Author's Note: Warning—the next couple of chapters will have consensual, non-explicit, sexual content. It's pretty tame, but I though I'd give a heads up.

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The dusting of snow blanketing the sand crunched under her boots. The last lingering of the storm had finally drifted out to sea, leaving the land covered in a sheet of powdered sugar in its wake. Strong, frothy waves cut sharply through grey water as the gulls cried overhead; and the icy Atlantic breeze swept strands of chestnut hair across her forehead and into her eyes. Even in the heart of winter, this was her favorite spot to watch and think. It was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful place she'd seen in all her life, though that didn't say much. Only ten years before, she'd been living in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens with her mother. When she'd needed space to think then, she used to open a window in the kitchen and sit on the ledge overlooking a chain-length fence and a make-shift basketball court. Life had been generous to her, considering how far she'd come since the beginning—since she first met Bill. From a practical standpoint, she couldn't want for anything: she had a husband who loved her, a large house, a seemingly limitless supply of money, and this beach. But the need for truth was gradually wearing her thinner—the need to hear it and the need to speak it, perhaps the latter more than the former.

Reaching into her coat, she softly patted the pocket of her sweater where the skeleton key rested. Part of her yearned to explore the office and read every file and document she could get her hands on, especially after he had lied to her yet again. But at the same time, she didn't want to know. Moving on would be so much simpler if she could just forget and pretend…and besides, she wanted to hear the truth from Bill's mouth, not in some clandestine government document.

And what of the man who spoke as if he knew her? She couldn't remember the last time someone had listened without judgment and asked simple, seemingly unimportant questions, like how she was feeling. He was different somehow. More than anything, Teena longed for a friend, someone who could learn her truths, but she knew she was fooling herself when it came to Chris Spender. He was Bill's friend, not hers, and she would never know the secrets he kept. It was for the best that he had walked out of her life, and she would probably never see him again.

A glance up the coastline revealed a figure slowly moving in her direction. His dark head was bowed forward against the bite of the wind, and his black trench coat billowed behind him. She remained frozen in surprise, wondering what could possibly bring Bill home so early; however, when the man raised his head to reveal warm, hazel eyes, all thoughts of her husband immediately pushed far out of her mind.

"Chris? What are you doing here? Bill will not return for over a month, if you have come to visit him."

She hurried across the snow as he approached and tried her best to conceal her giddiness. Butterflies danced in her belly as he stood before her, but her heart soon sank at his firm, solemn expression.

"Has something happened to him?" she asked in sudden panic, "Are you here to tell me?"

"Oh, no. No—I'm sorry. Bill is fine, as far as I know. We spoke a few days ago."

"Then what business brings you to the Vineyard?

"None. I only came to see you."

"Why?"

"Teena, there is something you need to know. Bill told me you followed him to the airport."

She gasped against the tightness rising in her throat and turned away, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

"It's all right," Chris assured her, "He is just concerned. He told me to visit you here to check up on you and ease your mind."

"Is that what you have come to do?"

He hesitated, chewing his bottom lip before he replied softly, "No."

After a short silence fell between them, Chris cleared his throat and spoke again. "I came here because I wanted to see you. And because Bill isn't here..." he breathed out a small, forced laugh and looked out at the fresh storm clouds rolling over the sea. He continued in just above a whisper, "It seems that we only just met, but I—I've missed you. I must leave the country for a dangerous mission in two days, and I want you to be the last person that I see."

The warm tingle returned to swirl through her stomach at the sincerity in his smoky baritone. "I don't understand what it is between us. I've missed you as well. Very much. Can I ask you to stay until you must leave? I am so lonely for a friend."

Chris turned his gaze back to her and smiled broadly, specks of emerald green shining in his eyes.

--

Orange flames popped and crackled, their light refracting through the bottle of Merlot to create a rosy hue that danced across the floorboards. Teena sipped daintily from her glass and pressed a palm against the fireplace screen, basking in its gentle heat. Chris carefully set his glass on the mantle while he thumbed through the parlor's floor to ceiling bookcase. He would come across a title he liked, pull it from the shelf, leaf through the pages, smile and nod in fond remembrance, and then return it to its resting place.

"Titus Andronicus. Shakespeare's greatest tragedy, don't you agree?" he mused, holding the leather-bound book up for her inspection.

