by Allie Hayden
Chapter 11
(Cecilia)
I rose, looking at myself in the full-length mirror, observing how my raven hair was still in pristine order. My nightgown was a pale blue empire-waisted mini-dress of satin which looked to me somehow maudlin in comparison to all the other stunning accoutrements of the beautiful sleeping chamber.
I went to the window and opened the casement, letting in the night air. It was strangely warmer than what I had expected, and its slightly damp character gave me a feeling of calm.
Looking out over the treed area in front of the bastide, I made a decision. I wanted to discover the grounds and needed to know exactly where I was. This was a foible in my personality; I felt at odds with myself, realizing that I didn’t know what was around me. It was this, as I suspected, that made me feel uncomfortable in strange places. It was this, I guess, that made me a homebody.
But it was clear me looking out the window that a small village lay than less than a mile away down the hill, and that the bastide commanded a magnificent view of the area. In the forest, I could make out a small cottage, which I suspected was the one that Darius Wilde occupied. I moved to the door, I slung my cello on my back, and decided to go off exploring.
Opening the front door with a creak, I stepped outside, wearing only my sandals and my negligee. It was liberating, not having to worry about what the neighbors would think. The gentle breeze clung to me and made me feel alive, causing the strings on my cello to vibrate gently.
Before me, there was a narrow forest path I walked along the road, admiring the beautiful foliage, which had stayed through the winter, and the incredibly well-kept forest. There was not a single fallen or rotting tree; between the ancient and elegant trees was a lawn of almost perfect golf-green smoothness.
Acorns were to be found scattered here and there, almost as if someone had put them there as decoration. Very few leaves were even on the ground, and. It would be a wonderful place to find a stump and sit and play if there were any stumps to be found.
As I neared the cottage with the thatched roof and stunning fieldstones inlaid into the walls, I saw a gentle wisp of smoke emanating from the chimney. I imaged Darius inside warming his hands before a roaring fire of oak logs. This, I thought, is the place for me to play.
I saw a distant woodpile with an ax buried deep into one of the pieces of wood. There were many cylindrical tree trunk pieces that were awaiting the ax, and several were the perfect height for my small frame.
I approached the nearest one and dug the pick of my cello into the moss, sat down, tuned my instrument, and took up my bow. I gently coaxed it across the A string, making a plaintive sound in the forest’s glade.
Gently, almost magically, I began to play “The Swan,” my old party piece, and the sound of the music was intense—more profound than any time I had played it before. Something about the woods, the morning air, and the loneliness made the piece come alive.
I felt the passion in me rise with each vibrato note I played. When the music rose, so did my passion, and before I could even finish the last note, settling into the D, I spied the door of the cottage opening.
Darius quietly approached. He wore only a pair of saffron shorts. His body was powerful and lean as he came to me. He said nothing; a soft smile played on his lips, and he sat by me.
I felt compelled to play another piece, something by Dvorak, and then I remembered, somewhere deep in my memory, the third movement of the New World Symphony. The theme was often referred to as “Goin’ Home” because it had been turned into a popular song in the forties and its words echoed the sad feeling I had tried to explain to my tone-deaf husband.
I played deep into the body of the instrument, bringing a pathos I had never before noticed in that melody. It was a D-flat major, and this key was particularly good for this cello.
When I finished, I began to play “Silent Forest,” inspired by the area around me. This piece was another beautiful piece in D-flat major, slow and beautiful, full of pathos and transmission of my love of music, and the atmosphere was so inspiring to me. Darius moved closer to me, mesmerized, moving as though in a dream. When I finished, I put my bow down and looked up at him.
“My husband could never stand that piece,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
Darius looked stunned. “But it’s breathtaking!” he said. “It’s stunning, stupendous! I am so impressed with your playing. You played the Dvorak Cello Concerto in New York as I recall. Do you remember that?”
“You must be mistaking me for Jacqueline Du Pré,” I smiled.
“Never,” he replied. “I actually heard her play that piece too and have the great recording of it. But I would never mistake her playing for yours.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“You play with more soul than she possesses. She was a genius for sure, but she lacked pathos. You do not. In fact, I fear that you break hearts with that beautiful instrument. It is an Eastman, I suppose.”
I was stunned. Who, other than die-hard cellists, would know the brand of my cello? It was incredible; he knew so much and felt so much and, well, look at him. I looked up, confused.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“You…who are you?”
“I told you: I am Darius Wilde.”
“But why do you know so much about me, about my cello, and about my life?”
He smiled. “I know what I want. And that is no Davidoff!” He stood before me, a smile playing on his lips. He looked at me the way my husband once looked at me fifteen years ago, before we were married.
The contrast between my husband now and his talk of the frozen steak and this man who knew the exact brand of my cello was almost unbelievable.
“I see.” I said, “Well, consider me flattered.”
“I do not flatter; I tell you the truth, and also, I do my homework.”
I suddenly felt strange that he knew so much about me and that I knew so little about him. Looking at him, he seemed almost like something I had invented, someone that was at once a mixture of the passionate students I had shared time with at Julliard.
