by Karen Welch
When the music ended, he was breathless and drained, but at the same time euphoric. That feeling might last for hours, but he knew eventually it would fade and he would be left with a void of longing and restlessness. Why couldn't he get to someplace in between, somewhere neither high nor low? How could he be certain that the next time he played, he would be able to reach that incredibly sweet place again? As his arms fell to his sides, he dropped his head. With bow and violin in his hands, he brought them together on his chest, standing poised for several moments as though deep in prayer.
As he acknowledged the applause of the orchestra members, now on their feet, and accepted the conductor's embrace, he looked around for Milo. Where was he to go from here? Slowly, the memory of the morning returned. He was alone, on his own. He tried to remember what hotel he was to stay in, how he was to travel around the city for the next two days. They had discussed it, he and Milo. He had been given his instructions, but now he couldn't recall the details.
Stepping out of the stage door into the sunlight, he was greeted by the miraculous sight of Robert, standing next to the limo waiting for him. Of course, Robert would have his schedule, make certain he wasn't late or in the wrong location. Maybe he could have figured something out himself, but it was comforting to know there was someone watching his back. If he meant to prove anything to Milo, he couldn't afford to slip up now.
He would go to his hotel, eat and rest, even practice a little. He'd even avoid the hotel bar, order room service and go to bed early. Milo would be amazed when he listened to the concert over the radio on Christmas Eve. He would be proud of Stani for having turned this potential disaster into a glorious success.
Chapter Three
The sun was already well up when Emily woke. For a while, she remained on the floor next to the barely glowing remnants of the fire, gazing at the shaft of light between the drapes. No bright sunshine this morning, and judging by the dampness in the cold room, there would be heavy clouds in the sky. The day of hard work, and the peace that had finally come in response to her prayers, had combined to ease her into a deep, dreamless sleep unlike any she'd known in quite some time. No need to hurry back to consciousness, she thought, stretching gently beneath the quilts. No one to jar her from her bed, no place to rush to, only another day at home.
Today, she knew she would not be anxious, she would not try to think her way to a solution. Today, she would watch expectantly, welcoming whatever came, knowing it was part of the design for her life. Not her own narrow-sighted plan, but a much grander scheme that would be revealed in its proper time. There had been signs and miracles enough already to convince her that this journey involved much more than she could comprehend. Today she would eagerly greet the future, accept the challenges, and watch for more signs to lead her forward.
She smiled, drawing the covers closer around her ears. That sounded much more like something her mother would have said. Her mother, who ran out to meet adversity head on, armed with only her passion for living and her faith in a loving God; she had found some cause for joy in every day, packed as much living as possible into every hour. Emily had always thought herself too down-to-earth compared to her mother's effervescence, wishing she had less of her father's practicality and more of her mother's free spirit. Maybe there was hope for her after all.
Finally crawling out from the warmth, she prodded the fire back to life and dressed quickly in the relative warmth of the bathroom's little electric heater. Urging up the dial on the thermostat, she peered out at the heavy gray clouds moving slowly across the valley. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she switched on the radio that had always sat on the kitchen counter, and tuned to the local AM station. She caught the last few words of the forecast as the set came to life.
“. . .heavy accumulations possible.”
“Ooh, that sounds ominous,” she answered. “And exciting.” The idea of being cocooned here by a winter storm, the wind howling and snowdrifts piling up outside the door, held a certain romantic appeal. It also called for some hasty measures to ensure she didn't romantically freeze to death.
Leaving the radio on as she ate her breakfast, she chuckled at the simplicity of the local reports of holiday gatherings and livestock for sale. An ad from the hardware store for snow-blowers, now in stock, reminded her that she had best be prepared and she made a mental list. Water, wood, light and a means to get out once the storm was over. Bundling into her coat and gloves, winding her muffler up around her ears, she began by hauling in more firewood from the little lean-to shed, stacking it on the back porch. She knew she had her father to thank for the generous supply, which he had put in that last spring when a tree near the gate had fallen. He had lamented the loss of the old tree, but accepted it as a gift that would warm the house during the winter to come. Two years later, it was indeed serving her well.
Repeatedly taking the bucket to the pump, she filled every available pot, even pouring several bucketfuls into the tub in the first floor bathroom. In the barn, after some searching in dim, cobweb-hung corners, she located the snow shovel and placed it next to the back door in readiness. She rummaged the kitchen drawers until she discovered a bundle of plain white candles, stowed away for just such an event. With her own supply of fresh matches, at least she was assured of enough light to move around the house in the darkness if the storm took down the power lines.
Satisfied that she was as ready as she could be, she waited for a repeat of the weather forecast. At last, with suitable solemnity, the local broadcaster announced that a major winter storm was predicted for the entire listening area. Residents were advised to make preparations today, as the storm was expected to move in during the overnight hours. High winds, sleet and snow were anticipated over the next forty-eight hours. Law enforcement agencies were advising holiday travelers to leave immediately or postpone travel until the storm had passed.
