A Winter Symphony: A Christmas Novella

by Tiffany Reisz

  Søren gently swabbed the cut on his hip, then applied ointment and gauze.

  “You know,” Kingsley said, never able to resist a chance to taunt Søren, “the famous Mistress Nora uses Snoopy brand Band-Aids when she cuts you up in her dungeon.”

  “Yes, well, the famous Mistress Nora is slightly demented, I hear.”

  “That’s what we boys pay her for.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that, too.”

  Kingsley smiled as Søren snapped the first-aid kit shut. “You’re handling it better,” he said. “Her work. When did that happen?”

  “I’m still not thrilled about it, but how could I deny her what I won’t deny myself?”

  “Easily. You’d done it for years. So what changed?”

  Søren looked at him. “You were in that room. We all were. You know what changed.”

  Everything. Everything changed and there was no going back.

  “How could I deny her anything now?” Søren said. “All that matters is that she’s alive and safe. And you.”

  Søren slipped out of his clothes again, turned off the lamp, and slid into bed with him. Without thinking, Kingsley curled up against him and laid his head on Søren’s stomach.

  “Don’t let me fall asleep,” Kingsley said. “I want to be home by midnight.”

  “What happens at midnight?”

  “Juliette will want crêpes.”

  “You make her crêpes at midnight? Midnight crêpes?”

  “She’s six months pregnant with my baby. If she wants crêpes at midnight and blood oranges at dawn and a rack of lamb for lunch, she gets it.”

  “Maybe I want midnight crêpes.”

  “Are you pregnant with my child?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Then make your own fucking crêpes.”

  Søren’s stomach moved under Kingsley’s head, rolling like a wave as he quietly laughed.

  In the silence, Kingsley asked a question he’d been afraid to ask before. “Are you all right?”

  Søren took a deep breath before answering. “Strangely, I think I’m better now than I was before. And Eleanor will be, too, eventually. Sometimes she has nightmares, and so do I, but there’s a new honesty between us, a new certainty. Neither of us are content to wait for happiness anymore. She and I wanted to be together. We are together. You and I wanted to be together. So here we are—together.”

  “It does change your priorities, realizing you could die, doesn’t it?”

  “How did it change yours?”

  Dangerous question. One Kingsley wasn’t prepared to answer yet.

  “I’m leaving your bed to go and make crêpes for Jules,” he said. “Does that answer your question?”

  “You’re doing that because she’s pregnant, not because of what happened to us. What’s going on?”

  Kingsley raised his head, saw Søren looking at him. “What are you asking?”

  “For weeks now, you’ve been acting differently. And tonight…when did you start taking pictures of my church? Of the trees? You hugged Maxine earlier like you might never see her again. And all evening you’ve been asking me to be honest with you, which makes me wonder if you’re not being completely honest with me. Is there something going on you aren’t telling me about?”

  As much as Kingsley wanted to stay there, resting his head on Søren’s stomach for another hour or century, he slowly sat up and gathered the sheets around him.

  Søren switched the lamp back on and sat up, too, back against the headboard, white quilt at his waist. “Kingsley?”

  “Something happened on my birthday,” he began. “You know how I said I didn’t want a party.”

  “I remember.”

  “All I wanted was to be alone with Juliette all evening. She had a meal delivered from my favorite French restaurant, and then all we did was curl up in my sitting room and talk and read. Then I heard something. People were pounding on the door, yelling my name. Juliette was scared. But you know who it was?”

  “Who?”

  “People I’ve known for years. They were dressed up, drunk, ready for a party. And I couldn’t get rid of them fast enough.”

  Søren smiled, looked relieved. “Is that it? You’ve realized you’re over your playboy ways?”

  “It’s more than that. I was scared. Me. And the reason they were pounding on the door was because I had locked it. I never used to lock the doors. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was scared. But now I am. All the time. Day and night. Juliette carries pepper spray wherever she goes. I’d carry a gun with me, if she’d let me. But I have them in the house, which I’m under orders to get rid of the second the baby is born.”

