A/N - The title is basically talking about ocean waves. You know what I
mean, don't you? The breakers that you see splashing upon the rocks and
cliffs in romantic scenes of movies; those waves? Please don't hate
Isabelle, it wasn't my intention for you to hate her! Perhaps she'll be
more likable after this chapter. I'm struggled for you to like her.
Chapter 16: Breakers
****Flashback****
"Then so be it."
She'd pulled him down into a kiss then. It had been a kiss not unlike the one Christine had given him so many months before. A kiss that broke down all of his defenses and denials, leaving him standing vulnerable, and exposed to the world. All the walls that kept him from seeing how he felt about certain situations and people were knocked away. All the forms of denial he'd forced upon himself about how he felt towards the beautiful pupil now in his arms were taken from him.
What he found in the core of his being was quite astonishing to him. Only a moment later he found himself with his arms pulling Isabelle very tightly against him, holding her by the waist. Yet there was one thing left to him, and that had been his honor. There was nothing that would make him break his promise never to touch her in a way that would take away the only innocence she had left. The kiss they shared seemed to go on for many years, and when he finally tore himself away from her, he was out of breath.
"You do love me." Isabelle breathed. "I knew you loved me! I knew it . . ."
He shook his head slowly, backing away from her until the back of his knees hit the edge of a divan, and he lowered himself into it quickly. He was shaking all over.
"You still don't love me." He finally retorted, making his voice sound as cold as he possibly could. It wasn't very easy.
"I have strange ways of showing it, but I do love you." She insisted gently. "Are you afraid, Erik? Is that what it is? You're afraid that I don't really love you?"
Erik looked up at her slowly, his eyes widening. Could that possibly be it? Was he looking at this in the entirely wrong perspective? Maybe because he was so terrified, he'd only believed her to be coming onto him so strongly minutes before. Maybe he'd simply felt suffocated by her advances. He'd only been able to stare at her for a long time. She didn't seem even half as aggressive then as she had moments before. Had she ever been as bold as he'd thought? Had she ever been quite as shy as he remembered her being when they met? Had she truly changed at all, or had his minds perspective of her change?
"You have to go, Isabelle." He'd finally whispered, his air passage constricting painfully. "Please, go for now. Go for tonight. I need to . . . think."
When she'd straightened out her hair, and piled it again on top of her head, securing it in place with her gold and ruby comb, she'd gone to stand before him once more. Her eyes were soft as she looked at him. She looked at him with those amazing amethyst eyes. In the dying sunlight, they seemed even more pure than ever.
"My carriage still will not be here for some time." She reminded him quietly.
Erik stood quickly. He had to move, to do something. He had to move away from her so he could still think clearly.
"I'll make us some tea . . . And I'm sure that you must be hungry by now."
"Well; yes." She agreed after a long moment. "Actually . . . I am."
"Then I will make us some supper." He said, managing a nervous smile. "Stay in here and practice some more. The more you practice, after all, the better you'll sing." His words were nonsense, and they both knew it. Yet what else was he to say? He still needed time to think everything over.
He hurried into the kitchen and lit up the stove. He began heating up hot water for the tea he was going to make. Quickly, he went into the pantry to find something that would make an easy meal. He could cook like a first-class chef if he wanted to. Perhaps if he made a first-rate meal, that would give him time enough to think things over.
"Garlic, tomatoes, salt, pepper, broccoli, cheese, pasta, chicken . . ." He spoke to himself idly, trying to gather all the things he would need. It had been a very long time since he'd cooked. Thank God his memory was as good as it had been in the past.
As he prepared supper, he thought about Isabelle and the kiss. He thought about how she'd always seemed so bold with him. And tonight, before the kiss, she'd seemed overly bold. Now as he looked back at her behavior, it didn't seem even half as aggressive. Perhaps she hadn't been as forward as his mind had led him to believe. Perhaps she was right about him being afraid. It was more than possible that he'd been afraid of letting himself love her, and so had seen her nature as more teasing and bold than deliberately flirtatious and inviting.
