Beauty: an Everland Ever After Tale (8 page)

Not just anyone else, though.
Him.
She’d been thinking about Vincenzo a lot lately, and not just when they were together. Their meetings in the bookstore were fast becoming her favorite parts of the week, and she found herself looking forward to their conversations more and more. Vincenzo was intelligent, worldly, and talented; of
course
she enjoyed spending time with him. In fact, sitting there in the intimate little corner of the bookstore, laughing over Twain’s anecdotes, or hearing stories about Europe, or sharing tales of Eddie’s younger years… she felt like she’d found a friend. To her complete surprise, it was easier to talk to Vincenzo than even to Meredith. Perhaps it was the fact that he couldn’t see her; couldn’t see the beauty that had faded over the years, didn’t know who she used to be. There, in the semi-darkness, they were just two people who’d found a friend in each other.

And on two glorious occasions he’d brought his violin with him, and she’d held Eddie in her lap like she’d done when he was younger and let the tears run silently down her cheeks as she listened to the beautiful music Vincenzo created. He was bringing his instrument with him again this evening, and had told her son that he was expected to join in this time.

Arabella hugged herself a little in excitement. She couldn’t wait.

She wouldn’t have to; Gordon’s laughter and Vincenzo’s biting tone rose over the back fence, and she hurried to the gate. Pulling it open, she smiled to hear them bickering like old friends. “Welcome, sirs. Will you be staying this evening, Gordon?” He never stayed, but she always asked.

“No, he won’t be.” Vincenzo barked at his manservant. “He has a
lady
to visit, apparently. Won’t tell me her name, so don’t bother asking him.”

“My lips are sealed, m’lord. Sorry.” The unrepentant grin the tall Scot gave Vincenzo told her that he wasn’t sorry in the least.

She grinned right back, and reached out to take Vincenzo’s arm. “Run along then, Gordon, I’ll escort
Signore
Bellini through the garden.” Gordy tipped his hat to her, then strode off. She pulled the unresisting Vincenzo closer, tucking his elbow by her side like they were old lovers. It was positively
naughty
to be out here in the semi-dark with him, but the air was thick with floral scents and he was carrying his violin case.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to visit my garden, Vincenzo.”

Slowly, he turned to face her, and she saw his smile. Maybe it was because she was tucked up beside him, maybe it was because the night air was scented with honeysuckle. Whatever the reason, his smile was so much more sensual than it ever had been before. It sent warmth pooling through her belly, and lower, and she gasped to realize what those sensations meant.

“Mrs. Mayor?”

She lifted her free hand to his cheek, the way he’d done to her when they’d first met, and felt the bristles give under her fingertips.  Did he just shudder? She couldn’t be sure. But when he tilted his cheek into her palm, and when his free hand came up to hold hers against his skin, she was the one who shuddered. He was warm, and full of life, and she
definitely
wasn’t seeing him as a friend.

No, standing there in the twilight, pressed against him, she was looking at a man. And not just a broken man, or an incomplete man… but a man who was still fighting. She remembered what he looked like, under that blindfold, and it didn’t seem to matter so much, at that moment. He was kind, and made her laugh, and had become a wonderful role model for Eddie. He spoke to her as an equal, even when he was sharing his knowledge of the world. He was graceful and stately, in spite of his blindness, and knew how to impress a crowd. He was gentle with her son and his pet and, if she had to be honest, with her. And, once, he’d kissed her hand, like she was a queen.

Oh yes, this man was more than just a neighbor. He was more than just a broken, ugly recluse. As he pressed her hand against his beard and leaned forward just slightly, Arabella found herself reaching, straining towards him, and she knew. He was a man. A worthy man.

“Mrs. Mayor, I…“ He trailed off, and licked his lips, and Arabella was
shocked
at how much she wanted to taste them, to lick them as well. Was she under some sort of spell caused by the thick honeysuckle scent in the night air? Why was she suddenly remembering how it felt to have a man’s hands on her body, to hunger for his touch? The old ache intensified low in her stomach, and her lips parted on a gasp. It had to be some sort of magic that had her remembering the taste of a man, had her yearning to feel him pressed against her. This was Vincenzo! He was her
friend
!

