August 28th
"The power's definitely out." Sarah looked up as Gene sat down next to her. She was so tired she barely registered what he'd said.
"Well, no surprises there." It had only been a matter of time, with the way the wind gusted. She started to get to her feet, only to be eased back down on the couch.
"I took care of things," Gene said. "You haven't had five minutes to yourself all day. Besides, I built this fire just for you." He sounded aggrieved, but under the petulant tone there was a teasing note.
"It's a very nice fire," Sarah said. That was true enough; the warmth felt heavenly after a day spent out in the rain in the village as she helped fill sandbags and prepare emergency kits. She'd come home to more preparatory work: shutters closed, all sorts of items taken to the attic, and a a harvest of her garden crops. She'd managed to get a hot shower before the electricity disappeared, but now she was hungry and worn out. "It looks perfect for toasting bread and cheese."
"That sounds like a plan. We could even heat up some soup." Gene stood and stretched. "Be right back."
By the time everything was set up they'd been joined by Hellboy, who was there for the weekend of course, along with Roz and Greg. He sat next to Gene and watched with interest as the soup simmered in its cast iron pot. His ears flicked back and forth as wind howled outside and rattled the shutters. "Don't worry, you'll have plenty of warm places to sleep," Sarah told him. She ran a gentle finger down his back. "You can take your pick of beds with humans in them."
"I'm glad we had the tree crew in earlier this summer to clear those limbs away from the roof," Gene said. He put a thick piece of bread on the toasting fork and held it to the embers. "How's everything in the village?"
Sarah rested her head against the arm of the couch, and watched the flames dance. "They've got the fire hall set up as an emergency shelter, and if the power's still off tomorrow we're all going to bring in our thawed food and do a potluck for everyone. The kids are excited about missing school. This kind of thing is always such an adventure when you're young." She offered the plate when Gene slipped the toast off the fork and put a slice of cheddar on it.
"Where is everyone?"
"James went to bed, he worked hard helping out today." She still couldn't help but smile when she said 'James'. "Roz and Greg were out in the barn earlier. They were saying something about making sure Barbarella's high and dry."
"Yeah," Gene said dryly, and Sarah chuckled. "Well if they want to sleep out there, more power to them. I'm glad I've got a nice warm bed and a clean woman to cuddle with."
"Your clean woman is gonna gnaw your hands off if you don't hurry up with that bread and make me a sandwich," Sarah warned. "I am absolutely ravenous."
Soon enough they both munched toasted cheese and hot soup. Gene fed tidbits of beef to Hellboy, and allowed the cat to lick the broth from his fingers. Sarah watched them as she listened to the storm outside, grateful for her warm and comfortable house.
"I'm sorry our vacation got interrupted," Gene said. Sarah set her cup aside and folded her hands over her full belly.
"Wasn't your fault," she said. "Not unless you conjured up that storm on purpose."
"Last year it was my fault." He didn't look at her.
"That was last year," she said quietly. "There were . . . circumstances. Besides, you took me to Key West and we got married." She smiled at the memory. "Really married."
Gene lifted his head. "Yeah, we did." His green eyes glinted. "I think we should do it again."
"Sounds good to me," Sarah said. "Add another week and I'll forgive you for Irene."
He stared at her. A smile tugged at his lips. "You scheming little minx." To her surprise he got to his feet and left the room. When he came back he had her mandolin in hand.
"Oh, so I have to sing for my supper?" she said, brows raised. "Or to get my extra week?"
"You haven't played for me yet," he said, and offered her the instrument. "Please?"
Sarah wiped her fingers with a paper towel and took the mandolin with some reluctance. "I'm not very good."
"You always say that." Gene settled back against the couch as Hellboy climbed onto his lap. "C'mon, pick a little for me."
She tuned carefully, and paid attention to the A string that always slipped a bit in wet weather. Then she began to play 'Soldier's Joy', slow at first, to let her fingers warm up. Gene grinned at her, a tacit acknowledgment of the teasing poke at his expense. Sarah let the melody pick up speed as she grew more limber. While she loved her guitar, there was something about a mandolin she found more comfortable. Maybe it was the sound on a wild night like this—cheerful, sweet and resonant, a small voice but a powerful one.
When the song was done she moved on to an O'Carolan tune, 'Beauty in Tears', one of her favorites, then to a Scottish reel, 'Money Musk'. When she finished Gene smiled at her.
"You're a natural," he said. "You've got a gift for it, Sare."
Sarah ducked her head, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. "There's something else I'm working on," she offered. "I found it at the Mandolin Café online. It's from a book of medieval airs for lute transcribed for mandolin . . . it just caught my ear."
She played the melody line from 'Cantiga 119' for him, then said softly "Why don't you get a guitar and join me?"
Without a word Gene displaced the cat on the floor with gentle hands and got up, to return with the Martin. He sat cross-legged, tuned the guitar with care to match the mandolin's register. When he was ready Sarah played the melody slowly. Gene listened, his dark head bowed. On the second play-through he began to match chords to the tune. It took a little doing, but by the third time around he had it figured out. They played it slow at first, then picked up a bit of speed as the notes grew familiar. Sarah enjoyed the sweetness of the minor intervals that still sounded happy.
"This would be perfect for Yule," Gene said when they ended the song. "Are there tabs available?"
"There's a book with the CD," Sarah said, delighted by the idea of ancient airs played in the house during the holidays. "Let's do it."
"Sounds good to me." Gene sat back and smiled at her. He began to pick 'Soldier's Joy', just noodling. "We'll have to practice."
"How about two hours and dinner out once a week? We can woodshed on our own. It'll be more fun than sitting home watching a movie on tv on date night. We've gotten kind of lazy about that," Sarah said. She began to play the song with him.