  “You’re about to be a father. Things have to change.”

  “I read something a long time ago that’s stayed with me. Tacitus, the Roman historian, said, ‘Great empires are not maintained by timidity.’ I have never been as happy in my life as I am now. And I’ve never been so afraid.”

  “Are you afraid your empire is going to fall?”

  “Fuck my empire. Burn it to the ground. I don’t want it anymore.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “I want to take Juliette and the baby and move to the other side of the world. That’s what I want.” He paused, met Søren’s eyes, and said the hardest words he’d ever said. “And that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Søren stared. The silence was so profound that Kingsley heard a tree limb scratching the roof.

  “You’re leaving New York,” Søren finally said. “You and Juliette.”

  Kingsley nodded.

  “For how long?”

  “Forever.” Before Søren could ask another question, Kingsley started to explain himself. “We’re not safe here. I made too many enemies. I’ve crossed the mafia. I’ve pissed off the police, politicians… I know the secrets of too many powerful people. Next time someone knocks on my door in the middle of the night, they might have a gun in their hand instead of a bottle of champagne. I have to think of Jules. I have to think of the baby. You told that man tonight on the phone he had to put his children first. That’s all I’m trying to do.”

  Another silence, loud enough that Kingsley heard the quiet ping of the carriage clock on Søren’s fireplace mantel downstairs. It was getting late. He climbed out of bed, started to dress.

  “There’s no reason to worry,” Kingsley said, though he himself was sick with worry. “Closing up a small empire takes time. And Jules loves her doctor here, so I know she won’t want to give birth somewhere else. We won’t move until the baby’s at least six months old.” He pulled on his trousers as he talked. Talked, and tried to explain it so clearly that it made so much sense, no one could even think of questioning the decision. “We’ll probably even have one last Christmas here before we leave.”

  “One last Christmas.”

  “Which is over a year away,” Kingsley reminded Søren. And himself. He wasn’t leaving tomorrow or the next day. A year, more or less. An entire year. Longer than they had together the first time. It would be enough. It would have to be enough.

  “And you’re going…where?”

  He slid his feet into his boots, a good way to avoid eye contact. “Not certain yet, though I’m thinking a villa in St. Bart’s.”

  “St. Bart’s? You mean Saint Barthélemy…the island in the Caribbean.” Søren’s voice sounded strangely flat.

  Kingsley shrugged. “It’s French. It’s safe. It’s close to Haiti. It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s 2,000 miles away.”

  “Only 1,700 miles. I looked it up.”

  “And that’s where Juliette wants to move? St. Bart’s?”

  “She doesn’t know we’re moving yet. I’m going to surprise her when we’re on holiday in New Orleans.”

  Søren’s eyes widened slightly. “This was your idea?”

  “What? Do you think Juliette put me up to this? This was my decision. And she’ll understand it. I hope
you can, too.”

  The pause before answering was no longer than the space between breaths, but Kingsley felt it like a breath he’d been holding for an hour.

  “Of course,” Søren said. “If you think for one second that you can’t raise your family here safely, then you should go.”

  “Thank you,” Kingsley said. “You know, I didn’t make this decision lightly.”

  “No. Of course you didn’t. It’s just—”

  “What?”

  Søren shook his head. “Nothing. St. Bart’s is beautiful, I hear. We’ll try to visit, if I can.”

  If.

  That word was a bucket of ice water over his head.

  If.

  Not when.

  If.

  St. Bart’s wasn’t a long drive away. St. Bart’s wasn’t the sort of place one went for a weekend getaway. You could only get there from New York by flying. Not an easy trip for a small-town priest under a vow of poverty. And if he did come to visit—if—where would they go to be alone together? A hotel? It felt tawdry and sad already.

  “I’ll visit you,” Kingsley said.

  “Of course.”