Did he love her? That was still a question to which he couldn't find the answer.
The chicken was cooking in the oven, and the pasta was boiling on the stove. Beside it was another pot in which he was steaming the broccoli, and then there was another pot that he used to melt the block of cheese he'd taken from the pantry. He'd done everything without even realizing it.
If he loved her, then he could possibly ask her to marry him. He knew he could never have asked a woman to marry him unless he loved her. Or, of course, if it were the honorable thing to do. Yet he had not taken her virginity from her. There was literally no possibility of her being with child. So there was no reason to do something so honorable. Of course, marriage in itself was an honorable act.
He looked down at the counter in front of him, and found the tea tray ready to be carried into the parlor. Yet he glanced over his shoulder to the kitchen table, and found that it was still bare. He ignored the tea for a moment, and quickly went about setting two places. He found one candle in the pantry to place on the center of the table, and lit it. Then, he went back to the tea tray, and carried it into the room with the piano, where Isabelle was obediently practicing her scales.
"The tea is ready." He said quietly, and she looked up at him. It was fully dark outside by now. He hadn't even realized there was a lack of light in the kitchen. He'd been so deep in thought. Isabelle had lighted several of the lamps in each corner of the room, and carried on to the piano so she might see the sheet music clearly. As he carried the tea over to the divan, and placed the tray on the coffee table, she stood from the piano bench and moved to sit beside him on the divan. "We're low on sugar. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all." She replied softly. Erik lifted his eyes to her carefully. She was smiling at him affectionately. It was gentle affection too. It wasn't the bold and forward aggressiveness he'd thought he'd seen for months previous. "You were in there quite a while. How is the meal coming along?"
"Perfectly." He said, looking down to find a cup of tea in his own hand. Isabelle quietly drank from her own cup. "I hope that you'll like it."
"I'm certain that I will." She smiled again. "You're full of surprises, Erik. Most people, who have an outstanding gift, like you do with music, are rarely good at much else. Look at all you can do. You can sing, and play the piano. You are a very good tutor. You make excellent tea, and it seems now I find out you can cook, too!"
He laughed, feeling the world slowly come back to him as his thoughts evaporated into a sense of well-being. He was still a bit nervous, but perhaps that was a natural emotion when sitting around someone you so cared about. Looking up at Isabelle, he watched her eyes as she watched his. Yet she wasn't being overly bold. Bolder than the submissive and naïve women he usually saw around Paris, yes; but not overly bold. She was direct, that was all.
When they finished their tea, Erik stood and hurried back into the kitchen to check on the meal. Well, the pasta was a little softer than he would have liked, but it still came out surprisingly good. He hurriedly chopped up the garlic he'd taken from the pantry, along with the tomatoes, and then taken the broccoli off of the stove to cool. He stirred the cheese to find it was only a tiny bit burned - he'd left it unattended for too long while having tea. It was nothing to be very worried about. He then mixed all of the ingredients together. The Cheese, the broccoli, the tomatoes, the garlic, and the pasta, all went into a large bowl and then he sprinkled it with salt and pepper. Then he took the chicken from the oven to find it perfectly cooked. Not undercooked, not overdone. Placing his newly invented pasta dish and chicken out on the table, he then found two wine glasses in a cupboard, and retreated to the study to find a bit of champagne. It seemed the proper thing to offer a young woman.
"It looks marvelous." He looked up from pouring the champagne into the two glasses at their table settings, and smiled lightly at Isabelle as he came into the kitchen and sat down at a setting. Erik was the perfect host, serving her the dish with flair and humor to the best of his nervous ability.
Dinner progressed rapidly, and was over far too soon. Erik and Isabelle worked together in cleaning up every dish, pot, and pan. They dried everything and put it all away. Erik cleaned up the countertop and the table so it would seem nothing had been touched in these last few hours.