"Some argue it is not a tragedy at all, because the audience cannot choose sides in the struggle for revenge. It lacks a hero. Andronicus seeks to avenge the deaths of his sons and the rape of his daughter, but he murders two of his remaining children in cold blood. They're all hypocrites," Teena replied.

"But there is a fall—Titus plummets from wise nobility into madness while Tamora remains unchanged. Vengeance can have no rightful side; it only creates madness, and thus Titus succeeds as the anti-hero. That is why I love the play. It is truthful in its hypocrisy and cruelty and violence, unlike the sniveling and whining of pitiful Hamlet."

"Perhaps that is true, but I still hate Titus. Aaron is the play's greatest character. If I were an actor, I would play Aaron."

"You would choose to play a man? What about Tamora and Lavinia?"

"Tamora is static; as you said, she's motivated by simple revenge and lust for power. Lavinia is weak and pathetic, her only purpose is to shock the audience—she can't even speak for over half the play because the men overpower her and cut out her tongue. Aaron is Titus' foil: he does not deny his crimes, because he believes that what he does is right. And he sacrifices his life for the love of his infant son, which is something Titus could never do."

Chris continued to flip through the pages, and then knelt to place the open book on Teena's lap. She looked up at him quizzically, and he pointed to the text in response.

"Read me your favorite passage," he said.

Teena silently skimmed over the familiar words and lovingly thumbed through the pages until she came to Act IV, scene 2.

"You read it," she said, "Please. I'm tired of hearing the words in my own voice. Let me hear you become Aaron."

"All right," he replied softly, taking the large book from her and cradling it in one arm. When he read the first line, he laughed quietly in embarrassment, but as he continued, the power and strength rose in his voice

"Now, by the burning tapers of the sky,
That shone so brightly when this boy was got,
He dies upon my scimitar's sharp point
That touches this my first-born son and heir!
I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,
With all his threatening band of Typhon's brood,
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,
Shall seize this prey out of his father's hands.
Coal-black is better than another hue,
In that it scorns to bear another hue;
For all the water in the ocean
Can never turn the swan's black legs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the flood."

He closed the book delicately and gently passed it back to her.

"Beautiful…You are right about him—Aaron. He is not an evil man. Maybe no one cares to get close enough to him to see who he truly is," Chris murmured.

She nodded, set her glass of Merlot on the hearth, and stood to replace the book on the shelf among the other great tragedies.

"So I know you write about your spirits in the house, but what else does your muse create?" he asked, changing the subject.

She shrugged as she sank to her knees to join him at the fire. "I write some poetry, short stories, reflections on my life…many things. What about you, Mr. Spender? Surely you are a writer yourself, considering the passion you possess for literature."

He swallowed the last of his wine and raised his hand to stop her from pouring him another glass. "I write novels, actually. Terrible novels that will never be published."

"I would love to read some of your writings."

He laughed. "That is reassuring. Should I decide to publish my work, I know I will at least have one reader."

"What sort of novels do you write?"

"Mysteries, thrillers; some autobiographical in nature. I keep a journal as well of my musings and horrible stabs at poetry. I promise to let you read something of mine if I can read one of your pieces."

"Agreed," Teena smiled warmly, the buzz from the alcohol creating a pleasant dizziness in her head and a light tingle in her nose. She glanced at her wristwatch and was surprised to see that it was already past midnight. They had been chatting comfortably for hours. She stood shakily, her knees cracking on the way up.

"It's late. We ought to get some sleep. You may take any of the guest bedrooms upstairs. Extra sheets and towels are in the linen closet beside the washroom, and if you need anything, just knock on my door. Good night," she said.

"Wait—" Chris lightly placed his hand on her forearm. "Before we go to bed, let's read a bit of poetry. I find that it helps me sleep more peacefully." He quickly returned to the book shelves, his fingers tracing over rows of cracked spines. "Whitman or Aeschylus?" he asked, holding one book in each hand.

"Aeschylus," she replied easily.