At the conclusion of the forecast, she turned the radio’s dial to the FM station broadcasting from the University in Charlottesville. A Radio Theater production of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol was in progress. Leaving it playing, she browsed the cabinets for potential candle holders. In the pantry, her search was rewarded with the discovery of an oil lamp, its base full of golden liquid. This she carried to the front room, placing it on the table by the window. It could be safely burned at night, and would give off much better light than the candles.
Her plan had been to continue cleaning today; and now that she was prepared for the storm, she put herself to work in the dining room. She'd always loved this room, with its big bay window and built-in china cabinet. The long table and delicate chairs were part of her mother's legacy from her French grandmother, as were the china and silver. The cabinet was packed with stores of crystal and linens, all treasures the family had used frequently, inventing special occasions to warrant celebration.
Smiling at the memories, Emily acknowledged there had been happy times here, in spite of her mother's always delicate health. Her mother had insisted that life was to be lived to the fullest, every good day a cause for celebration. Even the days when pain slowed her pace or confined her to the house were spent in the company of her family. They had shared everything, spending hours just talking, reading, and playing games together, music always the background for every activity. For most of those years, there had been enough good days to offset the bad.
Gently dusting the gilt frame of the huge mirror that hung over the sideboard, Emily paused to consider her reflection in the glass. While she was not dissatisfied with her looks, she would have much preferred to be more like her mother. As it was, other than her pale gray eyes, she knew she was the image of her father. Her heavy dark hair, high forehead and straight nose were definitely his, as was the generous mouth that seemed to habitually curve up at the corners. She was tall and slim, as her mother had been, but she feared her angles rather than curves were more like her father. She looked well enough. Boys seemed to be initially attracted by her looks until they found ou
t she had no interest in allowing them to paw over her.
“Why is it,” she asked her reflection with a thoughtful frown, “that as soon as male and female sit down together the male finds it impossible to resist touching the female? I have concluded that further research on this topic is pointless, as the result is invariably the same.” With a flip of her dust cloth, she dismissed the unwelcome advance of an invisible suitor, giving her reflection a self-satisfied nod.
After lunch, a bowl of last night’s stew, she turned her attention to the kitchen. The classical music broadcast kept her company, filling the room with the voices of holiday choirs and familiar carols. She sang along, as she took down the muslin curtains and washed the windows, watching the gathering clouds moving ever lower on the distant ridge. In the yard, a flock of wrens dove in and out of the flower beds and her friend the squirrel, joined by his mate, rustled through the leaves. Otherwise, everything was still; not even a breeze stirred, as if the wind were resting, gathering its strength. The stillness seemed an ominous sign that the valley was bracing for whatever Mother Nature had in store.
When she had scrubbed all the cabinet doors and counter tops, polished the range and refrigerator until she could see her face in the surfaces and mopped the floor twice for good measure, she rested at the kitchen table, sipping tea and browsing through the collection of cookbooks which had first introduced her to what had become a passionate obsession with food. Four-color prints of towering layer cakes, glistening meringue-topped pies and rows of perfect cookies made her mouth water. But at the sight of a succulent standing rib roast nestled on its platter with gleaming red-skinned potatoes and tiny fingers of orange carrots, she let out a moan of exasperated longing.
When the storm had passed, she vowed, she would drive into town, announce her intentions to Jack, and drop a hefty wad of cash at the market. She would prepare a feast, invite her allies, and renew her relationship with the old range, the scene of so many culinary triumphs in the past.
Laughing, she closed the cookbook and replaced it on the pantry shelf. Enough torture for now. She surveyed her remaining stock of cans, took ham and cheese from the refrigerator and decided a soup and sandwich supper would just have to do. If only her appetite were not so keen, and her tastes so well-developed; but a lifetime fascination with food, the preparation and the eating, had spoiled her for plain fare. She mixed a can of peas and carrots with one of chicken noodle soup, and grilled her ham and cheese sandwich in butter. Not exactly gourmet; but soon, she promised herself, there would be better meals on this old table.
Tuning the radio back to the local station, she sat at the kitchen table hoping to get an updated weather forecast. The evening news was under way, and after a few moments, she switched off the set. She had taken an informal vow to avoid the news while here. The events of the past several years, the seemingly endless conflict in Southeast Asia, social and civil unrest, political tragedies and violence had wearied her interest in what consumed so many of her fellow students. Political debate and activism were as much a part of campus life as classes and labs. She needed a break from the constant, unsettling conversation. Turning off the radio was a temporary but highly effective means of tuning out the grim and confusing reality of the world outside her valley.
Darkness came early, and she dressed for bed, prepared to spend her evening with old friends who resided between the covers of long-ago-read books. Her worn copy of “Jane Eyre” fit the bill. The gloomy weather called for something equally Gothic. As she read, she found herself listening, waiting for the first sounds of the approaching storm.
