CHAPTER THREE
By the night of their third lesson, Christine had to accept that his music brought her a kind of ecstasy. They both had the singular ability to completely lose themselves, but, for her at least, he provided an anchor. The music wove threads of emotion between them, and she found herself unable to deny that she found his voice decidedly erotic. His playing enflamed her soul, but his voice enflamed her body. She couldn't explain it, but it had a physical effect on her. That night, she found herself lying in bed, remembering, touching, and putting her hand to her mouth lest he hear her scream his name.
In the morning, she vowed to get herself under control. Erik had never been anything but professional with her. In fact, he'd seemed a little colder to her than the night they first met. She wondered how much room his professional life left for his personal life. Certainly, so far, he seemed to be spending all his free time with her, but he hadn't mentioned whether they'd practice over the weekend.
That night, she knocked on his door at seven instead of eight. He came to the door in only dark pants and a soft, white linen shirt. He'd always worn jackets when she was here before.
She sighed at the thought of touching the smooth skin revealed at his open collar.
"You're early," he said drily.
She shook herself. "Oh, right," she said. She held up a bottle of wine. "I had the selfish desire to see the sunset out of your magnificent array of windows. I thought we could have wine and just order some takeout before we got to work."
"I…of course. That's fine."
He stood back to let her in.
"Do you have a wine opener?" she called out.
He approached, took the bottle from her, and disappeared behind a swinging door she could only assume led into his kitchen.
When he returned he had the open bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He walked over to his sofa, which faced the windows without interruption. There was no television. Bookshelves lined the wall behind her, but there was nothing to impair the view. Already the sky was turning pink and lights were visible on the river's opposite shore.
"Have a seat," he said, putting the two glasses down on the coffee table and pouring some wine for each of them.
She tucked herself in on one end of the couch and reached for a glass.
Eric took the other one and sat at the other end of the sofa. It didn't leave them too far apart; it was really more of a loveseat than a sofa. Its high back was topped with a gold wooden decorative edge. She leaned back and looked at him.
"I thought you wanted to see the sunset," he said.
She castigated herself. "I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't staring. I mean…not at your mask."
He gave a wry laugh. "I've never considered anything else about myself to be stare-worthy."
"No, I was just wondering about you. Where did you grow up?"
He sighed. "I'm sure you have more than just the one question. I'll warn you now – the answers will all be unpleasant."
That set her back a moment. "Please don't feel that you have to answer."
"March," he said. "That's my last name because that's the month of my birth. My mother – or someone – dropped me off at a Baptist orphanage when I was two weeks old. They told me I came in a cardboard box with a blanket and a piece of paper with the word 'Erik' on it. Miss Conners christened me Erik March.
"Oh my god."
"That was in rural Tennessee. The women who ran the orphanage weren't Catholic, but they still operated on a strict hierarchy. Their leader was a woman named Toller. She called me the "devil's child" and refused to speak to me or look at me the entire sixteen years I was there. It was she who made my first mask – not for me, but to protect the other children. I think the only reason she let me stay was because I increased the Christmas donations by playing and being in the choir. I know more Baptist hymns than you can imagine."
"So – whatever your deformity – you were born with it?"
He nodded. "God's handiwork – unless you believe Miss Toller."
"Were you always trapped there? Did you never go out to school?"
He laughed bitterly. "I went to public high school long enough to get into three fights with older boys trying to take off my mask. In the third one, I stabbed the ringleader and put him in the hospital. Obviously I was expelled.
"After that, Miss Toller went on a campaign to collect a scholarship for me to go away to a private music school. Her hatred fueled her determination, and she succeeded in sending me away for good. It was the best thing that ever happened to me, of course. I learned blues, show tunes, pop music, classical and opera. There, once they'd heard me, no one even came close to me. No one picked a fight. I was shunned, but in the most polite way. In the end, all that mattered was that I got the chance to audition with a touring opera company. I played in the opera orchestra for years – violin and piano. Then I got an open audition to play violin with a symphony in California. The violin turned into piano solos. Then I moved to New York and became the man you see before you. Or rather the monster."
