Reverb (25 page)

I wait for her to continue, but she just sips her tea, stares out at the water. “You’re going to have to take it further if you want me to understand.” Her soft profile is dimly lit from the ambient light from the kitchen, and I catch a glimpse of her smile.

She pulls away from me, brings her feet to the deck, straightens and sips her tea again, then scooches next to me, so our legs and hips are touching, but doesn’t look at me. “Jack was a brilliant journalist, not only because he objectified everything, but he strove for excellence, pursued it with passion. It was one of the very things I loved about him. His commitment, regardless of the risks or hardships, inspired me to be equally dedicated. So I followed him around the world, providing the visuals for his stories. Got my first NPPA when I was twenty-five.” She flashes a tentative smile. “And I’d like to tell you it was the pinnacle of my dreams, but truth is, it felt rather hollow. Even then I was tired of the
reality
of it all, and ready to go home,
make
a home, start a family and settle in.”

“I’m getting Jack wasn’t on that page.”

“Good guess. We fought about it constantly. I’d spent all those years acquiescing to
his
way. He
owed
me the turn around. Closing in on thirty, and my biological clock became a time bomb. Yet, even when Jack agreed to work at having a kid, it wasn’t enough for me. I’d assumed I’d have more of him, but, of course, that wasn’t the case. His pursuit of excellence still dominated his time.” She sighs with the weight of the memories. “Thing is, I’m beginning to see my expectations were out of line. I should never have agreed to a life with a man whose priorities I couldn’t accept, nor fault, since I knew of, even admired him for, from the start.” She drinks her tea, still does not look at me. “I don’t want to go there with you.” She practically whispers.

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t ever want to put you in the position of having to choose.”

“Between what and what?”

“Between music, Cameron and me.”

I sit up and face her. “You win. You don’t know that by now, or is it that you don’t trust it?”

She leaning back against the house, her eyes fixed on mine. “James, you’re clearly a purveyor of excellence, and have devoted a huge amount of your time and energy passionately pursuing, at least the guitar, to get as good as you are. It’s how one becomes great at anything. I didn’t get that with Jack. I just got hurt that he denied me what I felt I was due. But I get it with you.”

“'Lisabeth, I. Am. Not. Jack.”

“No. You’re more insular than Jack ever was. Our first twenty years we were connected at the hip. It wasn’t until half way through college that his career took off, and took over. Music isn’t just your career choice, James. Anyone who plays like you do, well, it’s obviously more of a lifestyle. Your commitment to pursuing it is beyond passion—at this point, probably deeply ingrained in your self-perception.”

I smile at her phrasing. “Thank you, Sigmund.”

Her clear amber eyes flicker with humor, but suddenly darken with her expression. “And while I’ve come to realize, sacrificing for excellence on occasion is essential to achieve it, I beseech you, don’t ever make me ask you to choose, James.” Her eyes hold me captive, pleading. She’s deadly serious.

I'm fixed on her, inside her head, feel her fear and still underlying anger. “I won’t.” I reach out to her then, hold her face in both my hands and kiss her again. Her warm lips part and I draw her in, get lost in contact, her taste, smell sweet sex on her skin. We part slightly, but stay lips to lips. She runs her tongue over mine, kisses me again, and again. I feel her smile, then mine, kiss her again and we finally pull back. “I promise you, you and Cameron will remain my priority.” Let my hands fall from her face but keep my eyes on hers.

She smiles, nods humbly, then reaches up with both hands and cups my jaw, kisses me quickly, drawing my face up in her hands before separating them as she stands and straightens, releases me.

“Be with me tonight.” Elisabeth’s tone is tender, and teasing. In the dim light I can barely make out that she’s extending her hand to me, the night sky behind her silhouetting her form.