It would be a white Christmas, she realized. So unlike any Christmas here in years past, when there would by now have been a glowing tree next to the window, and the scent of evergreens throughout the house. Perhaps tomorrow she would search out the boxes of decorations, at least find the crèche figures and spread them across the room as she had done as a child. There was no reason she could not celebrate Christmas this year. In fact there was every reason to celebrate.
She dozed by the fire for a time, and woke with a start. Somewhere a window rattled sharply. The wind had risen; the storm was moving in. Peering out into the darkness, she could see nothing beyond her own reflection in the glass. The lure was irresistible. She opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, drawing her robe tightly around her. Immediately the wind swept her hair behind her, and she smelled the icy promise on the air. The sky was thick and black, the clouds so low she could sense them, just above the treetops.
This was just the set of circumstances Jack and Angela would have cautioned her against. Here alone, no means of communicating with the outside world. She should be anxious, at the very least, for her own comfort and safety. Instead, she found herself hoping it would snow for days and days, burying her here where no one could interrupt her enjoyment of this homecoming. She craved more time to reacquaint herself with the house, the books, the music, even the furniture and the treasures in cupboards and closets. The storm offered the perfect opportunity to just be here, alone, to reestablish herself in the house away from watchful eyes.
She turned back inside from the frosty darkness, closing the door firmly against the wind. Going through the house, she made sure of candles and matches in every room, ready when needed. She would sleep here by the fire again tonight. Somehow her pallet on the floor had become the most restful place in the house. Her own bedroom upstairs, just across the landing from the one her parents had shared, held too many memories to be faced quite yet. And the guest room continued to feel more like a shrine, to be preserved for just a little longer.
Snuggling between the quilts, she turned on her side and gazed into the flames. Tomorrow, while the storm raged, she would bring a little Christmas to the house and prepare herself to greet the Christ Child. Another day or two here alone, and she would make her move. By the time the snow melted, she would be ready to go into town, talk to Jack and get on with her life at last.
Chapter Four
When Stani checked into his hotel, the desk clerk handed him two phone messages. One was from Jana, letting him know that she and Milo were taking a train ride over the mountains this evening and would be away from a phone until tomorrow morning. She added that she knew he would be wonderful in Washington, and to take care of himself. The other message was from Betsy. She said only that she needed to hear from him right away, and included two numbers. He was to keep trying until he got through to her.
Going to his suite, he immediately dialed room service, ordering steak and potatoes and a pot of tea. He was feeling a bit faint from hunger and his head had begun to ache again. Looking at Betsy's message, he tried the first number. It was busy. The second number reached her answering service. He left a message that he'd tried to call, along with the direct number to his room. He couldn't imagine how she'd tracked him down. Or maybe she'd been at the party last night and he'd told her his plans? He couldn't remember. And he had no idea why she'd be so anxious to talk to him. He didn't hear from her often anymore. They seemed to end up at the same parties, but she was always hanging on the arm of some fellow or other. He had to admit he was curious to know what sort of scrape she'd gotten herself into now.
The year Stani turned fourteen Milo had moved them from London to New York. He felt it would be the best place to launch Stani's solo career, when the time was right. He had enrolled Stani in a performing arts high school in Manhattan where for the first time in years he found himself among kids his own age. He had been terrified, especially by the girls.
Betsy Mason had been a year or two older, and she’d taken pity on the awkward little boy who seemed to be afraid of everyone and everything. Betsy was a self-described Broadway Baby. While Stani was enrolled in string and orchestra classes, along with music history and composition, Betsy was studying voice, dance and acting. She had already appeared in a Broadway musical, when she'd been only seven. Now she was preparing for ingénue roles, spending grueling hours in tap and j
azz classes, learning to sing in the style of the latest sensations currently starring on the New York stages. Her mother was acting as her agent and life at home was far from peaceful.
Betsy had taken Stani under her wing, letting him know that the girls all thought he was super cute, with his amazing red hair and his cool British accent. He was pretty sure she was teasing him, but he took to meeting her in the canteen at lunchtime anyway. There she told him the latest gossip and shared her anguish at being dragged to auditions by her mother. They were just friends. Stani knew she didn't expect him to hold her hand or try to kiss her. He was actually at ease with Betsy, and secretly hoped that the other girls would see that he could at least talk to a girl without making an idiot of himself.
They remained friends for the two years he was at the school. At sixteen, Stani passed his equivalency tests and began preparing in earnest for his first concert tour. He heard from Betsy off and on for a while, but lost touch after the tour began. They met up again when he started making the rounds of the clubs in New York after his return.
They'd dated briefly, gotten their picture in the gossip rags, dancing and snuggling in the hottest night spots. She said it was good for her career to be seen with such a big celebrity, even if he was a classical musician and not a rock star. They had even tried to become lovers, but in the end decided they were more comfortable just being friends. Stani wondered again what sort of crisis she was in now, that she had tracked him all the way to Washington just to talk on the phone.
