do.
Do you mind?”
“I couldn't just be
handsome?
Some critic called me
'arresting.'
Would that do?”
She gave his face another
long, considering look.
“No.
You're beautiful.
Handsome is too common.
Lots of men are handsome in one way or
another, ruggedly or classically or romantically.
You are so much more, your eyes, the way you
move, and most especially your hair.”
She ran her fingers into the waves at his temple to underscore her
point.