"Love it when a plan comes together." Gene didn't speak for a moment. "We could have an in-home concert just for us and some friends at Yule, and then we'll take an extra week in Key West."
"Well I don't know," Sarah said, and knew she sounded doubtful. "An extra week in Key West, that's gonna be pretty expensive. You really should consider that, you know."
Gene stopped playing. "Brat," he said, and gave her a baleful squint. She grinned back and sped up her playing, a silent dare for him to follow her. He shook his head but kept pace as his long fingers picked the chords with ease. When they finished she hammed the ending with a tremolo chord. Gene laughed. "Three weeks it is," he said, and leaned in to steal a kiss.
[H]
James lay in the darkness, unable to sleep. It wasn't the storm outside that had him awake; his attention was elsewhere.
He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but he'd left his door open, and the sound of two people in the living room had caught his attention. He knew it was Gene and Sarah; House and his wife—god, how strange it was still to think that!—were outside in the barn, of all places. Why the hell they wanted to stay in some leaky, drafty, unsafe structure was beyond comprehension, but then House's motivations and reasoning often made no sense to anyone but him.
It wasn't possible to hear what Gene and Sarah said, and anyway the noise of the storm blurred the individual words. But James could feel the intent, sense the emotions. There was an easy give and take, a sort of . . . he searched for the word . . . comraderie, that he had never had with any of his wives or girlfriends.
Comraderie, his inner voice scoffed. Call it what it is. You mean friendship.
That observation took him aback. James rolled on his side and stared at the sliver of light from the doorway. Was it that simple?
You saw it with House and Roz. They're friends as well. Why are you having such a tough time accepting this?
"Men and women can't do this," he said out loud. He'd never entertained the thought with any of his wives or the women with whom he'd had affairs. There was sexual flirtation, teasing, an emotional bond, but friendship was something else entirely—a fantasy, as far as he was concerned. "Why would I want to be friends with someone I'm having sex with?"
Why wouldn't you?
His first impulse was to push the question away, but Nolan had often prompted him to probe these unexpected thoughts. With a sigh James rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
"I came closest with Amber," he said softly. The now-habitual sadness he felt at the memory of her eased into his mind, but he could tell it had lessened, wasn't as all-powerful as it had been. He didn't like that diminishment; he wanted his grief to stay new and sharp, but there was nothing he could do about it. Time might not heal all wounds, but it did wear away the rough edges of pain, the way water wears down stone.
Amber hadn't been like the others. She was strong, aggressive, independent. Life with her had both excited and scared him. He hadn't known how to deal with someone who didn't require his constant care and attention. He'd often felt unsure of himself around her, and yet she hadn't humiliated him or mocked his ineffectualness—well, not too much anyway, but there had almost always been a gleam of humor and affection in her eyes when she'd done it. She'd encouraged him to disagree with her, to express his own opinion without worry about whether or not he'd offend someone. He'd been brought up to take care of everyone else's needs before his; to deliberately reverse that course had been heady, exhilarating. But had it been friendship?
He thought of House and Roz in the car, the way Roz's head had rested on House's shoulder, his quiet chuckle at something she'd said, her soft voice as she asked a question. They'd fitted together—not as if they'd always been meant to, but because they'd chosen it for themselves. It was a conscious decision, and it made sense. House had no patience with the notion of Fate or destiny or anything that smacked of irrational belief. Roz seemed to be of the same mindset. Maybe that was the key . . . to choose someone to be friends with first. The idea nearly made James laugh out loud. What woman on earth would want to be friends with him?
Music drifted up from the living room—Sarah, undoubtedly. He listened to the plaintive melody. Eventually Gene joined her, just simple chords. At the end of the song they spoke, played it again, ended it in laughter and a long pause that told James they did something besides make music. There it was, that same ease together he'd seen with House and Roz.
They trust each other. And he'd never trusted a woman in his life, with good reason as it turned out. But then he hadn't been a poster boy for devotion himself, so maybe it was a case of like attracting like.
He lay in the darkness a long time, listened to the bits of music and the storm outside, a mirror to the one within him, until exhaustion carried him off into sleep.
The next morning, when he stumbled into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, it was to find Kris at the stove. She wore one of Sarah's aprons over a tee shirt and jeans, her thick hair tied back in a makeshift ponytail. When he came in she glanced over and gave him a smile, and he saw she wore no makeup. He'd never seen her look less than put-together, always beautifully dressed, always lovely. Now she looked impossibly young and vulnerable, but there was an assurance, a self-confidence that reminded him a bit of Amber, but without the sharp edge of ambition she'd often displayed.
"Looking for some coffee? There's a fresh batch in the pot," Kris said, and went back to her hash browns.
"You're already up," James said, and winced at the idiotic observation.
"I went down to see if they needed help at the fire hall for the potluck later today. They put me to work filling sandbags, hence my glamorous appearance." She chuckled. "I think this is going to be my new look for a while." She didn't sound upset about it, just matter-of-fact. James took a mug from the collection by the pot and filled it.
"You—you look fine," he said as he added sugar and stirred. "Could they use another volunteer?"
"Sure. You can go with me after breakfast if you'd like." She glanced at him again, and tossed a glimmering smile his way. "I'd like that."
"Me too," he said, more out of reflex than anything else. Still, when he sipped his coffee he realized it was the truth. He enjoyed being with Kris. Through her visits to Mayfield and then to Princeton he'd gotten to know her better and liked what he'd discovered, and for some strange reason she appeared to feel the same way about him. She'd been more of a friend than anyone—
He stopped, struck by the phrase. A reluctant but genuine smile curved his lips. "More of a friend," he said softly.
"Beg pardon?" Kris began to pile hash browns into a casserole dish. "Everything all right?"
"I think so," James said. "Yeah . . . I think so."