by ADAMS, J.
“She feels unworthy of anything good happening to her, even though that part of her life no longer matters. I think she feels that she will never be good enough.” Jessica wipes her eyes again as more tears fill them. “She has never said it, but I can sense her feeling of worthlessness, and at times I can see it in her eyes. That is part of the reason I offered her the job at the boutique while she’s here. I told her it was because I knew she wanted to pay her own way, which was true, but I also did it to help her somehow feel better about herself.”
Ingo's eyes drift to the kitchen entrance, his thoughts following Cisely upstairs. “How could someone so beautiful and incredible . . . how can she feel that way about herself?”
“I don’t know. But I do know she couldn’t be more wrong. I've witnessed first hand how marvelous she is. She just needs to learn to see the good in herself and not dwell on the past.”
Ingo silently contemplates his decision to stay with Jessica. At first, he couldn’t understand why he had felt such a strong need to be there. He'd even thought about staying with his best friend, Adagio, in Italy, but it just didn’t feel right. Adagio had been disappointed when he decided not to come to Italy but said he understood. He told Ingo he needed to do what he felt was best. At that time, Ingo didn’t know what was best.
For the next couple of weeks, he still couldn’t dismiss the urgent need to stay with Jessica.
Now he understands why.
Pondering this a moment, a slow smile spreads across his face. “I don’t know when or how, Aunt Jessica, but I know I am supposed to be here for Cisely. It might sound crazy, but I feel we are meant to be together . . . that I am meant to be here for her.”
“I feel it too,” Jessica replies, her voice soft. “I feel it too.”
Unable to sleep, I stare up into the darkness, still unable to believe I agreed to go out with Ingo. Of course, Jessica hadn't give me much of a choice. I had to accept, and as much as I try to deny it, deep down I wanted to. I haven’t dated anyone since leaving the party life, and even before then, it wasn’t what you could really call dating because it never went beyond a night. I shudder as the terrible memories come back, and I wonder if I can to go through with this.
Ingo is so good–everything I am not–and the last thing I need is to fall in love with him and risk being hurt, or hurting him. If I'm not careful, that’s exactly what will happen, and the falling part won't be very hard. Already, he has found a place in my heart I didn't want found.
Closing my eyes, I picture his handsome face, hear his thick Australian accent singing in my ears, and see his kind eyes. Taking in the wonder of our visit for a moment, I sigh, shaking my head.
He’s too good for me anyway, I decide. Or rather, I’m not good enough for him. He needs someone good and wholesome, and clean. He needs someone pure.
Someone that is all the things I’m not.
Still, even with all the negative thoughts running through my head, deep within the secret reaches of my heart, love is the one thing I want more than anything. To be loved by someone so deeply and completely that none of the things in my past will matter. I just don’t know if it is even possible for me to open up and trust someone enough to give him my heart.
Giving in to the urge to do something I haven't done since I was a child, I get up, slip to my knees by the bed, and silently pour my heart out to God, because I desperately need comfort.
Ending my prayer, I stay on my knees a moment longer before climbing back into bed. I continue to stare up into the darkness, longing for some peace in my heart concerning the past. Sighing, I make a final request before closing my eyes.
Please help me to get through tomorrow.
Four
My hand is tucked in Ingo's as we enjoy a carriage ride through downtown Salt Lake. I've always watched couples riding by when walking through town on my way from work and thought how fun it must be, but I never imagined I would actually have the chance to ride in one of the lovely carriages, much less have a man sitting next to me in one. I smile contentedly, relishing the feel of my hand nestled in his, silently musing that my life is starting to be filled with surprises. This one was definitely unexpected.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Ingo asks.
“I am, very much. Thank for bringing me.”
“You’re very welcome. And thank you for coming out
with me today. When I first asked you, I was terribly afraid you would say no. I don’t think I’ve ever been as grateful to my aunt as I was at that moment.”
His words fill me with an unexpected emotion that I can't explain. Just the thought of a man actually wanting to spend time with me and nothing else is something I will have to get used to.
“I was grateful for her, too,” I say softly, meeting his eyes. He squeezes my hand gently, holding it between his. Then he presses his arm against mine and I watch him studying the contrast of our skin tones.
“Your skin is very beautiful.” “Thank you.” I smile. “My father is dark and my mother is very light. I came out somewhere in between, I guess.”
“Well, I think you’re perfect.”
I look into his eyes, not liking the direction my thoughts are traveling but unable to stop them. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.” Judging from the seriousness of his expression, he knows I am not referring to the tone of my skin. Why do I do this?
“I know. But I would like to know you well enough.” His tone is fervent and unyielding.
Looking away, I fix my gaze on a homeless man standing in front of Main Street Plaza, holding a sign asking for help. A few people stop and give him money while others pass him by. I try to focus on something else, anything to divert my attention and keep from looking at Ingo.
I don't know if I can do this. I've never formed an attachment in my life, except for Jessica, but that is different. Emotionally, I don't think I am strong enough to handle this kind of attachment. This is unfamiliar territory for me, and I don't know how to let anyone get close.
