Too bad all the songs and poetry didn’t tell a girl about the fumbling, the awkwardness, and for me, the blood.
Quinn returned from the bathroom with a damp, warm wash cloth and towel. He turned away and put on a bathrobe while I washed up.
“What do I do about the sheets and blanket?” I asked, trying not to cry, to put on a brave, sophisticated face yet wincing from the touch of the wash cloth on the sore places between my legs. “I’m sorry, Quinn.”
He turned now and pounced on the bed, gathering me up in his arms. “No, no! You’re fine – you didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, I was just too excited and too much in a hurry. Don’t worry about the bed linens – I can wash them now before my parents get home. I can say I spilled a can of soda or a cup of coffee on them.”
Then I started to cry in earnest, snuffling and wiping my nose on the towel as if I was six years old.
“Oh geez, no! Oh my Faery Princess, there’s nothing wrong, I promise! Please don’t cry, Alice! You were wonderful and loving. I can’t wait for next time.”
“There’ll be a next time?” I asked, looking at him as I wiped my eyes.
“What do you think? I love you. We can only get better – together.”
Despite his reassurance, I turned away and buried my face in the pillows to weep even harder now. Then I heard him pluck a few notes on his guitar and he was singing.
“Here comes the sun,
Here comes the sun,
And I say it’s alright.
Little darlin’, the smiles returning to the faces,
Little darlin’, it seems like years since it’s been here.
Here comes the sun,
Here comes the sun,
And I say it’s alright.”
I sat up and smiled, looking over across the bedroom where Quinn was sitting on the window seat. “And I say it’s alright,” I sang with him. He nodded and smiled back, continuing to sing. Wrapping myself up in a sheet I went to him and sang, “Sun, sun, sun, here we come!” Quinn joined in on the harmony as I skipped lightly to the bathroom. While he continued to sing in that silky, smooth tenor voice of his, I washed up properly. I felt better now and looked in the mirror, expecting to see someone new and different, someone sophisticated, because I was truly a woman now – a woman who was loved despite everything. But I didn’t see the fresh-faced seventeen-year old; I saw myself at twenty-four, staring at my reflection in a window in the Hotel Cavour in Florence.
“And I say it’s alright,” I whispered.
A pitcher and bowl were set on a stand by the window and I undressed to avail myself of the cool water, gently patting my face and naked torso with a rosemary scented wash cloth to remove the sticky heat of the day, and then slid the silk print dress back over my head and shoulders. I was shaking out my hair when the door behind me opened and I turned. Donovan had quietly entered and placed a tray on a table.
“You can make yourself comfortable…”
I turned and it was quite apparent by the look on Donovan’s face and the inward draw of his breath that he had seen with the moonlight behind me that the translucent, thin fabric of the dress was all that lay against my skin.
A trembling hand now brushed my cheek and neck while the other drew me close for a kiss full of heat and longing. I wanted him to slide the dress off my shoulders and let it slip to the floor in a cloud, but I could tell from the growing intensity of our kisses and embraces that he found the gossamer silk as exciting as the touch of my skin, the anticipation of what we would share as powerful as any aphrodisiac.
It soon became too much for both of us, and we tumbled onto the bed. Donovan all but tore off his clothes and my dress. The breeze that had come up was tantalizing on my skin, but not as electric as Donovan’s lips and hands as they sought to learn every curve, every sinew. We went after one another so hungrily, so forcefully, our climax was an explosion.
“And will you leave me thus? Say nay, nay!” Donovan whispered in my ear and we both laughed.
I was drowsy and content to stay curled up in his arms, was glad when he pulled up the sheet and blanket when the breeze made us shiver from our cooling sweat. He ran a languorous hand up and down my back from the small of it to the nape of neck.
“I couldn’t tell, but am I your first?” he asked after a while, and just as I was going to sleep.
The question put me off and I’m sure he felt me go rigid in his arms, and surely must have guessed when I moved away. “Does it matter?” I wanted to know.
