The afternoon was quiet and humid, with the windows and doors propped open, allowing a salt-scented breeze to gust into the sitting room at random intervals. If one were to step outside the confines of the four walls and look beyond the horizon, the dark threat of a thunderstorm could be seen in the sky and slowly descending on the beachfront bungalow. The crash of the waves upon the strand complimented the sounds of silence: wind rustling curtains, and the gentle rhythm of a man and a woman breathing, content.
Georg von Trapp, dressed in a light, cotton shirt and loose-fitting pants sat on the slightly-overstuffed loveseat, eyes closed as his fingers ran lazily through his wife's short, reddish-blond locks, pulling her fringe from her sticky forehead and pushing the sides behind her ears at varied intervals. For her part, Maria von Trapp was sprawled across the loveseat with her head in her husband's lap, a book propped against her belly as she read the well-worn volume, dressed in what could simply be described as a silk shift, and if she were to sit up, it would surely be stuck to her skin.
The book was a delight, a rarity, a near-impossible find in America post-war: Brigitta had found it in a bookstore in the town where she was attending university. It was book of sonnets Austrian in origin; Brigitta had seen it and immediately thought of her father, she being one of the few in the world who was privy to the knowledge that the stoic naval captain harboured a place in his heart for poetry. It had been handed off to her mother, however, and much to the delight of daughter and amusement of husband, Maria found she enjoyed the earnest musings of Rilke.
"Do you suppose one might find Apollo's temple?" Maria murmured, thumbing a slightly-dampened page to turn it.
Opening his eyes, Georg smiled and looked down at his wife, whose face was not so affected by the humidity as was the rest of her body, but was blissfully bare, and her delightful smattering of freckles across cheeks, nose, and forehead were clearly on display, brought out now in full force by the hours upon hours of sunlight the pair had soaked in since arriving on Chincoteague Island.
"One day," Georg said, "when our brood is lessened and not in need of constant supervision"—here, Maria snorted—"I shall take you to Greece, love."
"Hmm," Maria intoned, eyes on the words on the page. "I appreciate that, aside from the fact that it is not likely to be possible to leave the continent without at least two children in tow for years yet."
"We managed this trip," Georg said, twirling a finger around a lock of Maria's hair.
"Yes, but only with some unbelievably exhausting coordination," Maria responded, a note of rue in her voice. "And besides, you haven't answered my question, not really."
"Rumor has it that the temple of Apollo is there, somewhere, hidden in Parnassus. Whether it is where the current structure stands is something else altogether."
"It would be wonderful to see," Maria commented, shifting slightly, but inhibited from movement by the fact that her husband had come to lay his left arm across her torso, which was now conveniently propping up her book for her.
Silence fell again as Maria continued to read, and Georg eventually turned his gaze from the worn book and the face of his remarkably youthful wife—the harsh years had been incredibly kind to her!—and let his mind wander, perusing over dreams once had, dreams lost, dreams born anew, wondering how it was they had come to be here. What mercies had given them such a life?
In a little while, the sun would begin to sink lower in the sky; the temperature would drop, and Maria would eventually pull herself from the poetry etched in their native tongue, by an Austrian, and she would wrinkle her nose at the thought of having to put on a dress, but she would do it, and they would go to dinner, walking along the beach with feet in the water, sandals in hand, until they reached a tiny little beachside hut that served light fare comprised of the ocean catch of the day; sometimes fish, sometimes lobster, always something filling that would hold them over until breakfast the next day, whereby Maria would prepare something large for them both in midmorning to tide them through the day.
They would walk for hours in the sun, take the ferry to Assateague Island, wander among the coves, talking and laughing or saying nothing at all. And then, as the sun was on the edge of the horizon, if you were in the right place at the right time, you could turn and hear, as well as the waves crashing along the beach, the tell-tale pounding of hoof beats. The Chincoteague ponies would be making their sojourn across the island's terrain, in search of a cove to shelter in for the night.
Georg had always held equines in his heart; he had ridden them since he could stand on his own two feet and was a master horseman. His wife, a consummate rider herself, however, forsook all pretense of refined skill and merely seemed to simply glow and her eyes would sparkle when in the presence of a horse. Watching her ride, it was not a question of who held the power but of who was more in harmony with whom. Married to her for thirteen years, working around horses constantly, Georg still was unsure whether that sparkle was simply for the magic of the beast, or for the mischief his wife could conjure up where any of these fickle, majestic creatures were concerned. A day astride a horse left her in spirits unimaginable, rivaled only by a day atop the Untersberg.
