I began to come awake in small degrees of consciousness from a pleasant dream. Luxuriously I stretched. It was warm in bed. Sighing, I nestled more deeply into the warmth. Sliding my hips toward it, and burrowing my back into it. And I breathed deeply, drifting back into sleep.
In my next dream, an arm reached out from my memory and held me close. Somewhere in the darkness, I found Peter’s lips and began to kiss them. My fingers remembered the path up his neck and behind his ears to his beautiful blond hair, and they wove their way through it. I traced the line of his familiar jaw, ran a finger over his eyebrow. Then I recalled that there was something I needed to tell him. I needed to tell him that I was sorry. And then I was overcome with guilt. And the guilt is what wrenched me away from my dream and abandoned me in reality.
Of course, it wasn’t Peter at all. It was Cranwell. He was lying on the bed, on top of the duvet, like a true gentleman. And I was lying on top of him, kissing him. Just like one of his actresses or models.
At that moment, Cranwell woke up. I saw his eyes flare in surprise and then melt into glowing pools of amber. He whispered my name.
I began to sob.
At that instant all I really wanted was to be taken into those strong arms. And I wanted him to make the awful guilt go away.
But he searched my eyes, and as I looked into them, I could see them cloud with confusion.
Leaving him there in his bed, I ran up the stairs to my room. It was only when I put my hand to the door to open it that I realized the key was down in Cranwell’s room.
Banging on the door with my fist didn’t yield any results, so I leaned my head against it and cried. I cried for Peter. For the fact that he was probably living in eternal hell. For the fact that I could have told him at any time about having a relationship with Christ, about believing in God. But I didn’t. I let his claims of being an atheist go unchallenged. I gave up my relationship with God for a relationship with a man. Cranwell was right: Of course I believed in God. I just hadn’t been able to get past my guilt. I was too ashamed to face Him.
I cried from frustration. As I wept, I was filled with a loneliness that for months I had held at bay, hoping secretly that Cranwell would provide the cure.
I cried from shame. I couldn’t believe I’d been making out with Cranwell. Throwing myself at him in his own bed. Those tears, the tears shed in humiliation, were the worst.
Cranwell must have come up the stairs silently, for suddenly he was beside me. At least he had sense enough not to touch me. He simply turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, leaving me to find my own way inside.
I took my time showering. I had to think. When I went downstairs I would run into Cranwell, and I had to decide right then what I would do. I couldn’t just pretend things were normal. My actions had changed everything. I couldn’t imagine sitting down to breakfast and dinner with him as we’d been doing for the past six months. How could I bring myself to look him in the eye?
But then, he’d probably had women throw themselves at him all the time. How could my actions have been any worse? He was probably used to dealing with women like me. Like me! How could I have turned into a woman like that! Maybe the only thing to do was pretend like things were normal.
My guests solved my problem for me. There was always something that had to be done or someone, other than Cranwell, to talk to. Of course, whenever I came within proximity, I spoke to him just so he would know that as far as I was concerned, nothing had happened. But where before I could read his eyes, now they were blank.
At least they were when he looked at me.
I knew if I could just survive until Cranwell finished his novel, then he would be gone, and my life would be my own again.
I would survive if it killed me.
Everyone left on Sunday evening. I don’t know why. From experience, I knew that traffic surrounding Paris on Sundays was horrible from 3:00 in the afternoon until 10:00 at night. But maybe sitting in a Lamborghini or a Ferrari was pleasurable whether the wheels were turning or not.
Cranwell was late in coming downstairs for dinner. From the sound of their footsteps, both he and Lucy seemed subdued, as if each step on the stairway was leading them one step nearer to doom. I already had a piece of flamiche aux poireaux cut for both of us and waiting on the island. In spite of my knotted stomach, I was looking forward to the creamy leek pie. The only thing I hadn’t done was pour the wine. I hadn’t done it because that was Cranwell’s job.
He paused at the bottom stair, his forest green crewneck and dark gray slacks blending into the shadows. When he looked at the island, his face registered surprise. He queried me with his eyes.
“If you’d like to open the wine, then we can eat before it gets cold.”
Lucy let out a great sigh, which managed to lighten the air around us. We both smiled as we watched her settle herself on the floor. I was still smiling when I looked up to find him watching me.
Grabbing the corkscrew, I handed it to him, and then we settled on our stools to eat.
For the first time, there seemed to be nothing to talk about. Fear washed over me. It wasn’t going to work. Beginning to feel more and more self-conscious, it seemed like the sound of my chewing and swallowing had been magnified over a loudspeaker.
“Cranwell-”
“Freddie-”
We had spoken at the same moment, so we laughed, embarrassed.
“You first.” He was insistent.
I’d completely forgotten what inane thing it was that I was going to say. So I took a deep breath. And staring hard at my plate, I said the first thing that popped into my mouth. “About yesterday morning.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Cranwell freeze.
“I’m sorry. I had a dream.” That sounded lame, even to my own ears.
“Peter?”
I nodded.
“I guess it’s never easy competing with a ghost.”
“I’m… well… attracted to you.” It was the truth. My cheeks flamed as I said this, but I tried to ignore them and kept on speaking. “You told me once that I needed to move on. That I had to get over Peter. And I am. I’m trying. It’s just that I’ve known about God since I was three years old. I always went to church, before I went to college. I knew everything there was to know about God, Cranwell, but I never told any of it to Peter. If he’s in hell right now, it’s all my fault.”
He bowed his head at that point and was still for several moments before he spoke.
“Freddie, it’s not your fault.”
“It is.”