“I’m old fashioned about some things.”
“All your conquests must be virgins?” I laughed.
“A time honored tradition.”
“Well, could your virgin lover do this?”
My delicate placement of hand and lips made him gasp and pull me down on top of him and soon we were at it again. It was that way all night and into the next dawn. In the coming weeks, we’d meet for dinner and continue the sexual exploration that we both sought and demanded from one another. Our couplings were punctuated by conversations about our lives, our dreams, but never about our pasts.
Those erotic nights would haunt me on the plane back to California, as did his smile as we parted, and later still, when he didn’t answer the letters or phone calls.
When I discovered that I had fallen in love – again.
Chapter 9
“Well, what did you expect?”
The Proprietress placed another gold star in my book and locked it up. She smirked and raised a brow, wondering why I was still there at the counter.
“I get a star for being a whore?” I asked.
“Listen to you! It was the ‘70s – free love, love freely, love the one you’re with? Remember?”
I waited, hoping she would say something else, offer encouragement, or remind me the past was all about the future or something like it. Instead, she pulled out the ledger and her disco ball pen and started to make entries. The light of the ball flickered and glowed until it was a Christmas ornament that I had just placed near the top of the tree in Dennis’ living room.
“A little more to the left,” Harry said. “Like your politics.”
“Funny,” I responded, but did what he asked, and moved like a robot to the crate of decorations on the floor, taking my time in selecting the next one.
“Are you coming down with something?” Harry asked. “Decorating the tree used to be a favorite indoor sport.”
“I’m okay.”
“I guess home is a bit colorless once you’ve lived in Florence.”
“Just strange.”
“You had fun, though?” Harry teased. “I mean, look at you! It’s like Sabrina’s transformation when she returns from Paris.” He was referring to the more sophisticated style I’d picked up in Florence: a Chanel suit jacket with a pair of skinny jeans and white silk peasant blouse, a pair of Ferragamo wedges. Historian with a doctorate weeks away I might have been, I was also an artiste and a willing slave to fashion.
“Harry, leave the poor girl alone,” Dennis sighed with mock annoyance as he entered the room with a tray of snacks and drinks. He winked, passing me a glass of wine and gestured with his free hand. “The chunky, bohemian necklaces work with that. You are definitely my sister, sister!”
“Thanks,” I said, kissing Dennis as he passed by. I noticed, however, that the usual robust color was gone from his face and he looked tired. “Look at you,” I quipped. “If I didn’t know you were faithful to this loser here, I’d swear you were spending way too many late nights at Henry Africa’s.”
“Please, if I want to go to a meat market I’ll go to Louie’s for prime rib,” Dennis answered, starting to re-decorate the tree, moving the ornaments and tinsel I’d just placed. “It’s the job, that’s all.”
“Business must be good.”
“Got a contract with two exclusive men’s shops on Union Street – it will be a merry Christmas, that’s for sure.”
“I met some people at Chanel and Ferragamo i
f it would help sales,” I began, but the ringing of the doorbell stopped any further interrogation I had in mind. The postman had arrived with Christmas packages and mail. Once the parcels had been placed under the tree, I sorted the Christmas cards and letters for each of us, and was surprised to see the familiar penmanship on one large Christmas card, and gasped when I came to an envelope addressed to me from Donovan.
“Must be from Quinn. I heard he was back in town,” Harry was saying as I ran upstairs to my old room with my mail.
I first opened the letter written in a childish scrawl – eight full pages – and couldn’t believe what I read. “Slimy bastard!” I growled, and tossed the letter into the wastepaper basket.
“Not so fast.”
Richard the Third was sitting on the edge of my bed, playing with the kaleidoscope.
“What?” I whined.
“If anyone knows about being screwed over, it would be me,” the maligned monarch said. “When your brother said two wrongs make a right, that’s what he meant.”
“I don’t remember asking your opinion, Your Grace!” I sniffed, carefully opening the large Christmas card.
