After breakfast the next morning, I returned to my room to write letters to my family and friends. I found Cam's letter to be the hardest to write—I didn't want to send him a letter full of Mikhail, yet it was virtually impossible to leave him out, as much of my time had been spent in his company. The end result seemed a little stiff and awkward to me, but it was the best I could do.

As I walked along the boardwalk after lunch, heading toward the shops that lined Front Street, I thought about what Mikhail had said last night. I wondered what would Cam have done, if he had been in the same situation? Would he, too, have turned to other women in order to forget me? Would he have used women in the same way? I thought back to his experience with the girl, Nadia, and wondered if he had done so after she left him. He hadn't mentioned anything like that, but neither had he said he had not. He had assumed that I was not a virgin; did that imply that he was not one himself? And did it matter to me, really, whether he was or not, or for that matter, that Mikhail was not?

Sighing as I turned down a sidewalk, I thought to myself that while I would have preferred that Mikhail had come clean, I could also understand his hesitation. I believe he would have told me, eventually. His scruples might have been different from mine, but he was not lacking them. I suppose the real question that lingered in my mind was, how much did I trust him now? Knowing that he had not hesitated to use women—however complicit they may have been themselves—I had to wonder… did he really love me as much as he declared? Or was it all just an act—a means to an end?

I stepped into a small shop that, judging from its excessively cute exterior to its selection of merchandise, catered primarily to tourists. Perusing the shelves, I found a few things to take home with me as gifts: a pendant made of silver and sea glass in the shape of a seahorse for Georgia, a pair of tiny butterfly earrings with wings carved from colorful shells for Cheryl, a set of wine glasses etched with seahorses for Kana, wind chimes made from beach glass and a piece of driftwood for my mother, and a pretty little shell-shaped teacup and saucer for Nori.

As I was paying for my purchases, who should walk in but the charismatic Mrs. Bennett and her daughter. She looked around the shop, as if searching for something in particular, then she saw me standing at the register and stiffened. I nodded politely to her and returned to my transaction, but she strode up to me. "Well, if it isn't the farmer's daughter herself. Do mind your pennies, dearie, I'm sure a little break like this must be a strain on your wallet as it is."

I felt anger rising up in me at her condescension, but recognizing that she was simply trying to get a rise out of me, I decided not to give her the satisfaction. "Why, thank you for your concern, Mrs.… Bassett was it?" I said sweetly.

"Bennett," she snapped.

"Oh, that's right. Please excuse me, I'm just terrible with names, and I've only heard yours on that one occasion, you know. I'm sure I'll get it right eventually. Anyway, it's awfully kind of you to concern yourself with the state of my finances, but don't fret—my wallet is quite comfortable."

"Fancy. I'd never have guessed that from your appearance," she said, looking over my denim short shorts, my ruffled polka-dotted crop top, and my high-heeled wedge sandals disparagingly.

I smiled and said, "Well, you know, I don't really have much time to dedicate to such frivolous pursuits as fashion. My businesses and charitable works take up a lot of my time, and, well, I have other… distractions… that I find preferable to shopping in my free time. But of course it's different for you."

She visibly fumed, then, at both my subtle innuendos that I spent a lot of time with Mikhail and that she led a trivial life. But before she could respond, her daughter grabbed her arm and pulled and tugged until she succeeded in getting her mama out the door, still glaring at me, speechless with anger.

I turned back to the sales clerk, who had watched the proceedings with a great deal of amusement. "It's not often that that one gets knocked down a peg," he said with a grin. "She's used to everyone kowtowing to her—or rather, to her money."

I shrugged and said, "I'm not impressed. As Tennyson wrote, 'Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.' I'd far rather be poor for the right reasons than rich for the wrong ones."

"That's true enough, miss, though I doubt she's come across many who feel the same as you in her life," he replied as he handed me my bag.

"Probably not," I agreed with a laugh as I headed out the door.

I finished up my shopping, buying more souvenirs for my family and friends, and headed for home. I was particularly pleased with Cam's gift. I'd found a tiny shop that specialized in all things garden-related. There I'd selected some unusual flower seeds and a pretty little book full of photos of the local gardens. The town was nearly as well-known for its gardens, of which there were many, as it was for its pebbly beaches. The garden at my guest house was in there, as were the gardens at Chez Étienne Par la Mer. It was a lovely book, and I hoped he'd like it as much as I did.