Their forms descend on the bed like a pack of wolves. Billy slams inside me, up my ass splitting me open, my screams garbled and choking as he pumps me raw. He just laughs, the grin plastered on his face so wide it becomes the Cheshire cat, the animated one from the Disney movie. And the white snakes are rushing up my arms and I watch them, helpless as they slither across my chest, and I scream in terror as they wrap around my cock. And I’m writhing and moaning, crying and cussing, and they’re
laughing
as Billy slams into me again and again. But I fight and kick until I get one leg free and then someone’s head is between my calves and I lock them around his neck, clamp down as hard as I can, lifting him off me, crushing his larynx by the sound of his gurgling, and breaking his neck. I hear it crack, like snapping a large twig, feel his body go slack between my legs, the weighted silence that follows, then someone whispers, “Holy fucking Christ. I think he’s just killed Billy.”

I sit on the bench paralyzed, except for the trembling. My heart’s coming through my chest. Feel Elisabeth looking down at me, feel her shame, her confusion when I don’t reach for her hand. I can’t move to save my life.

Take her hand. You want to be with her,
be
with her.

“I can’t.” I shake my head.
It’ll hurt.
“I could hurt you.” I can barely breathe. Want to crawl under the bench.

Run
.

She drops her hand to her side. I look up at her, her face suddenly illuminated with the kitchen’s dim light. I feel her uncertainty, her eyes searching to see into me. Then her expression slowly morphs with understanding into her casual smile. “Move over.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Scooch.” She sits next to me and bumps up against me until I’m two-thirds down the bench, then brings her legs up, stretches them out and rests her head in my lap.

Her hair cascades over my legs like a warm blanket. She stares up at the stars, dark lashes framing her glistening eyes scanning the twinkling sky. Hard to make the color of her wide-set eyes; strong features of her long, oval face are difficult to see in the dim light, but her dark, thick lips are closed, set in a placid expression. In fact, her entire demeanor is calm, relaxed, and I sense no confusion, nor ire. I manage to stop trembling. She laces my left hand in her right, brings my hand across her to rest on her stomach. I stroke her hair with my free hand, try slowing my heart rate.

Can she feel my heart pounding? Does she sense my shame, my moral dissonance—fearing my own essence now, more than anything outside of me. She closes her eyes, surrenders to my touch, the way I’ve seen Cameron mesmerized by hers. I lean back against the house, let my head drop back and close my eyes, but continue stroking her hair—bringing its silky smoothness between my fingers again and again.

Fifteen minutes pass in silence and I’m thinking she’s fallen asleep, but then I hear her inhale to speak.

“You know, the first time Jack and I had sex it was very awkward.” She pauses. “We were seventeen, on a road trip up at my cousin’s house in the Berkeley hills. We stayed in the unfinished upstairs master bedroom of their second floor addition. Only three of the four walls were up. The west wall was just framing, which gave us a fantastic view of the bay, and even San Francisco beyond, but it was freezing in there. We had separate sleeping bags, but decided to share one and snuggled really close to keep warm.”

She holds my hand on her stomach, connecting us, spinning a parable for what she’s afraid to say straight out. I don’t open my eyes. I want to stay in her story, watch the scene unravel with the offhanded manner of her telling.

“Well, of course, Jack got a hard-on almost instantly. We were both virgins, and although I wasn’t committed to keeping it that way, I was afraid if we had sex it would wreck our friendship. Like death and taxes, adding sex to the mix certainly changes things, like it or not.”

I smile down at her. Her eyes are still closed, her expression still placid.

“Anyway, to make a long story short, we did it. I let him, in other words. He’d been wanting to for so long, and I’d always stopped him. But that night I figured there was no turning back once we were in the same sleeping bag. I’ve always abhorred the idea of being a prick tease. And it was painful and clumsy and over in about a minute once he was inside me, which honestly, I was glad for because it hurt like hell with him in there.”

Surely, she’s not randomly sharing this slice of intimate history. There’s something she feels a need to communicate, but fears her usual direct approach. And though I feel trepidation rising, curiosity overrides it so I spur her on. “And you’re telling me this story because...”

“No reason in particular.”

“Right.” I catch her whisper of a smile, shake my head, but with humor, before dropping it back against the wall and closing my eyes again.

