Symphony of Light and Winter

by Renea Mason

  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. Al
low 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.”

  I nodded. He could have played Chopsticks and I would have been happy.

  He began with the solemn phrasing of the piece. Every languid note held so much emotion. My fingers mindlessly stroked the side of his leg in the slow melodic tempo of the first movement. The mournful timbre accented the sadness I felt knowing that every minute I stayed with him, it was going to be much harder to accept I could never have him.

  I had only heard the first movement of the piece but as the somber melody transitioned into a more energetic strain, I knew it would be an experience I would never forget.

  His enthusiastic gestures, the bounce of his hair as he pounded out the rapid notes, all added to the look of determination on his face. The notes were saturated in passion, and violence defined him. I watched him with intense concentration and wondered if he brought that same passion to his kisses, his bed, and his love. It would be a miracle if one person could harness him.

  When he played the last note, his breathing was heavy and a thin film of perspiration coated the skin of his brow and neck. He looked down at the floor and then slowly into my eyes. That instant, the connection formed again. He reached up and brushed the hair from my face and I did the same to him, draping his thick, dark, sweat-moistened locks behind his ear.

  “That was magnificent. I’ve never…”

  His hand reached up to cup my face. His thumb caressed my lower lip as I spoke.

  “Heard…or seen…anything like you. I mean that.”

  He smiled and continued to outline my lip.

  “Linden…” he said with a breathy whisper, “there are so many things I want to show you, teach you. I want you to make me a promise.”

  I answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

  “The way you are looking at me right now… Please, always look at me this way. Stare into my eyes and see me for who I am and know that there is nothing more than this. When the world calls things into question, you need not question me because I will always be here for you. The comfort I find in your eyes is new and frightening.”

  I found it difficult to believe anything frightened this man. He cupped my cheek and with tenderness that mirrored his words, he caressed my face and trailed his hand to rest on my chest just below my neck. I wrapped my hand around his wrist, holding him to me.

  He leaned in, pinning our arms between us, and breathed, “Promise me.”

  I closed my eyes, reveling in his closeness, his scent, his heat. “OK.”

  “Good.”

  He inhaled. “I will make you a promise in return. I cannot bring you into my world as I would like, so I will not ask you to indulge me further. I should let you go, but I’m sorry, I am far too selfish to break all ties. I do promise to always be your friend, your mentor.”

  Deep down, hopeful he might love me and see me as a woman, I opened my eyes and managed a smile filled with sadness and disappointment. Protégé was the title bestowed upon me, not girlfriend, lover, or wife. I looked away from him to try to pull back the tears that escaped my eyes.

  “Already breaking your promise?”

  I looked up and he brushed my tears away with his thumb.

  “I’m not immune, Linden. I feel it too. I just need to be stronger than this, for you.” He pulled me into his embrace.

  His arms were tight around me. He smiled but something sad lingered behind it. “It’s getting late. I should get you home.”

  Chapter Ten

  Ritual

  For Thanksgiving, I cooked a turkey and several sides for my aunt and me. After dinner was over, I took some leftovers to the cemetery.

  To my surprise, Cyril ate them. Thanksgiving dinner never looked as appetizing in leftover form.

  “Wasn’t sure you’d like it.” It was funny to see a man his size try to cut turkey with a plastic knife and spork.

  “I love it.” He opened the second Tupperware container and handed it to me to hold for him. “No one has ever made me a Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I never can find time to celebrate, and my family isn’t what you might think of as normal.” He made a sound like a muted chuckle and placed a hand on my knee.

  “Strange families are something I understand.” I looked out over the mountain vista.

  As he chewed the steamed asparagus, I took my opportunity to speak. “Matt invited me to a party in two weeks.”

  He showed no emotion. “Are you planning to go?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t get many party invites. Plus, the shirt came in today. It might be a good place to unveil it.”

  He continued to chew. I never realized how much he looked at me until he wasn’t. Emptiness expanded in my chest.

  “The T-shirt has a caricature of me with hair straight out of the eighties. I almost look evil.”

  That caught his attention. Our eyes connected and even though air filled my lungs, I felt breathless.

  “Impossible! There is nothing evil about you, Light.” The serious look on his face gave me pause.

  I smiled. “Well, thank you, Mr. Cranberry Face.”

  I reached up with my thumb and swiped away the bit of cranberry at the corner of his mouth. My hand palmed the side of his face and without conscious thought my thumb began to caress his full bottom lip. He closed his eyes. I continued to stroke back and forth until his tongue darted forth and wet the very tip of my thumb in one languid movement. My body went rigid and raced with impure thoughts. I longed for my thumb to be other parts of my body, to have his tongue tease me in more desirable places. It was only thirty-four degrees out, but my body coursed with heat.

  I prayed and hoped he’d carry it further; he’d kiss me with that mouth. If he showed interest, I would give myself to him. But his signals were mixed. He stared at me for a long moment. Please…

  He pulled away and went back to eating. He acted as if the last few minutes never happened. “So, are you planning to get your first kiss from Matt at the party? It sounds like the perfect opportunity.”

  I was about to throw myself at him and he was encouraging me to kiss someone else!

  “Yes, I guess it would be,” I said through gritted teeth. I needed some distance. “I have to get back.” I stood and crossed my arms. The frustration of dangling from the edge of hope made my eye twitch.

  He swallowed the last bite, and rose, brushing crumbs from his pants. “Here, let me drive you.”

  “It’s OK, I need to get a walk in today.” I needed to walk off the confusion. “Happy Thanksgiving.” I hurried away.

  He didn’t call out. He didn’t say anything. In one weak moment, I looked over my shoulder, and saw him staring after me. The breeze ruffled his hair and he looked like a majestic angel holding a white plastic spork.

  * * *

  I didn’t go back for the next two weeks. I found myself staring out the window to see if I could spot his car, but no luck. I needed to figure out what I felt. I had no business lusting after
Cyril. Unfortunately, what I felt and what I should feel were two very different things. He was too old and not a logical choice for someone my age. I didn’t think I would ever stop fantasizing about him, but I had to get a hold on my teenage crush. I decided to attend Matt’s party.

  After those two weeks of convincing myself I could face him, I returned to the cemetery. His car was there. Shocking. I figured he’d stop coming.

  I was surprised when he made eye contact through the window of the car. The door opened quickly and he closed the distance between us. He placed both hands on each side of my face and started searching my eyes for answers. “Are you OK? I’ve been so worried.”

  “Why?”

  “You looked upset when you left on Thanksgiving and you haven’t been back. Did I do or say something to upset you?”

  “No,” I lied. “I just needed some time to think. I’ve been acting like some foolish little girl but I think I’ve got that all under control. I was just coming to say good-bye.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Good-bye?”

  “Yes.” Before I could think to stop myself, the truth started to spill from me. “You confuse me. I don’t understand my feelings for you. I don’t think they’re healthy and most times I doubt that you’d appreciate my thoughts. Plus, I have no idea what you are thinking. Maybe I’m reading too much into it? Maybe I’m not giving you enough credit? I need to have my own life with people my own age, a life I can understand. I’m going to go to the party tomorrow and as you suggested I’m going to take my opportunity. I need to start living in reality, not this…this…fantasy or whatever it is.”

  He released my face.

  Tears threatened my eyes, stinging. I fought to keep them at bay. I knew he didn’t feel the way I did, so continuing would only hurt me. “Thank you for everything you’ve given, taught, and done for me but I can’t trust myself with you.”