While shopping, I'd noticed a nice little bistro with a sidewalk café, so when Mikhail arrived, I asked if he'd been there before. He had not, so we agreed to give it a try. "If nothing else," I said with a smile, "there'll be wine!" So while he waited downstairs, I cleaned up and changed into a pale sea green hi-lo skirt with a white bustier top and a cream lace cardigan, slipped on some brown strappy sandals, and we set out.

It was a lovely afternoon for a walk, so since we had plenty of time, we took it slow as we strolled along the boardwalk. There was a light breeze blowing, just enough to keep us from feeling too warm. After a time, we reached the sidewalk café and selected a table with a good view for people watching. We ordered our meal, then sat and sipped wine as we waited and watched the world go by. Once in a while, someone would recognize Mikhail and stop to say hello or to chat; other than that, it was quite peaceful.

As we sipped our wine and again as we ate our dinner, Mikhail kept giving me several questioning glances. Finally he asked, "Well, Alice, have you come to a decision regarding my past?"

"Yes. But I'd prefer to talk about it somewhere more private than a sidewalk café," I replied.

"All right. Do you have a place in mind?"

I took another bite while I thought it over—there weren't many places we could go for private, uninterrupted conversation. I took a sip of wine, then replied, "I suppose either your room or mine would make the most sense. That's about as private as we can get, anyway—at least, to the best of my knowledge. So unless you have a better suggestion…?"

"Your room would be preferable, I think. I stay in a friend's guest room, and it doesn't provide nearly the level of privacy that your room does. Plus there's only one chair anyway—it's not a large room."

"Okay, my room it is, then. I have a nice little sitting area that's pretty private—no other rooms adjacent to it or above it."

"Perfect. I would like to stop by my room on the way, though, if you won't mind? I'd like to bring my violin—that is, if you would enjoy some music?"

I agreed, so after dinner, we walked on to his friend's home, which was situated in one of the prettier residential areas on the southern end of town, eight or nine blocks from my bed and breakfast. The house was a tiny Victorian-style house perched at the top of a flight of stone steps leading down to the sidewalk below, with little terraced beds all along the slope on either side of the stairs.

He led me through the front door and up the stairs to a room at the top of the stairs. The small room had a tile floor strewn with Oriental rugs; the walls were hung with geometric floral wallpaper and had dark wood wainscoting and trim. The furniture was heavy, dark, and old-fashioned, but the bed was the real pièce de résistance: a large, heavy four-poster bed with a canopy and curtains, the frame was made of some dark wood that had turned nearly black with age. Ornately carved all around, it bore a coat of arms at the top of the headboard. A heavy red and gold tapestry was spread over it, and the canopy and curtains were likewise red and gold. I turned to him and commented, "Nice… uh, nice bed."

He looked at me in surprise. "You like it? Really?"

"No… I was just trying to say something nice about it."

He laughed, saying, "Well, that's a relief. I hate it, myself. But Erik's a good friend and fine person, if a bit… eccentric… in his tastes. And at least it's comfortable."

He picked up his violin case and quickly dropped some sheet music into a folio, which he then placed in his satchel. Looking up at a bottle of dark amber liquid on an adjacent shelf, he asked, "Hey, would you care for a nightcap? I have a bottle of very nice Armagnac I'd love to share with you. I can bring it along, and we can enjoy it while we talk."

"That sounds nice. I'd love to try it," I replied, and he carefully nestled the bottle into the satchel.

"Do you have glasses there you can use?" he asked, halfway reaching for a pair of glasses on the same shelf. I nodded, and he closed and fastened the bag and carefully slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed his violin case, and we left.

Once at the bed and breakfast, I took him up to my room. He looked around admiringly as he stepped in, saying, "What a lovely room you have here. Very tranquil."

"The view is beautiful, too," I added, walking over to one of the windows.

"Oh, definitely. Very beautiful," he said with a smile as he looked steadily at me. I blushed and led him over to the sitting room.

"Just set your things down anywhere. I'm going to look for some glasses. I'll be right back."

I headed back downstairs and raided the cabinet of stemware available for guest use. I found some that were similar in shape to the ones he'd been about to bring, so I selected two of them and returned to my room.

"Will these do?" I asked, handing them over for inspection.

"Yes, perfect," he replied, then he poured a little of the brandy out into each and handed a glass to me.