He raised his brown eyes to mine. “Wait. Just listen for a second. It seems to me that everyone is responsible to God for the state of their own soul. He’s left it up to each individual to make a choice-for themselves. Maybe Peter would have become a believer if you had talked to him, or maybe he wouldn’t have. Sometimes people won’t listen to those closest to them. Sometimes they need a stranger to tell them. Sometimes they don’t need words at all. God doesn’t need anybody to tell others about Him; He’s arranged the world itself to be His testimony. Let Peter go, Freddie. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past year, it’s that no matter how much you wish, you can never change the past. The only thing you can do is change the present.”
He reached for my hand and took it in his. “Please don’t be embarrassed about yesterday. I wish I had been the object of your affection. I’ve never met anyone like you, Freddie. And I don’t think I ever will again.”
The corner of my mouth turned up in the start of a smile. “Thank God.”
Cranwell began to smile too. “Thank God.”
He lifted his glass. “To us.”
I clinked it with mine. “To friendship.”
Something close to gratitude passed between us after that as we sat and ate. What we had said to each other would never be said again, but it had made that morning romp a squall passing through our relationship rather than a hurricane stalling over it. And after that, there were a million things to talk about.
In hindsight, I was glad I’d had the courage to say what I did. I would have missed the companionship had I sent him upstairs.
Several hours later, he left with Lucy to return to his room. He stopped on the first stair and turned around to face me. “Freddie-”
I held my breath.
“Thank you.”
Bringing the dishes to the sink, I washed them with shaking hands. Then I went up to my lounge and spent most of the night going over grant applications for the foundation.
“Let me help you.”
I peered between my legs.
Cranwell was standing on the garden path, so I stood up for a stretch. Planting gardens made for backbreaking work. I put my hand to my lower back and arched my spine, trying to pull the kinks from it.
“What can I do?”
He was standing there in his suede leather jacket, Italian leather loafers, and brown moleskin trousers. I tossed my braid behind my shoulder and pulled my hat farther over my ears. “Unless you want to ruin your shoes and permanently stain your pants, I’d just stay right where you are.”
He looked down toward his feet. “These? They only cost two hundred dollars.” He stepped carefully into the plot and made his way toward me.
Lucy, disdaining the dirt, found a comfortable flagstone and curled herself upon it.
Unbuttoning my brick-colored corduroy jacket, I tossed it to him, and then I pushed up the long sleeves of my thermal shirt. Looking down, I saw that my faded jeans were already stained with dirt, along the hems and the knees. They’d wash. I tried to think of something that Cranwell could do that would keep him from becoming too soiled. I finally decided he could follow behind me, sprinkling seeds into the holes I’d dug.
We worked for a good hour and a half before I declared that it was time to stop. I put my jacket back on, becoming cold after the sudden halt to our labor.
We returned the tools to the garage and walked together back to the kitchen where we perched ourselves on stools.
“Would you mind just giving my back a little push, right there?” I pointed to a place near my spine on my lower back where my muscles had spasmed.
“Where?”
Pulling up the back of my jacket, I pointed.
He put a hand on my shoulder and the other to my spine, grinding a knuckle into my muscle. “Too hard?”
“Not hard enough.”
Cranwell took his hand from my shoulder and reached it around my rib cage to support the pounding he was giving my back. “Better?”
“Yes.”
He moved up my spine slowly, pushing first with his fist, then with his knuckles and fingers. His hand at my rib cage splayed to keep me from being pushed over by his efforts.
He happened onto a knot.
I cringed.
“Does that hurt?”
“Like torture.”
Using a thumb, he tried to relax the spot. It refused to loosen. “Just a second.” He lifted the hem of my shirt and slid his hand up against my skin.
The effect was electric.
A tingle went from my scalp to my toes, leaving my senses heightened in its wake. His massage slowed.
The room was growing warm. My clothes were stifling. There was a buzzing in my ears. Without asking my permission, I felt my body lean into his.
His breathing fanned my hair. And then stopped.
Then, at an instant, as if a bomb had exploded between us, we hurled ourselves away from each other.
“Thanks, Cranwell. Perfect.” I bent at my waist to the right and left to demonstrate my newfound mobility. “Wonderful. Thanks a lot. That was nice of you.” I sprinted toward the stairs. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
As I zipped up the stairs and past the entry hall it occurred to me that this was the first time I had ever run away from my own kitchen. The kitchen was my refuge.
Slowing to a walk, I then stopped altogether. It wasn’t right that I should be run out of my own kitchen.
Reversing directions, I descended the stairs, determined to face the situation between us.
As I reached the bottom of the stairwell, I saw Cranwell was still there. He was seated at the island. He had stretched his upper body across the marble countertop, arms bent and his hands clasped over his head. It was a position of utter defeat or extreme pain.
Not wanting to startle him, I cleared my throat.
He scraped himself off the marble and turned on his stool to face me.
I’d never seen him look so haggard.
He pushed off the stool and walked with wooden legs toward the stairs, Lucy following behind.
“See you at dinner.”
“No.” He didn’t even turn to look at me. “Not tonight, Freddie. I just can’t do it.”
I sat on his abandoned stool and stayed there for a long while. When I got up, I revised the evening’s menu. The pork cutlets I had intended for dinner, I put in the fridge; they would keep for the next evening. Two of the île flottantes, I poured down the sink, using hot water to melt them; I set one aside for Sévérine. There was no point in saving the others; the meringue dessert wouldn’t last through the night. And at that moment, I wasn’t hungry for dessert. In fact, I was hardly hungry at all.
A humble dinner of a salad, a ham and gruyère crêpe, and a small bottle of cidre sufficed. I tried, while I was eating, to remember what I had done at dinner before Cranwell had shown up at my chateau.
I couldn’t remember.