  Another Of course and Kingsley would scream. Was that all Søren could say?

  “Will you tell Nora or should I?” Kingsley asked.

  “No, you can tell her when you’re ready to make the announcement. I’d only ask you to wait for a few months. This summer, when it won’t hit so hard. Not the holidays.”

  Was this a punishment, telling Kingsley he had to break the news to Nora himself? You want to go, you get to tell her the bad news, not me. Unfair, he knew. It was Kingsley’s secret to tell, not Søren’s. That’s all he meant by that, wasn’t it? How terrifyingly fast the doubts were creeping and crawling their way into his brain…

  Was Søren already pulling away from him? Shutting him out? De-vesting in their relationship and silently reminding himself, Now I remember exactly why I chose Nora over you, and why I’ll do it again.

  “She’ll understand, too,” Søren said. “But she will be disappointed. She wanted to be part of the baby’s life. She’s an only child. No nieces or nephews.”

  “She can visit anytime. You can, too. I know it’s not so easy for you to—”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  We’ll be fine.

  Who was we? Was “we” Søren and Kingsley? Søren and Nora? Søren and Kingsley and Nora? All of them? Would they be fine?

  An hour ago, he’d felt secure enough to ask Søren the sort of personal questions he wouldn’t have dared even think of asking six months ago. Now he couldn’t even bring himself to ask who he meant by “we,” and who would be “fine” when they were gone.

  “I should be going,” Kingsley said. “See you soon.”

  “Of course.”

  The door waited for him. He’d have to open it and walk through it to go downstairs to leave the house to get into his car to go home. Easy enough, and yet he stood there.

  He wanted to kiss Søren goodbye, but he didn’t want to risk trying to kiss Søren goodbye and being rejected. Or worse, receiving a tepid kiss. How had a decision that had seemed so simple in theory become so painfully, impossibly difficult?

  “If I don’t see you before Christmas, I hope you have a nice one,” Kingsley said.

  A nice one? Was he talking to his lover or a salesgirl at Tiffany’s?

  “I’m sure it will be fine. You, too. Have a nice time in New Orleans with Juliette.”

  “We will.”

  He opened the door. Might as well just do it, like ripping off a bandage. And then he remembered the gauze and tape on his hip and how he had a perfect bloody letter S there that Søren had carved into him, claiming him. He would not let this get between them. He wouldn’t. He’d let so many secrets and lies, and his stubborn pride, get between them before. He wasn’t a kid anymore, but a grown man with a child on the way. He would not be a coward.

  “What were you about to say?” Kingsley asked.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Søren said. He still sat up in the bed, sheets to his hip and his beautiful body suddenly out of reach.

  “You started to, a minute ago, and then you stopped yourself. What were you going to say?”

  Søren gave a little smile, a cold little smile. “The wrong thing. Trust me.”

  “I want to hear the wrong thing.”

  “You don’t, I promise—”

  “I do. Didn’t we just say no more bullshit between us? Didn’t we? Or did I imagine that?”

  “Kingsley, I know you’re—”

  “What were you going to say?”

  Søren met his eyes. His stare was icy and cold. “I was going to say, ‘Don’t do this to me again.’”

  Kingsley lifted his chin, stood up straighter. “You were right,” he said. “That was the wrong thing to say.”

  “I tried to warn you,” Søren said.

  “You knew I was in love with you for years and you—”

  “I know. I know, Kingsley. Of course you have to go. Of course you do.”

  Kingsley nodded. “Of course.”

  And with that, he left.

  There was no kiss goodnight. Of course there wasn’t.

  Third Movement

  January Minuet

  Minuet:

  A slow, stately ballroom dance for two.

  Chapter Twelve

  January 5th and it was seventy degrees at ten in the morning. And, as if it couldn’t get any better than that, Kingsley was having some of the better sex of his life, even if it was vanilla.