By that time, it was finally nine o'clock, and the carriage arrived to pick her up. Like he had always done before her father came with the carriage, he walked her outside, and kissed her hand before helping her into the carriage. Yet then, after the door was closed behind her, she leaned her head out to whisper something to him. He leaned in to find out what it was . . . and found himself being kissed a second time!
"Adieu, mon amour." She breathed softly. Erik smiled sincerely for the first time that evening without nervousness.
"Bonne nuit, ma Chéri." He said gently in return, reaching up to lightly touch her cheek.
When she was gone, he retreated up to his room, and locked the door. He wouldn't be able to face Marguerite that night. He wouldn't be able to see the confusion and pain in her eyes once he explained to her that there was someone else in his heart. The last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt her in any way. When he'd heared the pounding on his door that night, he had sat perfectly still, fighting back the sadness he felt at hearing her rage and sorrow. He simply couldn't talk to her at that moment. He still had so many things to consider.
//////////---------//////////
******Present time******
"Papa, what's playing tonight?" Marguerite stepped into Erik's room as he changed out of his home clothes, which he'd worn to supper, and readied to return to the Opera House. It was Friday evening, and Isabelle had not appeared for her usual lessons. That made Erik more nervous than he'd ever been his entire life. Yet he had only half an hour beforehand received a message from her saying she was sorry for missing lessons, but would be at the performance if he'd reserve a seat for her again.
"Faust." He turned and smiled to his precious 'daughter', reaching out to ruffle her hair. She was still a bit miffed about how he'd missed tucking her in two nights before. At least she was on speaking terms with him now. "Would you and Fleur like to come? It's a good story. I'll tell you all about it so you'll know what's going on before the performance begins."
"I'd like to go." She said calmly. That was how she reacted to his offers when angry at him. Yet he could see her eyes light up. She wouldn't be angry for much longer. "Can we sit in Box Five again?"
"Box Five always has room for three beautiful ladies." He chuckled.
"Three?" She asked. "Is Mama going?"
"She'll be backstage, as always." He said slowly. "Isabelle's going to be there tonight."
Chapter 16: Breakers
****Flashback****
"Then so be it."
She'd pulled him down into a kiss then. It had been a kiss not unlike the one Christine had given him so many months before. A kiss that broke down all of his defenses and denials, leaving him standing vulnerable, and exposed to the world. All the walls that kept him from seeing how he felt about certain situations and people were knocked away. All the forms of denial he'd forced upon himself about how he felt towards the beautiful pupil now in his arms were taken from him.
What he found in the core of his being was quite astonishing to him. Only a moment later he found himself with his arms pulling Isabelle very tightly against him, holding her by the waist. Yet there was one thing left to him, and that had been his honor. There was nothing that would make him break his promise never to touch her in a way that would take away the only innocence she had left. The kiss they shared seemed to go on for many years, and when he finally tore himself away from her, he was out of breath.
"You do love me." Isabelle breathed. "I knew you loved me! I knew it . . ."
He shook his head slowly, backing away from her until the back of his knees hit the edge of a divan, and he lowered himself into it quickly. He was shaking all over.
"You still don't love me." He finally retorted, making his voice sound as cold as he possibly could. It wasn't very easy.
"I have strange ways of showing it, but I do love you." She insisted gently. "Are you afraid, Erik? Is that what it is? You're afraid that I don't really love you?"
Erik looked up at her slowly, his eyes widening. Could that possibly be it? Was he looking at this in the entirely wrong perspective? Maybe because he was so terrified, he'd only believed her to be coming onto him so strongly minutes before. Maybe he'd simply felt suffocated by her advances. He'd only been able to stare at her for a long time. She didn't seem even half as aggressive then as she had moments before. Had she ever been as bold as he'd thought? Had she ever been quite as shy as he remembered her being when they met? Had she truly changed at all, or had his minds perspective of her change?