The sound that drifted out of the open window couldn’t be classified as music. It took a moment to penetrate her addled wits, to realize her son was playing the violin, and that his noisy intervention had certainly saved her from making a fool of herself—of breaking Rule Number Two—with this man.

Vincenzo straightened as well, dropping her hand and cocking his ear towards the building. “He’s good.” His teeth gleamed when he smiled, and she had to swallow down the desire that was still—irritatingly—there.

He seemed to be waiting for a response from her, so Arabella nodded before remembering that he wouldn’t be able to see. Trying to put a little space between them, she stepped back and took his arm again to lead him through the gate. “He’s been practicing. You said that you wanted to play with him tonight.”

“I’ve been looking forward to showing you how he’s advanced. He’s been learning the simplest of the Bach
paritas
. I’ve been impressed at how quickly he picks up on the movements, the placements.”

“His father was a fast learner, too. He learned to play as a child, even younger than Eddie.”

“Me too. That’s the time our minds and bodies are easiest to mold.” They were inside her garden now, the gate swinging closed behind them.

He stopped, his planted legs powerfully in the gravel path, and inhaled. She watched the broadcloth of his jacket pull across his chest, and had to close her eyes on the rush of desire.
Calm down, madam!
She was acting like a hussy, throwing herself at him. Thank goodness she’d managed to maintain some control, and not
kiss
him! He was enough of a gentleman to handle it graciously, she could be sure, but how
humiliating
it would’ve been! They were just
friends
.

She heard him take another deep breath, and another. Finally, he sighed. “There are so many, I can’t tell them apart. The honeysuckle, that was outside the gate, and on you, of course.” Her eyes snapped open. He could
smell
her? “But… roses? And… I can’t tell. Gardenia, maybe?”

The flowers. She’d invited him here to experience her garden. Arabella swallowed, willing her voice to work again. “The roses are on trellises along the side fences, behind the beds. The red and the white ones are already blooming, but my favorite pink ones are still just budding.” She hesitantly reached out and took his hand, and managed not to gasp at the strength in his grip. Like he was desperate for her connection. “Along the path are the tulips and daffodils, and I have my potted gardenia out by the back stoop.” She began to walk, and he followed. “My pear tree is to the right. It’s big enough now for a swing, but of course Eddie tells me that he’s too grown for that now. It hasn’t begun to bud yet, but my apple blossoms—on the left, in the corner—are opening.”

She glanced at him and was gratified to see the corners of his lips turned up. “And this is my favorite place.” The carefully cultivated wisteria grew up and over the trellis, forming a little grotto around the stone bench. She pulled him down beside her, thankful that it was big enough that they weren’t pressed against one another.

He inhaled again, his head turning this way and that as if to capture an elusive fragrance. “I’ve smelled it before, but I can’t place it.”

“It’s wisteria.”

“Of course! How could I forget Charleston in the spring?” He’d been all over the world, she remembered. “It does well out here in Wyoming?”

She smiled. “Well enough, but not at higher elevations. Some winters are harsh enough that I cover it and the other flowers, but they were Milton’s favorites.” A brief downward twitch of his lips told her that he wasn’t interested in hearing about the way her husband had praised her for keeping the delicate, beautiful blooms alive.

So she hurried to describe the way the vine climbed around them; how she’d carefully teased it into its current shape; how the thick purple flowers hung around them; how the moonlight was just peeking through the leaves. “This is my favorite time of year, here in my garden. I spend as much time as possible out here.”

“I can see why.” His gravelly voice was lower, thicker somehow. “It’s a bit magical, isn’t it?”

Magical
. That was a good description.

Another long minute of silence passed, but it didn’t feel awkward in the least. Arabella forced herself to not think about his heat, so close to hers. Forced herself to just focus on the wonder of the evening. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry that you haven’t been able to enjoy it as much this spring.”