“Call me Dickon, all my friends do.”
“I don’t remember asking your opinion, Your Grace.”
“No need to be rude, Alice,” Richard sighed in a sing-song voice. “The week is almost up, and it’s almost closing time.”
Closing time?
“Let me give you a hint.” Joan of Arc now entered my room with a plate of food and drinks from Dennis’ party spread. She offered some to Richard and before saying another word, savored one of Harry’s famous miniature mushroom quiches. “Some things you have to follow through to the very end before you can tamper with, how do you say it, the settings.”
“Oh no, look what she’s doing!” Richard said, pointing with biscotti. “Take it from her! Take it!”
“You need to go away,” I said, protecting the Christmas card from their grasping hands.
“Alice, don’t!” Joan wailed, but it was too late. I had admired the Fra Filippo Lippi Madonna and Child with Angel on the front, read the holiday greeting text – and the personal letter from Jane Radcliffe.
“Now it will only take longer, you silly little girl!” Richard grumbled, and took Joan’s hand on the way out – but not before taking the food with him.
“Pity – there was just a little bit of time to go,” I heard Joan say.
I was staring at a little icon of Joan that hung on the wall near the bed, when it came to me what I should do. I took Donovan’s letter and tore it into confetti, watching it sail down into the wastepaper basket.
“Where are you off to?” Harry asked when I returned downstairs.
“Going to see a friend,” I said, grabbing my coat and purse.
“Didn’t know Quinn was in town,” Dennis commented, still re-decorating the tree but this time struggling with strands of tinsel.
“Didn’t say it was Quinn. I’ll be back for the party. And for God’s sake, would you leave the tree alone?”
I’d walked the path more than a hundred times, climbing through the Berkeley Hills to the narrow, winding street upon which the castle sat and yet, my stomach was in knots when I rounded the corner and saw the round tower, the overgrown backyard and the west-facing windows of Quinn’s study and bedroom. My palms were sweating and trembling when I rang the doorbell, and when Mrs. Radcliffe opened the door. She quickly removed the reading glasses on the end of her nose and held out her arms for an embrace.
“Here’s the faery princess!” she greeted. “You got the card! Wonderful!”
“How are you?” I asked, not minding her suffocating hug.
“Never mind about me – how are you? It’s been ages!” she cried happily and turned saying, “Andrew – Andrew, come and see who’s here!”
I was brought into the spacious yet intimate and warm living room where a perfectly decorated Christmas tree stood beside a hearth equally beautiful in holiday wreaths and ornaments. Fortunately, I felt no pain or remorse when I glanced at the portrait of Quinn that hung in a place of honor with other family photographs, including our high school prom and senior portraits, and family events to which I’d been invited – but wondered why, so many years later, they were still on the walls and over the mantle.
Professor Radcliffe came from the kitchen with a bowl and wire whisk dripping with icing – the Christmas cookies, of course. Making them was always a grand production and was followed by an equally grand supper. Noticeably absent were the Christmas carols playing on the stereo; in their place was Bach’s Sleepers Awake. I thought it a bit strange, for the piece had connotations of Easter, and not Christmas.
The Professor’s eyes lit and he grinned as Mrs. Radcliffe gave me a gentle shove forward to accept his bear hug.
“Well, this is the loveliest Christmas package, isn’t it, Janie?” the professor laughed. “Alice Martin, where did you go? We’ve missed you terribly.”
“Italy,” I said sheepishly. “And grad school – almost have the Ph.D. in my grasp; I defend my dissertation in January.”
“Wonderful!” the professor crowed.
“She’s been quite the busy girl.”
“Too busy to see friends?” he asked. “Well, I hope you don’t make a habit of it. Sit down! Have a cup of tea with us, or a drink – and don’t say no!”
How strange and wonderful it was to be in that house – one that had little changed in almost a decade. Even the delicious aromas from the kitchen were the same. While the professor went back into the kitchen to put the kettle on and make up a tray for high tea, I glanced around for other traces of the one person who was absent, or signs that he had a different life, different pursuits, or someone else.