"You have to go, Isabelle." He'd finally whispered, his air passage constricting painfully. "Please, go for now. Go for tonight. I need to . . . think."
When she'd straightened out her hair, and piled it again on top of her head, securing it in place with her gold and ruby comb, she'd gone to stand before him once more. Her eyes were soft as she looked at him. She looked at him with those amazing amethyst eyes. In the dying sunlight, they seemed even more pure than ever.
"My carriage still will not be here for some time." She reminded him quietly.
Erik stood quickly. He had to move, to do something. He had to move away from her so he could still think clearly.
"I'll make us some tea . . . And I'm sure that you must be hungry by now."
"Well; yes." She agreed after a long moment. "Actually . . . I am."
"Then I will make us some supper." He said, managing a nervous smile. "Stay in here and practice some more. The more you practice, after all, the better you'll sing." His words were nonsense, and they both knew it. Yet what else was he to say? He still needed time to think everything over.
He hurried into the kitchen and lit up the stove. He began heating up hot water for the tea he was going to make. Quickly, he went into the pantry to find something that would make an easy meal. He could cook like a first-class chef if he wanted to. Perhaps if he made a first-rate meal, that would give him time enough to think things over.
"Garlic, tomatoes, salt, pepper, broccoli, cheese, pasta, chicken . . ." He spoke to himself idly, trying to gather all the things he would need. It had been a very long time since he'd cooked. Thank God his memory was as good as it had been in the past.
As he prepared supper, he thought about Isabelle and the kiss. He thought about how she'd always seemed so bold with him. And tonight, before the kiss, she'd seemed overly bold. Now as he looked back at her behavior, it didn't seem even half as aggressive. Perhaps she hadn't been as forward as his mind had led him to believe. Perhaps she was right about him being afraid. It was more than possible that he'd been afraid of letting himself love her, and so had seen her nature as more teasing and bold than deliberately flirtatious and inviting.
Did he love her? That was still a question to which he couldn't find the answer.
The chicken was cooking in the oven, and the pasta was boiling on the stove. Beside it was another pot in which he was steaming the broccoli, and then there was another pot that he used to melt the block of cheese he'd taken from the pantry. He'd done everything without even realizing it.
If he loved her, then he could possibly ask her to marry him. He knew he could never have asked a woman to marry him unless he loved her. Or, of course, if it were the honorable thing to do. Yet he had not taken her virginity from her. There was literally no possibility of her being with child. So there was no reason to do something so honorable. Of course, marriage in itself was an honorable act.
He looked down at the counter in front of him, and found the tea tray ready to be carried into the parlor. Yet he glanced over his shoulder to the kitchen table, and found that it was still bare. He ignored the tea for a moment, and quickly went about setting two places. He found one candle in the pantry to place on the center of the table, and lit it. Then, he went back to the tea tray, and carried it into the room with the piano, where Isabelle was obediently practicing her scales.
"The tea is ready." He said quietly, and she looked up at him. It was fully dark outside by now. He hadn't even realized there was a lack of light in the kitchen. He'd been so deep in thought. Isabelle had lighted several of the lamps in each corner of the room, and carried on to the piano so she might see the sheet music clearly. As he carried the tea over to the divan, and placed the tray on the coffee table, she stood from the piano bench and moved to sit beside him on the divan. "We're low on sugar. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind at all." She replied softly. Erik lifted his eyes to her carefully. She was smiling at him affectionately. It was gentle affection too. It wasn't the bold and forward aggressiveness he'd thought he'd seen for months previous. "You were in there quite a while. How is the meal coming along?"
"Perfectly." He said, looking down to find a cup of tea in his own hand. Isabelle quietly drank from her own cup. "I hope that you'll like it."
"I'm certain that I will." She smiled again. "You're full of surprises, Erik. Most people, who have an outstanding gift, like you do with music, are rarely good at much else. Look at all you can do. You can sing, and play the piano. You are a very good tutor. You make excellent tea, and it seems now I find out you can cook, too!"