I guessed that he was in his mid-to-late-thirties, but he was extraordinarily well-built and attractive. Much of the attraction was, to be fair, his obvious attraction to me. I caught myself wanting to kiss him. His lips were full and red and extremely kissable.
The urge was powerful, and yet, I knew that I had to resist it for the sake of my marriage, which was still very important to me.
I rose. “I must go,” I said. “I woke up too early and really need to go and get dressed.”
“Not for my sake, you don’t,” he said. “And I can promise you that nobody else will see you. This is a private wood.”
“But you must have a gardener or a woodsman to tend this place. It is a stunningly well-kept. Nothing like what I am used to.”
“Yes, I remember my reaction to the Minnesota woods. Le mal maintenue des forêts1 was my first thought. Logs lying there rotting and little animals dwelling in the rotting carcasses. It is scandalous.”
I laughed. “You are not like any American I know!”
“On the contrary; I am an American. I grew up in Denver, Colorado. My family is one of the most active in the country.”
I was shocked, “Really?” I asked. “And how did you end up here in this…paradise?”
“It’s a long story. It requires a long and complex French dinner. May I invite you to dinner tonight in Le Castellet? There is a lovely little place called Le Pied de Nez there; it would be a good place to explain my long and sordid tale.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I heard myself say. Suddenly, I was aware of what had just happened; I had a date with this delicious man. I instantly felt conflicted. “I’ll get back to you on that,” I said as I started getting up and moving away.
“A bientôt,”2 he said in a perfect French accent.
I hurried down the well-kept-path to the bastide, ran up the stairs, and into the bathroom, where I got read
y for a day of exploration of the grounds. I felt guilty and at the same time, sort of vindicated that I had the correct feelings and my husband, for better or for worse, had the wrong ones.
Chapter 12
(Cecilia)
What were my feeling exactly? Were they so noble, so honest? I was conflicted for obvious reasons: I had to admit, I was attracted to Darius, and this was not something that I was used to.
In all my married life, I had only twice before been attracted to a man who was not my husband. The first was Dmitri Yakovsky, my former cello teacher, and I knew that this was normal in a teacher-student relationship. He showed me particular attention, and at one point offered to have me move in with him and his wife to help me concentrate better on my solo career. I, of course, turned it down. I always wondered if my life would have taken a different turn if I hadn’t.
The second man was the temporary conductor of the Minneapolis Philharmonic, a brilliant and charismatic French-Canadian conductor named Yannick Bissonnette. He had swooped into town and mesmerized the whole city for two seasons before being snatched up the Tokyo Philharmonic.
He was a man of remarkable musical skill, and one night after a sectional rehearsal, I had run into him in the parking lot. He smiled at me and said, “You must remember my dear Cecilia, what the great English conductor said about a cellist who played badly.”
“Am I playing badly?” I asked, horrified.
“Good God, no! Hostie1!” he said, equally horrified. “I was just going to tell you a funny anecdote. Sir Thomas Beecham. You know him?”
“Of course. He is a wonderful interpreter of English music.”
“Yes, yes. He once said to a lady cellist: madame, you have between your legs the greatest instrument God ever created, and all you can succeed to do is scratch it!” Yannick laughed, putting his hand on my shoulder to support him in his weakness.
I felt a sudden urge of passion rising in me, set off by his hand on my shoulder, his wild tousled hair, and his sexy French accent. These things almost tipped the scales for me, until I realized that any fling with this sexualized man-child would be professional suicide.
He told this so-called hilarious story, which was so deeply sexist and sexualized, and yet it stirred something in me, but it also made me—ironically—cling to my husband much more. And Bill noticed and began to question this uncharacteristic closeness.
“What in the Sam Hill’s come over you, young lady?” he said to me one day around that time. “Feels like you got rejuvenated or something. I can barely keep up!” He laughed at my increased ardor for him. And it was true: I wanted him more and needed him, hence the making demands of him. But I wanted him to want me—not criticize me.
But there, in the large and breezy summer bedroom in the bastide, I suddenly felt that same guilt and felt the same need to reach out to Bill. I took up my phone and called him.
It went to voicemail. “Bill, I need to talk. I miss you terribly.” I hung up without another word. Placing my phone on the table, I was surprised that he was texting me.
“Sorry. Can’t talk. I was just curious which day the garbage goes out. I thought it was Wednesday, but I don’t want to get it wrong again. Not usually my dept. And I still can’t locate that GD steak. Ttyl.”
My heart sank. Garbage day, his steak. Not a single message about missing me. Nothing about me. About Cecilia. About the ocean that separated us, about reciprocating the yearning I felt for him.
And in fact, I was no longer feeling it. At all. It was demoralizing to me, but it was a fact. It seemed like we were growing apart after all these years. Time changes everything, and so does distance, I concluded. I dressed and went out to discover the joys of the grounds.
Chapter 13
(Cecilia)
I set off down the wide and curving staircase to the breakfast dining hall. I was expecting an American breakfast, and so when I was presented with a perfectly baked croissant covered in butter that melted in my mouth, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
The café au lait they gave me was better than any coffee I had ever even dreamt about, and it made my mood suddenly so much better. A light breakfast of something so heavenly was exactly what I needed, even though I never knew it before.