She sat silently, dimly aware of the changing colors outside the window, but focused on the open, expectant expression on Erik's face.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I've known sorrow, but I've also known joy. I see how much the music means to you – is it the only thing that brings you joy?"
"It is my one companion."
Christine thought that was the saddest thing she'd ever heard.
"You've heard my sordid tale," he said. "Now tell me yours. Tell me why you're really here."
She put her glass of wine on the table and knotted her fingers together. It was a fair request.
"Ten years ago, I was an opera understudy, and I married my childhood sweetheart. He was a minor member of the French nobility and his family was well off. We were happy."
She picked up her glass and took a sip, replacing it on the table. "The year after we were married, we had a son." She looked at Erik. "He was my life – even more than music."
"What happened?" Erik asked into the long silence that had settled between them.
"I wanted to introduce him to horseback riding. I loved it, and I had loved it as a child. My husband, Raoul, was against it. He thought Gerard was too young. I persuaded him."
She looked down at her lap. "About a year after we started riding together, we were out in the farmland behind the chateau. Gerard was behind me, and I didn't know anything until I heard him scream. I turned, but there was nothing I could do. The horse had seen a snake and reared, throwing Gerard. It was just a turn of fate, the way he fell. Any other day, he might have been fine, but that day…the fall broke his neck instantly and he died in my arms. I had to carry my dead son back to our home and explain to my husband."
She looked up to meet his gaze. "Neither of us was the same after that. I couldn't forgive myself – I stopped singing, I stopped going out, I started drinking alone in my room to pass the days. Every time I looked at Raoul I could see that he couldn't forgive me either. We both mourned our son, but we did it alone, from separate wings of an empty house.
"After two years, I decided that, like the loss of our son, the rift between Raoul and myself would never heal. I asked for a divorce that he willingly gave. I moved out of the house while things got settled, and then I moved here."
When he didn't say anything, Christine slid over to sit next to him. She tucked her feet up under her and pulled his arm around her shoulders. He went stiff for a moment, but then relaxed and gently held her. Christine linked her fingers through his and stared out at the setting sun.
They sat there until darkness fell. She could barely see across the room, but still neither of them moved, not even to turn on a lamp. She'd begun to like the feel of him against her – his chest against her shoulder, his thigh next to hers. He felt solid, strong. She wondered where he found strength. Was it only from music? Could music shore up her shattered soul?
She sighed and leaned more into him.
"Would you still like dinner?" he asked.
She laughed. "I'd forgotten," she said.
"I think we should skip the music for tonight."
She turned her head to look up at him. His blue eyes gleamed back at her. "Okay. I guess I've had all the emotional fun I can stand for one night."
"I'm glad you could tell me," he said.
"It wasn't so hard. You've seen inside my soul already. You just didn't know why the hurt was there."
He tightened his arm around her, and she relished the feel of him.
"Can you look at me the same way after tonight?" he asked.
It hadn't occurred to her and she drew back in surprise. "Why would I see you differently?"
"Most of my life has been spent in hiding – either literally, behind this mask or from every other human being in my music. I'm not the kind of man you run across every day." He hesitated. "I'm not the kind of man you must usually associate with."
"No, I've never known anyone like you."
He nodded and started to rise, but she held onto his hand. "You have all of my esteem, Erik. You are a genius, and everything about you moves me – including what you've told me tonight."
He disentangled his hand from hers and got up. "Chinese or Italian?"
She sighed at the sudden distance he'd put between them. "I could go for some spaghetti."
He smiled at her. "How unoriginal."
"I'm not feeling very original tonight. If you had rocky road ice cream, I'd be in there with a spoon." She nodded toward the kitchen.
"Sorry," he said, still smiling. "No rocky road. There might be some vanilla. I'm a man of simple tastes."