But I desperately want to.
Ingo must sense my guard going up again. He places a gentle hand on my cheek, urging me to look at him. “Please, Cisely. All I ask is that you give me a chance.”
Closing my eyes at his touch and struggling to fight the burning beneath my eyelids, one tear manages to escape and roll down my cheek. “I want to,” I confess, my voice a whisper. “But . . .”
“But what?” he presses, caressing my cheek with his thumb. When I don’t answer, he finishes the sentence for me. “You are afraid.” Sighing, I try to turn away, but he gently catches my chin. “Please tell me what you’re feeling.”
Returning my eyes to his, I cover the hand he holds to my cheek. “I’m not good at this kind of thing, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won't, love. I’m going to be living with Aunt Jessica for a long while, so we will have plenty of time to get to know each other more. I promise to take things slow and try not to push you. Just open up to me a little. Let me be part of your life. Okay?”
“But . . . this is . . .”
“This is what?” I hesitate and he presses. “It's what?”
“This is just too easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this. Us.”
Ingo's brow furrows. “I don't understand, love.”
I sigh, frustrated that my thoughts aren't coming out as clearly as I want them to. They never seems to pass my lips. “I know you don't understand,” I say softly. “It's just that nothing has ever been easy for me, and this seems so . . . well, effortless. I just don't know if it can work.”
He smiles and I glimpse understanding is in his eyes. “I am not going to give up, Cisely.” He caresses my cheek softly. “It will be all right. Just keep your heart open. Try to stay open to me. Can you do that?”
Exhaling deeply, I slowly smile. “I’ll try,” I answer, marveling at how open he is with his own feelings. I am fast discovering that he is a person who seizes e
very moment and makes the most of them, and I really like that about him. I also come to the conclusion that trying to fight my growing feelings for him is useless.
As he draws me closer, I rest my head against his shoulder. It is the first time I've ever felt completely safe with a man–the first time I have ever experienced such innocence. And for this moment, I am happy.
Five
We pick a quiet spot at Liberty Park and share a pizza for lunch. Handing me a can of pop, Ingo laughs as I try to shoo away a group of seagulls slowly closing in around us.
“We’re not even half done and here they are, ready and waiting for a feast,” he says.
“Well, I know these guys eat scraps for a living, but they will just have to wait.”
As if they understand my words, the seagulls do indeed back up and wait, drawing a chuckle from Ingo. “Well, I guess they know who's in charge of this party.”
“I guess so,” I agree, laughing with him.
The weather is amazing today, or maybe it is just me feeling unusually giddy. I won't analyze it, I'm just happy to be outdoors. Having finished eating, I lean back on my hands and close my eyes, soaking in the sun's warmth. I smile slightly, sensing Ingo's gaze on me. He seems to enjoy watching me. My face warms even more because of it.
“You're beautiful,” he says softly.
Opening my eyes, I search his face for sincerity and find it immediately. Needless to say, I am not used to this kind of attention, but he seems determined to get me used to it.
“Thank you,” I finally say.
He moves the pizza box from between us, then scoots closer to me and folds his legs Indian style and I do the same, our knees touching. “Okay. Tell me more about your life. I want to know everything about you.”
“No,” I mumble, “you don't want to know everything.”
“Oh, but I do.”
He isn't letting me off that easily. Heaving a resigned sigh, I decide to just get it over with.
Ingo listens as I tell him about the job I left in North Carolina and the people there. I also tell him a little about my dysfunctional family. Going a little deeper, I share with him what it was like being an only child and growing up in a home where my mother was never sober. I tell him of the beatings my mother suffered at the hands of my father and how I witnessed most of them. When I share how I prayed endlessly that God would take us away from all of it, emotion fills his expression. Tears rise in his eyes, causing my own to burn. I blink the moisture away.
“I’m sorry your childhood was so hard,” he says.
The snort that escapes me is devoid of humor or amusement. “Watching my mother be abused was hard, but there were other things . . . there were other things that were just as hard.”
Ingo keeps my hand between his. “What other things?” he presses gently.
Releasing a slow breath, I allow my gaze to drift away from his. “My father molested me from the age of six until I turned twelve.” Glancing back at him, there is so much pain and anger in his eyes on my behalf, tears again sting mine as well. He squeezes my hand and my heart accepts his offering of comfort.
“You know,” I continue, “about a week after my twelfth birthday, my mother finally took me and moved back to our hometown.”
“Too little, too late,” Ingo says, his voice hard.
“My thoughts exactly,” I mumble.
I know he is waiting for me to say more, but I don't. For a few moments we sit in contemplative silence. He continues to hold my hand, silently absorbing the things I have shared with him. As we watch one another, I marvel that we are together like this. I timidly reach up and touch the soft lock of hair resting against his forehead and smooth it back. Ingo closes his eyes, leaning into my touch.