He laughed, feeling the world slowly come back to him as his thoughts evaporated into a sense of well-being. He was still a bit nervous, but perhaps that was a natural emotion when sitting around someone you so cared about. Looking up at Isabelle, he watched her eyes as she watched his. Yet she wasn't being overly bold. Bolder than the submissive and naïve women he usually saw around Paris, yes; but not overly bold. She was direct, that was all.
When they finished their tea, Erik stood and hurried back into the kitchen to check on the meal. Well, the pasta was a little softer than he would have liked, but it still came out surprisingly good. He hurriedly chopped up the garlic he'd taken from the pantry, along with the tomatoes, and then taken the broccoli off of the stove to cool. He stirred the cheese to find it was only a tiny bit burned - he'd left it unattended for too long while having tea. It was nothing to be very worried about. He then mixed all of the ingredients together. The Cheese, the broccoli, the tomatoes, the garlic, and the pasta, all went into a large bowl and then he sprinkled it with salt and pepper. Then he took the chicken from the oven to find it perfectly cooked. Not undercooked, not overdone. Placing his newly invented pasta dish and chicken out on the table, he then found two wine glasses in a cupboard, and retreated to the study to find a bit of champagne. It seemed the proper thing to offer a young woman.
"It looks marvelous." He looked up from pouring the champagne into the two glasses at their table settings, and smiled lightly at Isabelle as he came into the kitchen and sat down at a setting. Erik was the perfect host, serving her the dish with flair and humor to the best of his nervous ability.
Dinner progressed rapidly, and was over far too soon. Erik and Isabelle worked together in cleaning up every dish, pot, and pan. They dried everything and put it all away. Erik cleaned up the countertop and the table so it would seem nothing had been touched in these last few hours.
By that time, it was finally nine o'clock, and the carriage arrived to pick her up. Like he had always done before her father came with the carriage, he walked her outside, and kissed her hand before helping her into the carriage. Yet then, after the door was closed behind her, she leaned her head out to whisper something to him. He leaned in to find out what it was . . . and found himself being kissed a second time!
"Adieu, mon amour." She breathed softly. Erik smiled sincerely for the first time that evening without nervousness.
"Bonne nuit, ma Chéri." He said gently in return, reaching up to lightly touch her cheek.
When she was gone, he retreated up to his room, and locked the door. He wouldn't be able to face Marguerite that night. He wouldn't be able to see the confusion and pain in her eyes once he explained to her that there was someone else in his heart. The last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt her in any way. When he'd heared the pounding on his door that night, he had sat perfectly still, fighting back the sadness he felt at hearing her rage and sorrow. He simply couldn't talk to her at that moment. He still had so many things to consider.
//////////---------//////////
******Present time******
"Papa, what's playing tonight?" Marguerite stepped into Erik's room as he changed out of his home clothes, which he'd worn to supper, and readied to return to the Opera House. It was Friday evening, and Isabelle had not appeared for her usual lessons. That made Erik more nervous than he'd ever been his entire life. Yet he had only half an hour beforehand received a message from her saying she was sorry for missing lessons, but would be at the performance if he'd reserve a seat for her again.
"Faust." He turned and smiled to his precious 'daughter', reaching out to ruffle her hair. She was still a bit miffed about how he'd missed tucking her in two nights before. At least she was on speaking terms with him now. "Would you and Fleur like to come? It's a good story. I'll tell you all about it so you'll know what's going on before the performance begins."
"I'd like to go." She said calmly. That was how she reacted to his offers when angry at him. Yet he could see her eyes light up. She wouldn't be angry for much longer. "Can we sit in Box Five again?"
"Box Five always has room for three beautiful ladies." He chuckled.
"Three?" She asked. "Is Mama going?"
"She'll be backstage, as always." He said slowly. "Isabelle's going to be there tonight."