--

He placed a finger on her lips to be rewarded with a soft kiss and an enticing flick of her tongue. His finger easily followed a path down the angle of her chin to the pale silken flesh of her neck, tiny veins beating gently with a quickening pulse beneath her skin. She licked her lips, her throat bobbing with a slow swallow. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black, and her eyelids were heavy with the weight of arousal. She looked at him—into him—like no one had ever done before. Teena's eyes held love, trust, and friendship—precious gifts that no one had ever given him. "Please" her gaze begged, and he soon acquiesced, his fingers traveling to the hollow of her collar bone, through the small valley between her breasts, down the line splitting her rib cage, over the small, firm mound of her navel…

Chris awoke lazily, rubbing his eyes and blinking in confusion. Where was he? Clearly not his apartment as the strange, darkened surroundings soon told him. His head ached dully, probably a result of too much wine. As the dream world gradually fractured away entirely, he finally remembered where he was and couldn't help but smile at the pleasant, wishful dream. With one hand, he fumbled clumsily for the lamp switch on the night stand, and his eyes were soon cruelly assaulted by artificial brightness. He squinted at his watch. 3:59 am. All he wanted was to collapse back against the feather pillow and sink into deep sleep and pleasant dreams, but he knew that he would wake again with a worse headache if he did not get up now for a glass of water.

With great effort, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and meandered across the hall in the general direction of the washroom. He glanced down the opposite end of the hallway to discover the door of the master bedroom ajar. Against his better judgment, he continued past the washroom quietly until he stood in front of the open door. Peering through the crack, he saw nothing but indistinct shadows. In dream-like slowness, he placed both palms lightly against the smooth oak and silently pushed the door until it creaked wide open. Two large, French windows on the far wall bathed the entire room in the silver glow of winter moonlight. She seemed so small and fragile alone in the middle of the high, four-poster bed. In her sleep, she had kicked the sheets and comforter off the edge of the mattress so that now only her feet were covered. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt terribly guilty. He had no right to be in here—he should leave immediately. But he was frozen, he couldn't leave.

A white, silk nightgown wrapped her creamy skin like a Greek goddess. One strap had slipped from her shoulder, and the loose fabric at the bottom of the gown was bunched around her thighs, revealing long, shapely legs. She shivered in her sleep, her bare skin covered in gooseflesh. As Chris stood above her, his eyes traveled the length of her body; from the dark brown ringlets spilling over the pillow, to her long eyelashes and baby pink mouth, to the swells and curves of her body. Her chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths, and he realized that the outline of her breasts were clearly visible under the sheer fabric. Chris couldn't breathe, and he was afraid to move. Finally he managed to shake some sense into his head and retrieved the discarded blankets from the floor. Delicately he covered her body with the sheets and heavy wool comforter until her shivering ceased. He didn't know what possessed him to do it, but he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before silently leaving the room and pulling the door shut behind him.

--

Chris sighed contently, his belly pleasantly full of a large dinner of eggplant parmesan. The Riesling dessert wine left a sugary taste lingering on his lips. He gazed at Teena as she stood at the bay window in her long cherry-red dress and white sweater. She pressed her hands to the glass, watching the rose-colored sun sink behind heavy grey clouds as snow flurries danced through the air. The day had been languid and glorious. This level of sloth must be a crime, but it had come and gone far too quickly. They had slept until late morning, enjoyed a brunch of eggs and pancakes, and spent the afternoon reading and chatting beside the fire. They'd even ventured outside for a walk on the beach, but the biting chill in the air soon sent them back indoors. And now, lounging after dinner, they'd been comfortably silent in shared contemplation.

"Teena?" Chris asked.

She turned her head over her shoulder and smiled expectantly. "Yes?"

"I've noticed that you wear a silver chain, but you always hide the charm under your blouse. What is it?"

She dropped her chin to stare at the Oriental rug below her feet, her cheeks deepening to a rosy hue. "It's—it's private," she replied. "Something my mother gave me a long time ago."

"May I see it?"

Teena shook her head "no" and refused to look at him.

"Please? If it is too personal to share I'll understand, but you know I wouldn't judge you for any reason, if that is what you're afraid of."

She sighed softly and padded across the room in nylon-stockinged feet to perch on the edge of the sofa beside him. Her right hand slipped just below her collar and she removed a tiny Jewish star, letting it rest on the outside of her sweater. Chris brushed his thumb over the amulet reverently and said, "It's beautiful Teena. You shouldn't hide it."