We sat down on the loveseat, and kicking my sandals off, I tucked my feet up under me. He put his arm around my shoulders to draw me a little nearer, then looking me in the eyes, said, "So. You said you'd come to a decision regarding my past… indiscretions. What have you decided?"

I leaned against his shoulder and took a tiny sip of the potent liquor as I gazed out the window. After a minute, I sighed and said, "I'm disappointed, of course. But even if I can't approve of your actions, I do understand why you did what you did, and also that you aren't wholly to blame—if anything, those older women are far more to blame, at least in my view. So I can get over that. But…."

"But?" he prompted after a moment.

"But I… I'm not sure whether I quite trust you now, either. You see, I keep wondering… so often you push yourself on me or try to take things farther than I want. So now that I know more about your past history… I keep worrying that all you want from me is sex. The only times you've actually mentioned marriage was that one occasion when you were getting so carried away—and that was just because you wanted to sleep with me so badly—and a few times teasingly while I was playing with Rahi and Ying. So… all that taken together, I worry that you'll just keep at me in the hopes that I'll give in, then go on your merry way."

He sat silently for a minute, looking out the window and apparently lost in thought. Finally, he replied, "I can't make you trust me, of course. And I certainly realize that my actions haven't exactly engendered trust. But I swear to you, Alice, I will not force myself on you, nor will I attempt to break your resolve. The only reason I have not talked about marriage with you, I suppose, is because it just seemed like the obvious conclusion. Of course I want to marry you—nothing would make me happier. And while that time I asked you to marry me I was drunk with desire for you, nevertheless it was not lust speaking—I meant it with all my heart."

He sat for a minute, sipping his drink and looking thoughtful before continuing. "I don't know how to prove my sincerity to you, how to earn your trust. But I'll do whatever it takes, if it's within my abilities."

I scooted a little closer to him and rested my cheek against his chest. "I suppose we'll just wait and see how it goes. You can tell a lot about a person by their actions, you know. Of course, that can also work against you—like your actions on the night of my birthday party. But we'll see."

He nodded, then started slightly. "That reminds me, speaking of birthdays…." He set his glass down on the table and rose. Fetching his violin and the folio of music, he returned and sat next to me. "I never had the chance to give you your birthday present. So… here it is. I hope you like it."

With that, he tuned his violin, then began to play—a lovely, lilting piece I'd never heard before, calling to mind the season of spring: a little bit here sounding like the gentle spring rains, a little bit there reminiscent of butterflies and songbirds, and a another bit that reminded me of soft breezes and babbling brooks—all with an undercurrent of love and passion running through it.

Afterwards, he set his instrument down and looked at me. "Well? Did you… like it?" he asked, watching me closely.

I sighed—a long, blissful sigh—and snuggled back up to him. "It was… it was just beautiful. I've never heard anything quite like it before—did you write it?"

"Yes, I wrote it for you and to you. I poured my heart out into it, so I'm very glad that you enjoyed it."

"Very much," I said smiling up at him. He looked down at me for a minute, then, hesitantly, he leaned down and kissed me. He restrained himself, apparently surmising—correctly—that asking for more than a kiss at that time would have been an unwise move on his part. But nevertheless I could feel the passion in his kiss, like a surge of electricity coursing through him and into me.

After a short while, I pulled back. "I'm sorry, Mikhail. I… I don't really want to go any further. Not yet anyway."

He nodded, saying, "Don't apologize. I understand." He rose, put his violin and sheet music away, and carefully replaced his bottle of Armagnac in his satchel, then turned back to me. "I'll go now. May I see you tomorrow? I have an engagement in the afternoon—I'm to perform as part of a series of garden tours, each of which ends with tea and music. You are welcome to join me, if you would care to do so. I'd certainly love to have your company."

"Yes, I'd like that, thank you."

"Wonderful. It begins in the early afternoon, so why don't I come for you just before noon? I'll take you to lunch, then we can go to the tour after that. I think you'll enjoy it—the garden featured tomorrow is quite a lovely one."

I walked him to the front door and gave him a kiss, then he left and I returned to my room to sleep—and to dream—until the cries of the gulls at dawn awoke me.

Disclaimer: Harvest Moon: Tale of Two Towns, and most locations and characters in this story belong to Natsume Inc. and MarvelousAQL Inc. The story's plot and some characters & locations are my own invention.