Christmas Eve, at least, promised
to be a magical night.
She looked
forward to seeing her little singers, dressed in their finest, participating in
the very special service.
They had
learned their parts well and seemed to respond to her direction with a focus
that surprised and gratified her.
The
whole experience had been so rewarding, she intended to talk with Sara about
starting a permanent children's choir that could perform year round.
This might be one more opportunity to bind
herself to her community, she decided, one more way to stay busy and productive
while she waited between Stani's visits.
Life would need to be filled, not just with waiting, but with
living.
The idea of only feeling alive a
day or two at a time was too awful to consider.
Darling Stani,
I have just heard your interview on the radio.
Imagine my shock when I walked into the
kitchen and heard your voice!
I kid you
not; I actually looked around to see if you had somehow sneaked into the house!
What a wonderful thing, to hear you talk with such
feeling about your visits to the music schools.
I know you are an inspiration to other musicians, and I'm sure too that
the students you've talked with appreciate your speaking out about their
struggles.
You are so gracious when you
talk of their talent and dedication.
I'm
so proud of you for reaching out.
You
will see down the road the difference your efforts can make.
I've been traveling around with Jack and one of his
deputies, delivering the Christmas Family boxes.
I could cry at some of the things I've seen.
It's particularly hard to see the children
and the elderly, who have no real power to change their circumstances.
Our community does a good job, I think, of
watching out for those in need who cannot help themselves.
But there's always room for improvement.
Jack has done so much through his office,
along with the churches, to improve the system by which those who need help can
ask for it with dignity.
He's my hero,
in case you haven't already guessed that.
When will you be back in New York?
I know it's supposed to be very exciting at
Christmas, with the department store window displays and the tree in
Rockefeller Center and the Rockettes performing.
What a difference, as I keep pointing out,
between your world and mine.
Here we
will focus on worship and shared meals and trying to alleviate the hardship
brought on by the simple lack of rainfall last summer.
But I love Christmas here, partly because it
was so special to my parents.
I have a
wonderful tree, and the smell of cedar fills the house.
And the crèche figures are making their way to
the stable, right on schedule.
I suppose
you may not have had a crèche in your home when you were a child?
Every year, just after Thanksgiving, we would
place the little stable on the hearth.
All across the room, I would scatter the porcelain figurines, the wise
men with their camel on the piano, the shepherds with their flock on the
stairs, Joseph and Mary by the front door, and so on.
Then each day in Advent, it was my job to
move them, inch by inch, toward Bethlehem.
The angel and the baby Jesus would be hidden on the mantel until
Christmas Eve.
It's such a sweet
tradition, I still do it.
I've just remembered that when you were with me three
years ago, the crèche was in place, just as it is now.
I remember the angel, looking down on us as
you lay by the fire.
I had a dream that
I sent the angel to bring Jack and I saw him walking across the yard, following
that beautiful angel.
It was a
miraculous time, Stani, in spite of how frightened I was for you.
Can you see why I believe God was watching
over us?
Just one moment of telling you how desperately I wish you
could be with me this year.
My longing
for you is a physical ache, just under my ribs, that never quite goes
away.
I'm sure there's no clinical
explanation for it and that the only cure would be the sight of you at my
door.
I hope you miss me a little,
too.
If you do, then I don't feel quite
so foolish hoping for the impossible.
You say you have no idea what I love about you.
Stani, I love everything about you, or at
least everything I know so far.
I love
your gentleness, your goodness and your sincerity.
I love the way your eyes grow dark when
you're serious, and the way they twinkle when you're teasing me.
Stani, if you were a plumber, I would love
you just as much.
It has nothing
whatsoever to do with your violin, although I expect your music has a great
deal to do with the depth of your soul.
I love all these things, but I confess, I am also deeply
in love
with you; and that has more to do with attraction, chemistry if
you will.
I love your touch, the way you look at me
with warmth and desire; and I love your body, the
way you feel and look, the way you
move.
I love the way we fit together, as
if cut from the same
pattern.
These things may be what I miss most.
I can hear your soul in your letters, but I
can't touch
you or look at you
unless you’re here with me.
Am I totally
without shame?
Yes, I am, when it comes
to this new love I've found.
I may have loved the idea of you for a long
time, but the reality of you has
far
eclipsed the romantic ideal I imagined.
My response to your kiss should have told you a great deal about how I
love you.
You call it spiritual, and it
is certainly that, but I must confess much of what I feel is also carnal.
Still love me?
I can't be less than honest with you,
Stani.
I love you with my heart and
soul, and with
my body.
Please
take care of yourself.
If I have one
real anxiety it's that you will be sick or hurt and I will have no way to get
to you, to take care of you.
At this
point, I'm invisible in your life.
No
one, with the exception of your John, even knows who or where I am.
If you needed me, would he call me?