“What?”

“I mean, with your moving, and with your appointments. With me.”

She waved her hand, although knew he couldn’t see it. “I enjoy my time with you!” It wasn’t until the words were out of her mouth that she realized how forward she sounded. “I mean, I consider you a friend. I look forward to our time together.”
Oh poot
, that sounded bad, too. She hurried on. “And our moving is almost done. We’ve cleared out everything, and I just need to give the place one last scrubbing before Rojita and Sheriff Cutter move in.”

He pulled his case up onto his lap and began to undo the clasps. “And when do you think that will be?”

“Within the next week, I should think. She stopped in to speak to me about it the other day.” She watched him remove the violin lovingly, and then shift the case back to the ground. “They live in the orphanage right now, with her grandmother and brother, and the children of course. There’s no need for them to be there, with the other adults, and I think that they… need their… privacy.” It was hard to concentrate on what she was saying when he began tightening his strings and making other arcane movements. “What
are
you doing?”

He smiled in the near-darkness, and lifted the violin to his chin. Shifting slightly on the bench, he turned enough towards her that their knees brushed. “I’m going to play. I’m in the moonlight, under a bower of blooms, with a beautiful woman. What better time to play?”

“I’m not beautiful.” It was all she could think of to say.

He hesitated, and then tapped her knees with his bow. She wished it were his hand, instead. “I think you’re beautiful.”

That was it.
I think you’re beautiful
. Not,
You’re beautiful to me
, because then she could’ve pointed out that he was blind. Just,
I think you’re beautiful
. It could’ve meant anything, or nothing. Or everything. She didn’t trust herself to speak, to move, to breathe.

He smiled, lifted the bow, and began to play.

And later, Arabella had to agree; in the moonlight, under the wisteria, surrounded by the thick floral scents of spring, was the perfect time for music. It was…magical.

“I see ye made it home last night.”

Vincenzo let the dining room door swing shut behind him, and grinned at Gordy’s acerbic tone. “Quite.” He cinched his dressing-robe belt tighter and crossed to his seat at the table. “And I noticed that
you
checked in on me, after midnight, like I was some kind of invalid.”

Sitting down, he found the tall glass of milk Gordy always had waiting for him, and heard his friend move around the table. The steam from the flapjacks he placed in front of Vincenzo was mouthwatering. He felt for his utensils and began to eat.

“Well, yeah, I was worried about ye, wasn’t I? Ye left me at the saloon ta stew.”

“First of all—“ Vincenzo swallowed the bite of breakfast, and waved his fork towards the brogue. “I’m sure you weren’t ‘stewing’. I wanted to give you some time with whatever woman—“

“It’s my job ta make sure yer taken care of!”

The impassioned outburst made Vincenzo sit back for a moment. The sounds from the other side of the table told him that his friend had made himself a plate and begun to eat. Finally, he said, “I’m blind, Gordy. Blind and ugly. There’s nothing wrong with my legs or arms. I can still get around fine.”

“I know that,” the other man said around a mouthful of flapjacks. “But…” He swallowed, and Vincenzo heard the sounds of cutlery. “I worry, all right?” The last part was mumbled, as if Gordy had shoved more food into his mouth.

He worried? It was…Vincenzo ate slowly, thinking. It was
nice
, to be worried over, he supposed. Remembering how scared the kid had been when he’d been caught, he had to chuckle a bit. “We’ve come a long way, huh?” There was a grunt from the other side of the table. “Remember how you begged me to let you go? You were so skinny then, I could drag you along by your collar.”

“Ye dragged me all the way ta yer hotel room, which raised a few eyebrows.”

“And I threw you down on that chair and put the fear of God into you.” He’d never threatened the urchin, but he’d explained what was going to happen to him if he went back out onto those streets; how miserable his life would be. “And after a while you stopped blubbering and started listening.”

“I never blubbered. Yer memory is going, old man.”