“The thing is, it got better. Sex, I mean,” she continues softly. “Our first few times it was awkward, or it hurt, or it just didn’t feel the way everyone always raved about. But eventually we found our rhythm, and somewhere after that I had my first orgasm and realized what all the hype was about.” She pauses. “And even though I haven’t had sex in almost a year now, desire has not abandoned me.” She pauses again. “Just thought I’d let you know.” She yawns, let’s go of my hand and rolls onto her side, curls up and buries her hands under my leg, using my lap as a pillow. Within moments her breathing becomes even and I realize she’s fallen asleep.

I let myself free fall into her warmth; her softness; her sweet, rich, seductive scent. I know she’s just come on to me. I’m just not quite sure what to do with it. Yet. I smile, which persists as I drift off. The sleep is restless. The bench is hard. It gets cold out there at some point. There are dreams—exploring the tide pools with Cameron; laughing while gorging on fruit with Elisabeth, the fruit juice dripping slowly down the front of her body. In one dream, I’m on her porch, guitar in my lap strumming a fast, rhythmic progression—Em-Am-E-F#-G#-F#-Em...a new one that sticks when I wake late in the night. But the nightmares do not come.

Chapter Ten

James removes her head from his lap and stands. She tucks her hands under her cheek to lift her face off on the weathered pine bench and opens her eyes as the screen door shuts. It’s dark, even the stars seem dimmer. She sits up, still groggy, looks around for James but doesn’t see him, then hears the screen door again, feels the weight of her quilt over her shoulders and looks up at him.              

     “Sorry I woke you.” He takes her hand and brings her to her feet, then guides her to sit on the lounge chair, then kneels in front of her. He smiles his adorable, single-dimpled grin. “Go back to sleep. I’ll see ya later.” His full, soft lips cover hers with warmth, and then he’s gone. She falls onto the lounge chair, curls her feet up under her blanket and listens to him crunch the earth as he climbs the hill.

And Elisabeth is alone.

Except she isn’t. Cameron sleeps just the other side of the wall. Five minutes later, James starts playing and they’re connected again.

She gets up, checks on Cam while heating water for tea, then pours herself a cup and comes back out to listen. Connect. She craves him now. She wants to be with him, or hear him all the time, know he’s close. Safe. Alive. Even if Jack were, he wouldn’t be enough anymore. Not now. Knowing what is possible.

Elisabeth sits on the bench cradling her tea, listening to him strum the guitar—fast and fluid, then switch to picking, keeping the same tight rhythm without missing a beat. The music resonates off the hillside and echoes down from his house. He knows she can hear him now. He means for her to. She smiles, wonders if he is, hopes he is...and is suddenly chilled with the notion.
Will the very thing connecting them now eventually tear them apart?

She would never ask him to choose between her and music. But she didn’t have to stay with him if she doesn’t like his choice.
I won’t. Not again.
James is with her now. More often than not he’s present, pays attention, listens, questions. This is nothing like with Jack. She had no idea this was even possible. She’s the best part of herself when she was with James. He engages her. Challenges her. Empowers her. He sees her as beautiful. She feels beautiful.

Elisabeth listened to him play all summer, night after night, getting better and better. But since he’s crossed the line to great, her fear of losing him to his muse has become pervasive, constantly looming. Like losing Cameron. And that’s how she knows she’s in love with him.

She felt compelled to bring up her concerns on their way back from the café tonight. And James said exactly what she wanted to hear, and she melted, even though she knows it was bullshit. She doesn’t think
he
knows. He probably genuinely wants to stay connected. And then he kissed her. Totally out of the blue.
Wow!
It was electric. Set her body tingling…

She sips her tea. Warm and sweet. He stops playing. She’s sure she feels him smile. She smiles. It’s close to midnight, way too early for him to quit for the night. He’ll pick it back up at some point. Ten minutes or half an hour. No telling really. She hasn’t caught a pattern yet, except that he plays longer and longer each night. Lately, she hears him in the mornings sometimes, too, after going back up to shower following breakfast. His muse’s talons are digging in.
‘I play to kill the void that comes without you,’
he’d said. She laughs, shakes her head. It’s impossible to believe him, even though she wants to.

