Symphony of Light and Winter (16 page)

Anytime my questions got too personal he would run a finger along my cheek, caress my arm, or rest a hand on my knee and I would forget to ask again. I knew it was an avoidance tactic, and I should have been pissed, but once he touched my skin, I couldn’t find a reason to care. We teased each other in ways not quite sexual, but intimate. It was as if we needed to recharge one another. I walked the line between thinking he thought more of me than that crazy child, and knowing for certain that was all I could be to him. It didn’t keep me from contracting that ailment called hope.

It was a crisp November evening several weeks later, when I spied the black BMW snaking up the serpentine cemetery road. My anticipation caused me to be extra early, so I didn’t miss a second of his presence. That day I had a true surprise. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but a plain white V-neck T-shirt with no pocket, and a pair of snug jeans. The sight of him made my mouth go dry. I never realized just how unbelievable the man was beneath the garments.

How was I going to survive today?

I could barely walk, let alone form thoughts. He crossed to me. His strides were long and in no time he stood in front of me. He smiled, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed my hair. I burrowed my face into his chest and was encased in his scent as my cheek lay against his hard muscles. I hugged him tighter. Against my stomach I felt a bulge in his jeans. My face flushed. Being so close to him did things to me, my body reacting in ways I didn’t fully understand. If he noticed, he never acknowledged it.

We stood silent for several moments. His heartbeat thumped against my ear, and his grip tightened. He then pulled away, keeping his arms around me. I looked up into his face.

He looked down at me. “Do you have any plans for today?”

I shook my head.

“Great. Then I’ve got plans for us. I hope you don’t mind. Come on, we’re driving.” He grabbed my hand.

I hesitated for a moment. I wasn’t afraid of going, but there was something about him being relegated to the cemetery that made him surreal. I could explain him as a fantasy here, but if I interacted with him while others were present, it would only lead to more hope.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Never thought you would.”

What an odd thing to say. He had been nothing but kind, giving, and gentle with me, but I could sense there was something else. Something feral.

“Then let’s go.” He pulled me toward the car, opened the door, and helped me inside.

The car was beautiful. It was black with a rich, deep brown leather interior. The instrumentation on the dash was more high tech than anything I had seen before. I ran my hands over the leather seats and watched intently as he folded himself into the car.

I giggled. “I think you need a bigger car.”

“Nonsense! I like the feel of her wrapped around me, like she’s part of me.”

He made no effort to hide the innuendo. I flushed and glanced out the side window. I didn’t want him to see my reaction.

He continued with his metaphor. “Just as any man would want to feel his dance partner or lover. Driving should be more than a destination; it should be an experience.”

If he was planning on talking like that, I was going to combust. I wondered what had gotten into him.

“Where are we going?”

“And spoil the surprise? Never.” He smiled. “Today is all about us. Nothing is going to ruin it. I have wanted to show you something for so long. It’s Saturday. You and I have all day. There is much I want to show you.”

He grabbed my hand and kissed it, his lips like fire. The flush returned to my face, anticipating his next move, wondering if he would kiss me for real today.

I reached up and turned on his stereo. Chopin’s
Impromptu
filled the air. It was beautiful and the sound system caused the notes to sound so pure. He kept hold of my hand after kissing it. He stroked the back of it with his thumb, in time with the music, while he expertly navigated the car up and down winding mountain roads.

I didn’t want to break the mood, but before hope grabbed me by the throat I needed to know. “Cyril?”

“Yes, Light?”

“Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.”

“I mean, will you actually answer them?”

“If I can, I will.”

“Are you married?”

He laughed. “No, why would you think that?”

I ignored his question. “Have you ever been?”

“No,” he said, and then, “Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering how someone like you hasn’t been snagged up, and why you seem to spend all your time with me.”

His brow furrowed. “Now that’s a ridiculous question.”

I waited, but he provided no further explanation. Given the edge to his voice, I decided to hold my questions and savor the moment.