Vincenzo smiled and took another bite. “I never regretted offering you that job, boy.” A snort of laughter, as he’d expected. “You could’ve robbed me blind, but you didn’t.”

“Didn’t need to.” There was a pause, and Gordy’s words caught up to Vincenzo’s ears, and they both burst into laughter.

After a while, they fell into the easy, companionable meal-time banter they’d shared for almost a decade. “Do you remember the first time you tried cooking, and almost burnt down the hotel?”

“Do
ye
remember the first time my
soufflé
came out perfectly? I was eighteen, and you told me it was good enough to make a grown man cry.”

“Or when Madame Durand came downstairs in that house we rented in Paris, and realized that I was uncouth enough to let my servant eat breakfast with me?” They both laughed again, remembering her fit. “And I told her that since you cooked the damn meal, you should be able to eat it wherever you wanted?” More laughter that eventually faded into the clink of cutlery.

Vincenzo, however, toyed with his glass of milk. “I guess you’ve been taking care of me a long time, huh?”

“Ye’ve been taking care of yerself, m’lord. I just make sure ye don’t smack into things, and that yer fed properly.” Gordy’s manners were atrocious, despite Vincenzo’s best efforts, but what he lacked in civility, he made up for in sincerity.

“I suppose so. You’ve done a good job, even if you refuse to call me by my name.” Or rather, what he’d been telling people was his name for the last ten years.

“Wouldn’t feel right, would it?”

“Gordy, I’m not a lord. You know that, even though you’ve done as I asked that first evening and never pestered me about my past. Sure, I took you in, and made certain that you were fed and clothed. Sure, I taught you to read and stand up straight and drop enough of that abysmal brogue that you can pass as a civilized person.” Another snort from the other side of the table. “Sure, I’ve given you a home for a decade and I’m basically the only reason you’re alive right now—“

“The only reason I’m not throwin’ this sausage at ye is because I’d have to clean it up after.”

“—but that doesn’t mean I don’t think of you as a friend, Gordy.”

The sound of chewing met his claim. Gordy chewed like a farm animal. Finally, the other man said, “A friend, eh?”

“We’ve been through a lot, you and I.”

He heard a sigh, the clink of a fork being laid down. “Yer right,
Vincenzo
.”

It was a start, at least. Vincenzo smiled, and took a long drink of the cold milk. A noise from under the table, and then a gentle pressure against his leg, told him that Rajah had joined them. He plucked a piece of sausage off his plate with a fork, and pushed it under the tablecloth. His pet’s
uurgk
as he swallowed the meat matched Gordy’s long-suffering sigh, and Vincenzo’s smile grew.

“Ye know I hate it when ye feed the damn cat at the table.”

“Yes. I do.” Another stabbed sausage, another happy noise from Rajah. “Is the butter dish around here?” He pretended to feel around, and was rewarded with a curse and the sound of scrambling and clanking dishes from the other side of the table.

“I’m not about ta let you give that animal my butter. It’s bad enough he’s shedding all over my tablecloth.”

“
Your
tablecloth?”

“Aye, old man,
mine
.”

Vincenzo laughed aloud then, and took another sip of the milk. He’d succeeded in breaking the tension their earlier confession had brought, and that was good enough.”

“So, ‘Vincenzo’.” He could hear Gordy begin to eat again. “Who brought you home last night?”

“Well, I’m not helpless, you know. It turns out that it really
is
a short distance from Mrs. Mayor’s bookstore to the house, if one leaves through the garden.”

“And ye walked it, by yerself?”

“Why would I bother to try, when I had a lovely companion offering to do it for me?”

“Mrs. Mayor walked ye home?”

“And Eddie. It was… nice.”

“Did she kiss ye on the front porch too, then?” The teasing was normal, but there was a touch of something else in Gordy’s tone. Rajah
meowed
from under the table, and they both ignored him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re just friends.” But had his friend asked
Did she kiss you in the garden?
he might not’ve had an easy dismissal. There’d been a moment there, by the gate, when he could feel her pulse next to his skin, when he could taste the air she was breathing… when they were close enough that he could capture her lips with his…. If Eddie hadn’t begun to play at that moment, Vincenzo didn’t know what he might’ve done. What might’ve happened.