My breakfasts with Bill were always dictated by his needs. He had to have his meat, and he had to have his orange juice; I never even asked myself what I needed.
I set off through the back gate to explore the town. I was going to spend this evening with Darius and I no longer felt any inclination about doing it. I called a taxi and climbed abroad with no particular destination in mind.
Le Castellet was only a kilometer down the hill, and I stopped the taxi just at the city gates. I was wearing clothing that permitted me from taking the liberty to walk there.
“Je peux marcher à ce moment,” 1 I said to the driver.
“Do you wanting for me to meet you at an hour?” said the driver in pidgin English. I paused. I did. But I had no real idea how to request it. So, I tried, “Oui, Est-ce que vous pouvez me meetay a quatre heure?” 2 My accent was a travesty. But I got my point across.
Le Castellet was a charming town with many outdoor cafes and shops with quaint artifacts—fossils seemed to be a popular thing in this area. I came across a small shop that offered these artifacts and bought a beautiful fossil of a fish.
The narrow alleys were light-filled and beautiful but shaded me from the sun. Almost every time I raised my eyes, I caught sight of the spire of a church. There was a flavor of the medieval in the town, and it was pleasant, if a little exhausting, to walk through the dusty streets.
Although I was under the impression that I knew where to meet my taxi driver, I quickly got lost in the winding streets, and more than once found myself back where I started.
It was when I passed by the Épicerie Popoal for the third time that I began to worry a little. I stopped, popped my head into the shop, and peeked at what they were selling. From my rudimentary knowledge of French, it seemed that it was a spice shop. But there were an awful lot of customers for a spice shop.
In my suspicious American way, I assumed it was a pot dispensary or something illicit. Inside the shop was a very well laid-out series of beautifully prepared and packaged products made by the local artisans and craftspeople. And of course, as I might have known if I had been thinking, I ran into Darius Wilde.
“So, I am being followed,” he said quietly in my ear.
I chuckled. “I assure you, Mr. Wilde, I am no more able to follow you than fly to the moon. I only stopped in here because, although I had thought I was making progress, I now know that I have been walking in circles. Only my Fitbit appreciates my peregrinations.”
“You have quite the verbal facility,” he said. “I am curious if you have the passion that goes with a broad and sweeping vocabulary.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said coquettishly, smiling. “But I am quite famished from my journey.”
“Would you allow me to purchase a picnic for the two of us? This place is the ideal spot for it.”
“Of course!” I said before I thought. Darius entered into a complicated series of negotiations in French with the grocer, who seemed to know and admire him. He bought a baguette, of course, and a series of amazing cheeses, including the local specialty, called banon.
“This cheese is one that you must try,” he said with a wink. “It is really something.”
“What kind of cheese is it? I have to admit, my knowledge of cheeses is not the best. I know Cheddar, Monterey Jack, and American. Do you think they have any of these here?” I really meant this too…
Darius smiled. “I suspect they would be sued for misrepresentation if they did. But you must try these cheeses,” he said, “And perhaps some foie gras.”
He pointed to a pate of liver that made my throat constrict.
“What on earth is that?”
“That, my dear, is a piece of heaven. Trust me on this.
” He selected a bottle of wine and paid quickly for it. “Come with me,” he added, taking me by the hand and leading me through the streets to a secluded little park, away from prying eyes.
He sat me down on a little bench and laid out the many delicacies on the blanket before us. Then he sat beside me, tore a piece of the baguette off, and covered it with foie gras. Then he proceeded to pop it in my mouth.
Something akin to an orgasm sized my body as I tasted the ambrosia of the liver. It was nothing like the liver and onions my husband used to make; it was something closer to my ideal taste, imagined in a moment of ecstasy.
That taste, the beautiful weather, and the stunning man by my side overcame any fear or worry that I had. It was joy that filled my soul. He leaned over to kiss me, and I returned the kiss, imagining that he was my one and only.
I kissed him back, pushing him onto the grass. I pulled at the buttons of his shirt, and they came open, revealing his powerful chest heaving as if with exertion. But it was not exertion that had made him weak; it was the kiss that I planted on him.
He took me in his arms and pulled me close and on top of him. I was wearing a spring dress that went just to my knees, and my body felt free for the first time in many years.
I unbuckled his belt, pulling it aside, and he helped me to free himself from his trousers. To my surprise, his cock sprang forth like a caged animal liberated unexpectedly, and I greedily opened my mouth to take him.
The feeling of his large member filling my mouth was something new for me, and something that set off the detonations throughout my body. His hand was gently turning me so that he could touch my extremities.
Those workman's hands were exploring areas of my body that had never been touched by another, and I gasped inadvertently. I let out the fear and inhaled a new kind of bravery that filled my body with beauty and confidence.
His touch was so loving and so firm that I was almost at once filled with some ecstatic feeling that would give me the joy that I sought. I took his cock into my mouth to its end, and he gasped as I had gasped.