They had come here on the recommendation of some friends back home in Stowe. Georg had known from the expression on Maria's face as Andrew Gilbert explained how the herds of Chincoteague ponies roamed Assateague Island freely in its isolated pockets that this would be one of their rare excursions away from Vermont. With five children still in the house and the youngest just four years old, leaving for long intervals was still something of a pipe dream, but Liesl's husband, a friend of Andrew Gilbert's and sharing in the love of the wild ponies, had put it to the eldest von Trapp daughter that they take on her youngest siblings to allow his in-laws what he considered a rare, novel treat indeed.
The couple had presented the offer together, but it had been less of an offer and more of a command; Marta and Gretl for their parts were delighted to stay with their eldest sister for the remaining portion of their summer holiday, and Rosemary, Johannes, and Eleanore were simply thrilled at the prospect of sleeping on cots or trundles with Liesl's four children, who were more their kin and less their nieces and nephews. It had been agreed by the parents that the seven children could spend the good weather camping in the garden, or otherwise crowd into the sunroom that had been added the year before to the modest house.
"Oh," Maria breathed, "this is lovely." She had gripped the book firmly in her hands and was mouthing the words of a sonnet to herself.
"Indulge me," Georg murmured.
"I'm inclined to think it would lead to us to up-to-no-good," Maria said mildly, "but as you wish."
Her blasé comment made Georg smile. Resting his head against the back of the loveseat, he closed his eyes and waited for his wife to speak again, but this time, in the silken words of a poet, and not the lyrical lilt of delight and mischief that seemed to engulf her when she gave in to such simple pleasures.
"Exultation knows, and fierce Desire acknowledges,
"Only Lamentation must still learn; with a maiden's hand
"She counts out the old sorrows through the night.
"But suddenly, slantwise and unpractised,
"She holds aloft a constellation of our voices
"Against the heavens, left unobscured by her breath."
Maria continued to read aloud until she finished the sonnet; when she did so, Georg felt himself gripped with something that he could only call admiration. Admiration for the beauty of the poet's words, admiration for Maria's willingness to share her small joys, admiration that such a wretched world could hold such treasures.
Maria, it seemed, was not preoccupied with the pretense of conversation, and good as her word, shared what she had remarked upon because he requested it, and then carried on silently. It was so nice, so peaceful… and rather a bit too solemn.
Bending down to reach around his wife, Georg quickly grasped her in a binding hug, one which sent her book tumbling to the floor, and buried his face in the nape of her neck, to find the scent of sea, of spice and floral notes there, and he kissed her.
Giving a cry of alarm and indignation, Maria had turned to grasp the fallen book, to save it from impact on the hard, plank wood floor, but her husband's grasp around her middle prevented her from falling, or even having a hope of rescuing the delicate volume. She turned her head to glare at him, trying valiantly not to laugh and giggle at the tickle of his breath against her neck, but before she could say a word, push him away, or retaliate, she found herself locked in gales of laughter. Just as quickly as he had kissed her, he had begun to tickle her abdomen, which only became more exposed as she kicked and twisted around, trying to free herself.
Managing through some Herculean feat to writhe free from the loose shift she wore, Maria jumped away quickly, on her feet quick and nimble as a sprite, before Georg could register that all which was left in his hands was the veritable scrap of cloth.
Looking down at his hands, Georg chuckled, glancing with an impish smile up at Maria, who was standing several feet's length away from him, stance defensive, bare chest heaving as she tried to quell the last vestiges of laughter from her face, to be replaced by annoyance. The attempt was an admirable one, but Georg could see the twinkle of amusement in her wide, blue eyes.
Dashing a hand across her perspiring forehead, fringe damp with sweat and now pushed away from her eyes, Maria squinted at the man in front of her and asked, "What on earth was that for?"
For his part, Georg shrugged. "I don't know. Seemed the thing to do."
Not convinced, Maria nodded skeptically. "Uh-huh," she tutted. "The thing to do. Right."
The fact that she was standing before him topless, with only a scant lace piece of fabric clinging to her hips to take the claim of "underthings" with the outside world free to gust and blow in around them did not seem to be her chief concern. Or any concern at all, really. Georg felt a rush of pride swell up in him at this; it was not that his wife had no shred of dignity—oh, no. On the beach, she refused to meander in anything less than a dress, and her one swimsuit was elegant, stylish, and modern, but highly conservative, and she typically tied a sarong at her hips to shield her legs from lingering stares.
"It makes my skin crawl," she shuddered once in explanation. "It always has."
She hadn't elaborated further, and in truth, this qualm suited Georg just fine; though his wife possessed many fine features, her legs he found to be most attractive, and he enjoyed toying with her long, lean, muscular limbs knowing that, among various other aspects of her body, her legs were an intimacy for him only. This didn't preclude her ability to dress herself well, fitted and sharp and able to play up her figure, but Georg recognized that, indeed, the power was in the choice.