Weeks pass, and most feel like a dream. James takes them to Mortaitika and Messogi on the east side of the island, where they spend hours exploring the shallows of the Messonghi river that flows from the pine covered hills. They go to Corfu City, shop but don’t buy anything, then on a whim go up to see the crystalline bay of Gouvia. They go para-sailing. Elisabeth loves it. Spectacular view from above—lush rolling hills blanketed by groves of olive and citrus; rocky coves bordering the turquoise Ionian; a funky adobe church built on a jetty in the middle of the bay.

A week of adventures is followed by a quiet one at home. Then they’re off again, back north past Sidari out to the glassy lagoons of Acharavi. Then to the long sandy beaches of Kavos on the southernmost tip of the island before rounding out the week in the emerald pine forest in the hills of Skipero.

They laze three days in a row on
their
beach, reading, napping, talking, playing. They spend hours shopping, chopping, preparing meals. They trade off cooking. With minor resistance Elisabeth agrees to trade off reading to Cameron at night, since they both love it, and Cam doesn’t seem to care as long as it’s
One Fish, Two Fish
or
Go Dog Go
.

“How come you won’t play for me?” She asks him on the deck that evening.

“I do.”

“In
front
of
me, for me and Cam.” Her head’s in his lap. He sits on the bench, leaning up against the house, running his nails lightly against her scalp, pulling his long fingers loosely through her hair over and over. It feels fantastic, tingling, yet soothing.

“Why do you need to see me play? You can hear me. I’m your lullaby.”

“You are at that.” She falls asleep every night to his playing, comes right through her bedroom window. She blushes, a twinge of lewd invasion. “But you’re turning this around. I don’t want to talk about me. I want you to answer my question.”

He laughs. “Okay. Let’s see.” He strokes his cheeks and chin. “The guitar, of late, is kind of like playing Tavli—to pass the time of day, or night as the case may be. I’ve never been a performer. I don’t like being watched. I get that enough without the guitar.” He glances down at her, his soft chestnut hair falling into his eyes, then his face lights up and he cocks an eyebrow. “But what you want to know is what I’m afraid of. And that would be you seeing me as a musician, and a mediocre one at that.”

“So you won’t play for me, in front of me, because you’re afraid I’ll see you as less than perfect?”

“I’m afraid you won’t see
me
. I don’t want you to confuse the man with the music. I have a hard enough time separating them myself. You’re my lighthouse.”

She smiles, humbly. “My father used to tell me, ‘Fall in love with the art, not the artist.’ Didn’t listen, of course. I’ve always been enamored with creative excellence. Like I said, it’s a big part of what attracted me to Jack.”

“Your father is right. Truth is, most woman I’ve been with were more enamored with the musician than me. But to be fair, I wasn’t much to be with. It scares me who’ll you’ll see, how you’ll see me forward if I introduce you to my muse.”

She looks up at him. She smiles to hide her trepidation but is grateful, at least, he’s admitted she’s returned. “No worries, then. I was in love with the man before the music, so we should be okay.” Her breath catches in her throat. It’s the first time she’s confessed to being in love with him.

He stares down at her, wisps of fine hair catching in his long lashes, then bends down and kisses her. His lips are warm, thick, wet. He’s inside her mouth with his tongue, swallows her in for an instant, then withdraws, holds his lips to hers for a split second, then parts. Her entire body flushes, tingles. She smells sex oozing from her pores, but resists her powerful desire to pull him back to her or reach out to him, knowing she must wait for him to accept her invitation.

James straightens, lays his head back against the house and closes his eyes. “There were times when I would be creating music with someone, or a group of musicians, and we’d achieve what felt like this perfect harmony, the sound we were generating transcending the boundaries of the physical, venturing into the surreal. It was wild. Like we were one, all of us one being, intertwined, blended.” He pauses. “Kind of like what I feel with
you
now.”

She stares up at him. He doesn’t open his eyes, but she catches just a hint of a smile whisper across his gorgeous face. It isn’t ‘I love you.’ But it’ll do. She closes her eyes and snuggles in.