She looked around. "Yeah, you seem to be partial to black, white and red. You have something against pastels?"
"I like austere, yet passionate."
The way he said it – 'passionate' – put her in a completely different frame of mind, and she let her eyes rove over him. When she looked back up at him, she knew her longing was in her gaze and she didn't care.
But his cool mask had returned. "I'll grab a menu," he said. "I know a great place that delivers."
The next day Christine took advantage of her first Saturday in the city to stock her kitchen. She'd selected a ton of everything and arranged to have it delivered. There was no way she could have carried it all. She refused to examine how many of her purchases had been made with the lingering thought of having Erik over for dinner.
No sooner had she closed the door and taken her shoes off, than someone was knocking.
She looked out the peep hole, but she saw flowers instead of groceries.
She opened the door, and Erik peeked over a tremendous bouquet of daffodils, tulips, carnations, and baby's breath. It was beautiful.
"Erik?" she asked.
"They're not from me," he responded quickly. "The delivery man just didn't want to leave them sitting in the hallway. I assured him I could be trusted."
She took the vase from him and went further into her apartment, sensing him trailing after her. Setting the huge vase on her coffee table, she picked up the card.
"Oh, god," she said, after reading the words printed on the tiny piece of paper.
In a moment, Erik was by her side. "What's the matter?"
"It's our eleventh anniversary – mine and Raoul's. I'd forgotten."
She saw him look down at the bouquet and scowl. "Do you want to keep them? I'll be happy to take them down to the trash chute for you."
"No, no," she said. "I'll keep them. It was nice of him to remember."
"Hmph. He should have sent roses. You should only ever get roses – big, red ones. Roses for a diva."
She laughed. "I think flowers may say more about the sender than the recipient." She put a hand against his unmasked cheek. "You, my dear Erik, are definitely a red rose."
He stepped back. "Does that mean your husband is a daffodil?"
She couldn't hold back a peal of laughter. "Perhaps," she acknowledged. "You two couldn't be more different, that's certain."
"I guess he's beautiful? Your little lordling?"
She paused and thought. "Yes, he's very handsome. Tall, blond, nice green eyes."
Erik said nothing, and she had a passing thought that he sounded just a tad jealous. She felt guilty when the thought pleased her.
"Do you still love him?"
Ouch. The question actually physically pained her. "I suppose I always will," she said. "In a way. He's a good man."
Erik stepped away from her and began backing toward the door. "I assume we'll skip tonight?"
She nodded. "Yes, lets. I need to call him before it gets too late, and I don't imagine I'll feel like singing after that."
"I understand," he said.
She shook her head. "I doubt it."
"Christine?" Raoul answered on the third ring.
"Hi, Raoul. I got the flowers. Thank you for remembering."
"As if I'd forget. You were my life for the last eleven years. Nothing will ever change that."
"Please," she said. "Let's don't."
He paused. "I've been worried about you. I've tried calling you the last two nights and got no answer." He sighed into the phone. "Have you been out? Are you drinking again?"
She laughed, grateful that his worries sounded so over done, so remote from reality. "No. I'm not," she said. "You don't need to worry about me. I'm doing well. My new job is going well, and…I've started singing again."
"Really?" His shock was obvious. "Where? I mean…just at home?"
"Yes," she lied. She wasn't ready to share Erik.
"Well that's…that's great, Christine."
"Thank you. New York seems to agree with me."
"It certainly seems like being free of me agrees with you."
"Raoul…don't. None of this was your fault."
"And it wasn't yours, Christine. You could just never see that."
She remembered the look in his eyes when he thought she couldn't see. She wasn't the only one who couldn't see that.
"I miss you," he said.
She opened her mouth to repeat the words, but they wouldn't come. "Thanks again for the flowers, Raoul. And for checking on me. I really am doing well."
He sighed. "I'm glad." He didn't sound glad. "I'll let you go. Sing something for me."
"I will," she promised and a second later, hung up the phone on her past.