“He’s in England, back with the Philharmonic,” Mrs. Radcliffe said as if reading my thoughts.
“But I thought…”
“When the conductor retired and Sir Ralph Evers was brought in, he invited Quinn back. The stories of his bad boy nights were all lies. And he’s already done well for himself; there’s talk of his becoming the conductor one day.” Mrs. Radcliffe went to the stereo and turned up the volume a bit. “Now who do you suppose that is, playing?”
I frowned, listening for clues. Then I felt a pang of memory and tears started welling in my eyes.
“He didn’t break up his cello in a hotel room after a drunken orgy with half of the brass section. The former conductor wanted everyone to believe that to hide his own misconduct. It kept the London tabloids running for weeks,” the Professor teased and patted my shoulder when he read the look of horror and disbelief on my face.
“Quinn said something like that when I saw him last – before I left for Italy.” I glanced at the Professor and then his wife. “He won’t be home for Christmas?”
“We don’t know; he’s made a habit of showing up at the oddest times. The orchestra is touring again, so we never know for certain. But you! Andrew’s right – you are a wonderful Christmas gift. Graduate school and the dissertation, and Italy! I’m sure there are more surprises from Alice Martin. What will you do when you have the doctorate?”
“I was given an offer – Brown University – but I haven’t acted on it.”
“What happened to the writing?” Mrs. Radcliffe asked. She clucked her tongue at the professor now. “Oh darling, you know Alice doesn’t drink her tea like that – lemon and sugar, am I right?”
“Yes, thank you – excellent memory.”
She took away the cup that had been offered and now poured another, putting in equal amounts of lemon and sugar and placing several cookies on my plate – angels and snowmen, which had been Quinn and my favorites. Then she glanced up quizzically, waiting.
“I’m writing still. Not published, except a few papers on obscure medieval personalities no one knows or cares about, and there’s my dissertation, which is the Guelph-Ghibelline conflict,” I continued.
“Romeo and Juliet…” the professor chuckled.
/>
I shot him an evil look and said, “It was about more than two teenagers with overactive hormones. Politics and governments today were shaped by it. If it hadn’t been for that conflict, it’s doubtful Dante Aligheri would have written some of his finest work, or Florence and the Italian city states would have come into prominence as key players in European politics.”
“Ouch, I sit corrected,” the professor said, chuckling again. “Dinners were always interesting when the Faery Princess graced us. Do you remember that game of Risk?”
“Yes, and what happened after,” I quipped. “I remember you didn’t appreciate Jimi Hendrix.”
The professor’s face drained of color and he started to absently stir his tea so that it made an annoying ring and Mrs. Radcliffe leaned over to stop him.
“Is that why you went to Italy?” she asked. “The interest in medieval history, your dissertation?”
I took a sip of the Constant Comment and avoided their expectant faces. It didn’t surprise me that Richard and Joan were staring at me from the bottom of the teacup and shaking their heads in warning, which I ignored.
“No, I went to heal a broken heart – and had it broken again.”
“Oh dear!” Mrs. Radcliffe moaned sympathetically.
“Yes…we heard about the incident outside Peet’s.”
Again, I shot the professor a look, a bit more poisonous than the first. “I met someone; an archeologist from Brown University – he’s in the History department.”
“Ah, that’s how you got the invitation.”
“Yes, Professor Radcliffe, it is. But my work will stand on its own merits. I wouldn’t need him to put in a good word. He made an offer and I thanked him for it, but I didn’t accept it.”
“A whirlwind romance, I take it?” Mrs. Radcliffe asked gently.
“That’s all it was. And that’s that.”
When I set the Wedgewood tea cup into its saucer I looked up and saw that the professor was studying me, though I was surprised the look didn’t come from his wife. It was a careful assessment, born of pity and love in equal parts.
Tallis' Third Tune Page 14