After driving for well over an hour, an impressive gated entrance made of stone and iron appeared out of nowhere. Cyril pressed a button on his steering wheel and the gate opened, revealing a long cobblestone driveway. The car swayed from the uneven pavers. We pulled up to a beautiful house made of cedar and stone. Cyril parked the car on the circular driveway and in a flash was at my door to open it for me. A rush of flowing water hit my ears, and I looked for the stream.

Cyril smiled down at me. “What do you think?”

I didn’t hesitate. “It’s beautiful! Is it yours?”

He nodded.

“I hear a stream but for the life of me I don’t see it.”

“Come here.” He motioned for me to step up to the side of the house. He laced his fingers with mine once more.

The house was suspended between two cliff faces, and between those rocky walls ran a stream. The cliffs were sheer and added to the deception. Living in Western Pennsylvania, I visited Frank Lloyd Wright’s
Falling Water
many times, and found the dwelling’s integration with nature impressive, but Cyril’s house was something the famous architect would envy.

“Oh my God, Cyril, it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He laughed. “Thank you. Wasn’t sure if I could make the cabin stable enough to straddle the stream, but it worked out nicely.”

I wasn’t sure where to start. “Cabin? This is a cabin? You’re an architect? I didn’t guess that one. I gave up asking you because I figured you were a spy or something and you’d have to kill me if you told me.”

“No, I’m not an architect. It’s sort of a hobby. But yes, my profession is something like that.”

He paused and took my other hand in his and pulled me toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”

Inside was one large, stunning room, bracketed on the far wall by a small modern kitchen with an ornate bar. The walls were glass framed in cedar and accented with stone, the floor a brilliant polished redwood with thick glass tiles providing a view of the stream below. The high vaulted ceiling had exposed rafters and added a rustic feel to the modern styling. Along the ceiling skylights allowed a view of the sky and the tree canopy. In the middle sat a huge black grand piano. On the other end was a beautiful canopy bed with billowy white linens. The entire place took my breath away.

“May I take your coat?”

So caught up in my surroundings, I paused longer than was polite. “Oh, yes.” I shrugged out of my coat.

He hung the jackets on a hook next to the door. I strode into the room, trying to take it all in.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure.” I felt I needed to make conversation. “If this is where you live, how did you end up in my cemetery? This is so far away.”

He laughed. “This is just one of my houses, Linden.”

He strode to my side with the grace of a cat. A tall crystal glass contained what looked like iced tea. I smelled it, but it didn’t smell like iced tea. It had a floral scent.

“What is this?”

He led me toward the piano. “It’s an herbal mix I make from some of the local plants. I find it rather soothing. It’s even better when steeped over a warm fire in winter.” He pointed to the large stone fireplace that was the focal point of the cabin.

“I bet it is beautiful here in the winter.” I thought of how the falling snow would look over the stream.

“Yes, it is. I’ll have to bring you back in the winter and make you hot tea by the fire.”

The images from a recurring dream flooded my mind. It started with all the things we could do by the fire, what it would feel like to have him take me against the window, how wonderful he would look prone and naked on that beautiful bed. I took a deep, cleansing breath. I had to focus. “So why are we here, Cyril?”

He motioned for me to sit down at the piano. It was harder to be around him here. In the cabin, he did not seem mythical. He seemed like a man. When mythical, it was easier to keep a distance.

He sat down beside me and whispered in my ear, “I want to hear you play.”

“Oh, no. I’m not very good. It would be my luck you’re some classically trained prodigy.” I blushed.

“I am classically trained but definitely not a prodigy. Besides when you go off to study, you’ll have to play for more than one person. Please, play for me.” The look he shot me should have been illegal.

“I don’t think that will be a problem. I doubt I’ll ever be able to go to Boston.”

“If I have anything to do with it, you will.”

“That’s a bold statement to make for someone who has never heard me play.”