  The window to their rented pied-à-terre on Conti Street was open, and a clean morning breeze blew into the bedroom, caressing Kingsley’s naked back so lightly that chills rose all over his body. He was on his hands and knees, braced over Juliette, who lay on her back under him, thighs wide and eyes closed, a little smile on her beautifully full, soft lips.

  “What are you smiling about?” he demanded, punctuating the question with a gentle thrust. She was so warm inside, warm and slick and so incredibly tight—thank you, pregnancy—that he could have stayed inside her all day.

  “Just happy,” she said, and slowly opened her eyes. “Very, very happy.” Très, très content.

  Kingsley was also très, très content. How could any man in bed with this woman not be content? He felt like he was young and in Paris again, in bed with this glorious woman in their elegantly simple—and simply elegant—apartment on the second floor of an old French Quarter double gallery home. Every morning they were making lazy love on the old creaking brass bed, the pale green shutters thrown open to let in the scent and sounds of city life—coffee, laughing voices, and the thick wet heat of Louisiana.

  Juliette was wearing a short cotton nightgown that covered her growing stomach but left her long dark arms and chest bare. He covered her with a thousand soft kisses. Her shoulders, her collarbone, the valley from the hollow of her long throat to between her full breasts. Had they ever had so much vanilla sex in their lives, the two of them? She, who adored being on the receiving end of rough and possessive sex as much as he enjoyed being on the giving end? But there was no risking the baby. Now it was slow. Now it was soft. Now it was lazy and tender, not wicked and rough. Her hands were resting lightly on his shoulders, not tied to the bed. Her legs, hooked over his calves instead of strapped to the footboard, thighs forced open wide.

  Eventually, they’d return to their wild nights and wicked ways. For now, Kingsley was more than content to enjoy these sunny, sensual mornings with her. He pulled out and she rolled onto her side, propping her knee up on a pillow. He slid back into her from behind this time, spooning her. While kneading her intensely swollen clitoris, he fucked her. Her breathing quickened, and her head fell back against his shoulder. It was a uniquely satisfying experience to make Juliette—pregnant and dressed in her innocent white cotton maternity nightgown—come so hard he felt her vagina clench around him like the grip of a strong hand, and so loudly, half the French Quarter h
eard her orgasm. As she was riding the wave of her climax, he pushed into her with ragged breaths and short, shallow thrusts and came hard himself—spending himself until there was nothing left to give her.

  Panting and empty, he pulled out and rested his chin against her shoulder. Another soft warm breeze blew through the apartment and rustled the sheer white curtains across the room, making them sway like shy ghosts at a party.

  “It’s January,” she said, laughing like it was a joke. “It’s January, and we have the windows open.”

  “You missed that?” Kingsley asked.

  “Warm winters? Oh, yes. This is heaven. You may have to go back to New York without us. We’ll see you again in June.”

  “Coco isn’t even here yet, and you two are already ganging up against me.”

  “Nothing against you,” she said. “Only against winter. Ice is not a pregnant woman’s best friend. But it’s fine. I’ll buy some of those spikes climbers put on their boots. What are they called in English? Tampons?”

  “Crampons,” Kingsley said.

  She giggled like a girl. “That’s it. Tampons wouldn’t do much good on my shoes unless I walked through a puddle.” She reached for her phone. It had buzzed while they were making love. “Lord,” she said and groaned.

  Kingsley took the phone from her. She had a text message from Brad Wolfe—that asshole—asking her out to dinner. “May I?”

  “Please,” she said.

  Kingsley texted a reply.

  This is King. Stop asking Juliette out on dates. She is pregnant with my baby.

  He thought that would do it. Brad Wolfe—that asshole—wrote back immediately.

  The more, the merrier.

  Asshole, Kingsley replied, then blocked Wolfe’s number before returning Juliette’s phone to her.

  “Not to blame the victim,” he said, “but it’s your fault you’re so beautiful.”

  “It’s a curse, I know.” She laughed again, and he pulled her closer and gently cradled her belly.