Although
imagining
what might’ve happened had been the reason he was still awake when Gordy had come home last night. Imagining the taste of her lips, the feel of her hair between his fingers, the sound of her moans against his skin…

“And is she ‘friendly’ enough to call ye by yer Christian name? Do ye call her by hers?”

“Actually, I…” Vincenzo picked up his fork and knife and attacked the flapjacks, feeling the ever-hopeful cat twining around his ankle. How did he not know her given name? After the weeks he’d spent thinking about her, looking forward to spending time with her, he was still calling her “Mrs. Mayor”. After the magical evening they’d shared last night, maybe it was time to ask her.  “I’m thinking about inviting her on a picnic tomorrow.”

“A picnic.”

“Yes. Eating outdoors, enjoying each other’s company.” He didn’t know where the idea had come from, other than memories of long-ago picnics with a long-ago love.

“In the sun. With bugs. Where other people can see ye.”

“Oh, stop being so pessimistic.”

“I’m just surprised, is all.”

Vincenzo snorted, and then popped the last bite of flapjacks into his mouth, to Rajah’s disappointment. He was… flying. The fizzle and pop of excitement spread through his limbs and across his chest. “Make up something delicious for us, would you? I’ll send an invitation to Mrs. Mayor.” He stood up, throwing the napkin onto his chair. “Do you want to come along?”

Gordy laughed. “And interrupt yer courting? No, thank ye!”

Courting
? Was that what he was doing? Definitely not. “Mrs. Mayor is just a friend, Gordy. Her son is my student.” And yes, there’d been a moment last night—and several other times, he had to admit—that he would’ve gladly kissed her senseless. Yes, he’d been thinking about her as more than
just a friend
for a few weeks now, but he’d never act on it.

After all, she was a woman who valued beauty and perfection, and he was far from either of those things. She’d been the one to pull away first last night. She’d been the one to hesitate at using his given name. She’d been the one to spend her life carefully cultivating a garden of impossibly beautiful flowers, just because beauty had worth.

No, he could only ever be a friend to
her
. No matter what she might be to him.

Eddie grabbed her hand as they walked up Andersen Avenue together. It surprised Arabella, but she instinctively held on. How many times, over the years had they walked like this, each the most important person in the other’s world? But as Eddie had gotten older, he’d wanted less to do with her, spending more time with his friends. She’d missed these simple touches, and now she had them back, thanks to this change she saw in her son. He was more focused, and more curious and excited about the world, rather than frustrated. He acted out less, and was politer, than even this time last month.

She knew she owed this wonderful change to Vincenzo. He talked to the boy as a man, gave him advice, guided him, encouraged him. And the violin lessons hadn’t hurt, either. Watching the two of them play in the garden last night—Vincenzo allowing the boy to take the lead—had made her prouder than she could ever remember being. The two of them got along well, and Vincenzo had brought back the kind, thoughtful, respectful boy she’d raised.

“Do you think
Signore
will mind that I brought my pole, Mother?” There he was, being thoughtful. She squeezed his hand.

“I can’t imagine he would, sweetheart. We don’t know if he has the lake in mind for a picnic, but it
is
the nicest place around.”

“I mean, since he can’t fish. Do you think he’d mind if I fished?”

“I think, Eddie, that
Signore
Bellini has surprised us in what he
can
do. Maybe he likes to fish, too.”

Her son just nodded, and shifted his grip on the poles in his left hand. They’d stopped home after church to pick up the poles and drop off Eddie’s jacket, and were now headed towards Vincenzo’s house. For some reason, she carried his invitation in the pocket of her favorite yellow skirt, for some reason. It wasn’t like she needed to re-read it, but it somehow made her happy to feel the crinkle of paper, and know it was there.