He smiled, leaned in then whispered, “I see your passion, Linden, that’s all music really is. The notes are technicalities. It’s the heart and the energy contained within it that is the fuel. I see the fire in you and know what you are capable of.”

I couldn’t look at him
.
His words ran straight through me, stunning me.

He leaned in, placing his hand on my arm. “The song you always hum. Can you play that?”

My senses came back and I answered, “Yes, but how did you know about it? I never hummed it in front of you.” I stared him in the eyes, waiting for an answer. The connection was intense. He moved his hand from my arm and cupped the side of my face. My heart thundered, ready to explode. His other hand remained on my back. His finger stroked my cheek. I closed my eyes, trying to break the connection.

“Linden, don’t. Please look at me.” I opened them but remained silent.

“Your eyes are so lovely; please don’t hide them from me. Don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you.”

His sincerity must have been contagious because the words slipped through my lips without permission. “I know you’d never hurt me intentionally. It’s the unintentional consequences I fear.”

He brought his other hand up to cup my other cheek and, with my face firmly held he said, “Linden, I’m not fool enough to think that the gods don’t intentionally fuck with us.”

His use of that word was unexpected. Always a gentleman, but always something more carnal beneath the surface too. The inconsistency seemed natural.

“But if that ever happens, I will spend forever trying to atone. Don’t turn away from me.” He stared at me for a moment and when his face started to move toward mine, I thought for sure he would kiss my lips, but instead he placed a lingering kiss to my forehead and pulled me into a hug. If he felt anything for me other than friendship, that was his moment to prove it. I had my answer. I gave a forced smile and pulled away.

“Please, play,” he said while trailing his hand over my back.

Facing the piano, with my fingers lingering above the keys, I tried not to allow disappointment to lace my words. “How did you know about the song?” My racing heart slowed as I realized the kiss wouldn’t happen.

His response was casual. “I have very keen hearing and you start to hum it every time you walk away from me to return home. Where is the song from?”

Strange. Maybe I was louder than I thought.

“I don’t know where I learned it. I think I made it up, but it’s hard to know for sure.”

“It’s beautiful, please…” He motioned to the piano.

He stood and I pressed one key to test to see if it was in tune. Pitch-perfect, of course. I should have expected no less. I stretched to measure the distance to the pedals. After my assessment, I began to play. As I pressed the keys, I tried to forget he was even in the room, but that became impossible as he provided subtle hints as to how I should adjust my posture. He pushed back on my shoulders and lifted my elbows with a light touch. The adjustment made a difference, and in time my composition transitioned to something more graceful.

He placed his hands on my shoulders as he stood behind me and whispered, “Now relax, the music is in control. Give in to it. Let it take you, command you, while you find freedom in its control.”

His finger made small massaging circles on my neck and shoulders, and the more he touched me, the more at ease I became. I played better than I ever had.

He ran his hands up and down my forearms, coaxing the notes from my fingers as he whispered in my ear, “That’s it. You are much more relaxed. Music is energy, Linden. With energy, you must first make yourself an attractive conduit. Energy does not like resistance. The less resistant you are, the more it can take hold, become stronger—make you stronger. Allow it to embody you, become one with you, and embrace its possession.” His breath teased as his words sent waves of electricity through me.

I added improvisational parts to the song I had never imagined. I played sequences far beyond my skill level without effort. As I neared the end of the song, the magical feeling broke down, and with it went my newfound ability. It was as if I took a drug to make me a better musician and it had begun to wear off, but I knew it wasn’t a drug. It was Cyril.

As the last notes breathed their final whisper to the air, I heard him say, “Well done! I bet you even surprised yourself.”

“How did you do that?”

“I didn’t do anything. I simply taught you to sit up and concentrate. Other than that, it was all you. Music can’t possess the unwilling.”

I shot him a suspicious glare. “All right…your turn.” I went to get up.

“No, please stay. Let me see…I’ll play something you know. How about Beethoven’s
Sonata quasi una fantasia
? You may know it as the
Moonlight Sonata
.”