Looking up at her, Georg leaned his arms on his knees and spread his hands. "You're always a surprise, you know that, don't you?"
Eyebrows knitting, Maria placed a hand at her hip and shook her head. "Incorrigible," she stated.
"I couldn't have planned this," Georg laughed, gesturing at her defiant stance, gaze lingering on her chest. Her breathing had calmed now, and she gave a slight huff.
Standing, Georg stepped toward her, shaking his head, smile curling at the corner of his lip.
Shaking her head, Maria laughed lightly and held out her hands, grasping his in hers and joining in an embrace, leaning in as his strong arms surrounded her and rubbed her back firmly, finding all the tense spots that time and experience had taught him he would encounter there, and she pressed a kiss to the bare patch of his chest before dropping her hands to the hem of his shirt and beginning to tug it upwards.
Releasing his grasp and stepping back slightly to oblige his wife, Georg let her pull the light garment from his body, and grinned at her satisfaction, which was etched over a proud face as she reached for his belt and unbuckled it, pushing his loose pants away from his hips with a shrug. "Fair is fair," she drawled lightly.
And so there they stood, just feet apart in underthings, man and wife, he stepping from the pants and tossing them to the loveseat, she advancing to kiss him.
He had expected it, known it would come, this kiss. But the electric jolt that coursed through him when her bare chest met his, her hands cupped his face, and she gasped against his mouth—so close to lovemaking, yet so far away—almost made him collapse, and he staggered backwards to the loveseat, pulling her with him, she never once breaking the kiss, and collapsed on top of it as she straddled his lap and peppered his neck, shoulders, and ears with kisses and gentle bites in a rare but tantalizing burst of aggression.
Her heart rate had spiked again, her chest was rising and falling quickly, though this time not from annoyance, and looking down at the man she so loved as he found his bearings and began to knead her breasts, Maria could feel the beginnings of his arousal beneath her. Could feel the beginnings of her own. This holiday thus far had given way to far more intimate moments than they were privy to in their day-to-day life, and Maria felt somewhat as though she were on honeymoon again.
But this was better than honeymoon, because now, oh, now… now was wonderful beyond words. Paris had been special, new, an education of itself, but now, so many years on… they knew each other, moments like these carried equal possibility to be acted upon or reined in, and the choice to do so was made in full comfort that whatever lie in store would be worth the abandon or restraint, and in full comfort with themselves and each other.
He had implored her so often in those early weeks to have patience, to not rush, to go slow, to trust him, to breathe deep. Some attempts at compliance had gone more poorly than others, but she had tried, truly.
"Take such care," he had whispered in her ear one night, "move so deliberately, with such awareness"—he was circling her, pressing kisses to her collarbone, thumbing open the buttons along her back with deliberate, painstaking slowness, tracing fingers along the curve of her neck, nipping at her shoulder—"that if I were to tie a piece of twine around each of our ankles and knot them together in the middle, the length would not snap."
"Which ankles?" Maria had attempted to parry back, but it had been lost in a gasp as the man circling her like a hungry lion had freed the clasp at the base of her spine that held her evening gown at her waist and felt the garment, being quite top-heavy, fall away from her body and pool to the floor.
It hadn't mattered, not really. The missive had worked, enough to give her a point of focus that meant they were moving in tandem more often than not.
"It's rather unlike those romance novels Liesl loves so much," Maria had commented one morning, tousled and slightly dazed following one such successful attempt at lovemaking according to her husband's theory of two strings. She had sat up in bed so saying, one hand buried in her hair as she looked up at her husband, who had climbed from the tangle of their bed and was tying the sash of his dressing gown lazily about his hips, hair equally frightful, a supremely pleased expression on his face as he pivoted away to throw open the French windows.
"Thank God for that," he had answered, kissing her on the forehead as he rejoined her. "Much too silly, much too urgent for my liking. The urgency is in the anticipation. The patience—the reward."
"Yes, and, well," Maria added, "the thoughts and actions might be silly and her mind better edified by other things, but at the very least—they are no instruction manual, these books!"
No words written on the page of any book could possibly bring to bear what it was to be loved by this man. He was a creature made of love, made for love, servant and master both.
Jolted back to Chincoteague Island as warm, strong hands grasped her hips and thumbs kneaded into the base of her spine, Maria raised herself on her knees and bent down to kiss Georg again. Their bodies, invigorated by desire and at once compressed by the humidity, were no longer lightly sheened with sticky dampness, but instead had become slick.
In a thick, heavy voice, Maria rasped, "Carry me."