"There are things about me Bill doesn't know, and I find it best to keep it that way. Besides, in the social circles he inhabits, this sort of thing is shunned, is it not?"

"No. Not by me. What are you hiding, Teena?"

"Nothing, really. I was raised Jewish, that's all. It's just a connection with my family."

"Where is your family?"

"Dead," she whispered, glancing away.

"I'm sorry," he replied quietly, reaching to stroke her cheek. "What happened to them?"

"My father was killed in an accident, and my mother became ill. She passed away eight years ago. There was no one else."

"What was your life like? Where did you live as a child?" he asked.

She stood quickly, jerking away from his caress. "Why are you asking me these questions?" she demanded defensively.

"Because I want to know you."

"What do you want to know? That my father was never married to my mother? That he was killed working in a mill before I was born? That I grew up in a poor Jewish neighborhood in Queens? That I'm not really 'in society'? Is that what you want to hear?" she asked as she turned away from him and once again gazed out the window.

"Yes," he murmured. "I want you to trust me. I want you to share those things with me. I want to understand your pain and your sorrows and your dreams. None of that changes who you are. It could never change…how I feel about you."

"I met Bill when he came into the Manhattan restaurant where I waited tables. He told me I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. I was so flattered that this wealthy businessman would stop to look at me. At first, I thought he just wanted me for a good time or as a 'play thing'. But he fell in love with me, in his own way, and he wanted to be with me. And then I changed. I became more conscious of the way I spoke, training myself away from the accent, and I gave close attention to fashion. I wanted to be what he wanted me to be."

"And what about who you are? Does he know you at all?"

"No," she breathed.

"He's an idiot if he can't see what I see. He doesn't deserve you."

Without offering a reply, Teena crossed to the opposite corner of the room and selected a record from the rack. Soft static filled the silence as she placed the needle on the vinyl; and soon the luscious, velvety smooth blues of Billie Holiday's "They Can't Take That Away From Me" warmed the atmosphere. She returned to where Chris sat, extending one arm to him. Tears glittered in her chocolate brown eyes, one spilling over her cheek and leaving a shiny trail behind.

"Dance with me," she said.

"Teena, I can't."

"Everyone can slow dance. Please. Dance with me."

Of course he could never refuse her. He rose on slightly wobbly legs and easily melted into the softness of her body. At first he tried to keep as much distance as he could, but his arms soon held her snuggly around her waist as her arms wrapped around his neck, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. They rocked and swayed gently to the music without thinking, forgetting the world outside their embrace. Teena pulled away just enough to look into his eyes, and he was sure that she was going to say that this was a mistake after all, that they shouldn't be doing this. But she shocked the hell out of him instead. Her hands cupped his cheeks and she lightly pulled him closer, brushing her lips across his, sending sparks of electricity down his spine to pool in his lower back. The dam of control slipped, and he pulled her against him so that her breasts pressed into his chest, his pelvis into her lower belly. Her lips caressed his fluidly without breaking the soothing motion, and he let her control the blissful contact. Without hesitation, her mouth opened under his, and their tongues danced. She tasted mild like vanilla yet fruity like wine and her lips were soft and delicate like the petals of a lilac.

Their movements grew more frantic and confident, and before Chris' mind registered what was happening, she pulled him to the sofa, flung her sweater to the floor, and his fingers began clumsily working the gold buttons on her dress. His body easily covered hers; she raised and parted her legs, her knees resting on the outside of his hips. Lips followed fingers, touching, exploring, caressing. Before long his white starched button-down shirt joined the pile of clothes atop the crinoline layers of her crimson gown. His hand smoothed over her shoulder and down the curve of her back to the hook and eyes of her bra. He buried his face in her neck and tasted the soft flesh there as she fumbled with his belt buckle.

"Wait," he breathed, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she whispered in his ear.

"I—I don't…have…anything."

"S'okay. I can't have children."

"What do you…how do you know?"

"Shhhh. It's okay. I know."

She rolled over his body until she straddled his thighs and bent to trail her lips down the lean muscles of his torso. All doubts were soon erased from his mind.

--

A/N: I'm editing this for mature content as I'm posting due to the rating and the rules of this site. However, I will eventually post the original copy of the story on my live-journal and provide a link, if anyone's interested.