“Thank you,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “Thank you for sharing such a painful part of your life with me.”
Reading his expression, it is obvious he knows there is more that I don't say, but he will not ask. Instead he says, “You know you can tell me anything, Cisely.”
I nod, grateful for his kindness. “Thanks for listening to me.”
“You're welcome.” Raising my hand to his lips, he kisses it softly.
We spend the rest of the afternoon just talking and enjoying our time together. Later on, Ingo takes me out to dinner and we go dancing, which has always been one of my favorite things to do.
I have never enjoyed dancing so much. Going to a place where there is no alcohol or cigarette smoke permeating the air is a new experience for me. I actually come away feeling clean. Ingo promises to take me dancing whenever I want and I assure him I will hold him to it.
By the time we arrive home, Jessica has already gone to bed, much to Ingo’s dismay. He'd wanted me to play the piano for him, but he doesn't want to wake Jessica, so we agree to wait. I'd told him earlier about learning to play when I was younger, and how I sometimes used playing as a means of escaping the emotional pain I went through. Jessica had mentioned to him how much she enjoyed my singing and he was looking forward to hearing me. Seeing his disappointment, I promise I will play for him tomorrow when I have some time.
We stay up and talk for a while longer. The day has gone so fast. It feels amazing being with Ingo, to know that he wants to just be with me and isn’t expecting anything immoral in return. In the past, that was the only thing I knew. Of course, I was different then. I am living a new life now–a clean life–the kind of life I was meant to live all along.
By midnight, I reluctantly decide to go to bed or I won’t be able to function at work. The night is ending, and though I love my job, I can’t help wishing I didn’t have to go in tomorrow.
Ingo walks me to the foot of the stairs. “I've had a wonderful time today, Cisely.”
“So have I. Thank you for everything.”
“You're welcome.” He squeezes my hand. “How long do you have to work . . .” he pauses, looking at his watch, “today?”
I laugh softly. “I work until five.”
He groans. “I don’t know if I can wait that long to see you.”
Pressing my hand against his cheek, I smile, warmed by his growing affections. “I’m sure you will be able to find something to do to occupy your time.”
“Besides visiting with Aunt Jessica, I can’t think of a thing, except . . . maybe swinging by the boutique to see you.”
“I would like that.”
“Good. It’s a date.”
He pulls me into his arms and I go willingly, practically melting in his embrace. Drawing back slightly, he slowly lowers his head and timidly presses his lips to mine.
My head is swimming from the warmth of his kiss, my arms automatically moving around his waist as the intensity increases.
Tightening his embrace, he holds me so close, I can feel his heart pounding. I have never experienced anything so wonderful.
Parting his lips from mine and pressing them to my brow, he says, “Cisely, I’m so into you I can’t think straight.” His voice is husky.
I gaze up into his handsome face. “I feel the same about you.” And I truly do. His kiss is the most wondrous and innocent I have ever known. That I am even with someone like him is amazing. I can’t deny it. I have fallen and fallen hard.
“So, I’ll see you later,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to my temple.
“Definitely.”
He lingeringly brushes another kiss across my lips before drawing back. “Goodnight, love. Sleep well.”
“Goodnight,” I say, not wanting to leave the warmth of his arms. As I turn to go, Ingo's hand tightens around mine. Pulling me back to him, we stand a few moments longer, simply holding each other.
“I never thought this day would come,” he whispers. “I never thought this would ever happen to me.”
We finally part and I slowly climb the stairs, leaving him staring longingly after me.
Six
Ingo spends a few hours at the boutique with Cisely, talking with her when she isn’t busy, and just wa
tching her when she is. He loves watching her interact with the customers because she is such a natural, and they absolutely adore her. The more time he spends with Cisely, the more he knows she is meant to share his life someday. Even now, he wants that more than anything. However, he doesn't want to scare her, so he will continue to take things slow.
At least he will try to.
Later in the evening, Ingo takes me out to dinner, then to a show at the Capitol Theater. Afterward, we go for a short walk through downtown. Every moment I spend with Ingo is wonderful and exciting. He is introducing me to a whole new world and I am now doing things I've only dreamed about.
When we finally arrive home, Ingo asks me to sing something for him, and I am flattered and nervous at the same time. Other than in a high school program, I have never performed for anyone, but I did promise him last night that I would. I often think about the music teachers I had through the years in school, and each time I sing or play now, my gratitude for them is renewed.
Sitting at the piano, I am a bit nervous, but as I warm up my fingers and the notes begin to fill the room, I am carried away, my nervousness fleeing. I play Switchfoot's version of “Only Hope,” my voice soon joining the music.
Discreetly glancing over at Ingo, I find him listening intently, his eyes closed. At the song's end, he opens his eyes and I am warmed by the emotion in them.
“That was beautiful, Cisely!” “Thank you.” Despite being nervous about performing for him, I really did enjoy it, and I am happy he liked it.
“Promise me you will sing for me again,”
Smiling warmly, I say, “I promise.”