Being a secret love is very romantic, but it
also causes me a moment of panic now and then.
I do
not
want to hear on the radio, as I did three years ago,
about some terrible event in your life.
Could you leave some sort of instructions with John so that if there
were a problem, he could let me know?
That would be a small comfort, anyway; although I admit I would love to
be there to watch over you, make you chicken soup if you get the sniffles, and
remind you to watch out for icy sidewalks.
Again, please take care of
yourself!
Yours,
made foolish by love,
Emily
Chapter Forty-two
Finally back in New York,
Stani set about to complete his mission.
He had written letters, made phone calls, laying the groundwork for his
plan.
For the first time in his life, he’d
made lists and carried out each task, finding real satisfaction in crossing off
each item.
Now he was entering the final
and possibly the most challenging phase of the operation.
The end was in sight, but there were tricky
waters to navigate ahead.
He went to Tiffany's, at
John's suggestion; and after an hour of admiring beautiful things that were
either too frivolous or too extravagant he was shown a piece he thought might
be just the thing.
A delicate gold
locket in the shape of a heart, with one very fine diamond in the center, it
hung from a pin, a single bar studded with sapphires.
The clerk pointed out that inside was space
for a picture and an inscription.
Stani
was concerned that Emily would object to so many stones, and the clerk
suggested the locket could be strung on a chain instead.
As he wondered sort of picture he might have
to put inside, he had what he believed to be a true inspiration.
Winding a strand around his
finger, he asked, “Could a bit of hair be put inside?”
The clerk, Miss Marshall, a
very friendly middle-aged woman who had probably helped thousands of men find
gifts for their wives or lovers, smiled and said of course, if that's what he
thought his lady would like.
Taking a
risk, which never came easily, he decided to do the deed then and there.
Miss Marshall brought scissors and snipped a
tiny curl, fitting it behind the transparent film inside the locket.
He wrote out the inscription, “All my best,
Stani,” which seemed to include everything he needed to say.
When he paid for it, he had a
moment of panic.
If Emily knew the
amount, would she be furious that he had spent such a sum on her?
It was not an ostentatious piece, but simple
and elegant, like Emily herself.
He
tried to imagine her reaction, and finally decided she would be too gracious to
question his taste anyway.
Deciding to
be content with his choice, he left his address and was assured it would be
delivered the following day.
He then went to the apartment,
prepared to confront Milo.
He had made
up his mind to move out, had in fact already leased a suite in a hotel
overlooking Central Park.
He had only to
make his announcement and pack his few things.
If he intended to be his own man, he needed a space to call his own; and
while this was a temporary solution, it was a first step toward loosening the
bond.
To his surprise, it was Jana
who came to his aid.
She was happy for
him, she declared, ignoring the glare of displeasure from her husband.
Of course he needed more privacy.
He was not a boy anymore and she was
surprised he had waited this long to move out.
She asked about the accommodations, if he would need anything more than
his clothes, books and music.
Milo immediately brought up
the subject of expense, why waste cash on a place he would rarely need?
“I have more than enough
money, as you well know.
There's no need
to horde for a rainy day, when there's no rain in the forecast anymore.
I'm healthy, sober and much happier than I've
been in my life.
I promise I won't let
you or myself down again, Milo.
Couldn't
we just shake hands and get on with things?”
Milo understood completely the
significance of the outstretched hand, and in spite of his obvious
reservations, extended his own.
He was
in many ways in awe of Stani, of his new-found confidence and the way he had
faced him without fear of incurring his displeasure.
Perhaps it
was
time to treat him like
a man, one capable of making decisions for his future.
Word had come back to Milo of the approval
Stani had won with this unorthodox tour.
Even the most celebrated conductor in the city had called to ask if
Stani would be available for similar visits to students in New York.
In the face of such success, Milo would have
to get on board, appear to have endorsed the idea all along.
It seemed Stani might have things to teach
him now.
After all the years of molding
him into the superstar Milo had envisioned, Stani seemed to be shining with a
different kind of brilliance.
What had
brought about the changes Milo couldn't understand, but he had to respect what
the boy had become through his own efforts.
Jana helped him pack, John
came to collect him, and Stani made his move with very little fanfare.
His mail was waiting for him at the hotel
desk, including a package from Emily.
He
knew a moment's relief, that he had avoided any awkward questions at the
apartment.
The sight of her bold red
script on the wrapping might have been difficult to explain.
He wasn't ready to share the wonder of his
love for her with everyone yet.
It was
too precious, too fragile and too new to his life to be discussed over coffee
or questioned as he packed his things to leave.
This year, for the last few weeks of it anyway, he wanted to keep it
close, to protect it from prying eyes.
There would be a time, soon enough he hoped, when he would be prepared
to shout it from the rooftops, but not until he had carried out the remainder
of his mission.