5. The desert
A nymph of the lake. A myth. The lost Penn. The invisible daughter. A ghost in red. Red hair, red gown, red lips. A flame.
Beverly Penn, a scream, a desire, a ghost.
A flame.
Warm and seductive and silky. Scandalous, gloveless, the object of everyone's attention. And despite herself, Beverly enjoyed being this bold. She liked to burn now, to twirl and mimic the waving of the candles.
The attention she garnered. That she was physically present, and noticeable, among so many people… It was amazing.
Winter spun in laces around her neck. Ticklish, cold fingers, caressing her throat. And the breeze was delicious. The music, wine. Thick and dark and mysterious and so very enticing.
Beverly tiptoed across this pool of beige and white. The candlelight gleaming off the glossy, crystalline surface. She spun and icy waterdrops teased her ankles.
His hands, keeping her grounded. His fingers, locking around her own. His eyes, glinting. Black coins. Glossy with candlelight.
The applause. The fire, golden arrows, circling around them.
And Peter Lake's face suddenly changed. His features softening. And Beverly waited for him like she waited each morning.
Don't be afraid of me…
Oh… His breath on her lips. His hands cupping her face. Fingers, digging into her hair.
Please…
His restraint. His concern for her. His heartbreaking gentleness.
His voice.
"I love you."
Oh.
Not once, but twice. He said it twice.
"I love you."
And Beverly was ready to speak and speak until the entire house was ablaze.
I love you.
Consequences be damned.
She was red and scandalous and trembling with excitement. She was burning.
But… one interruption. One implication.
I didn't know Isaac had another daughter.
A cold reminder. A dream, ended. A dance, concluded. A flame, extinguished.
I didn't know…
Eyes that glazed over. Bored, dull stares. Seeing nothing but blur and sin. The audacity… The hypocrisy…
Beverly Penn, a performer. She looked down at herself and she wanted to disappear.
Oh…
Slowly her happiness faltered. The world crumbling under the strength of this sandstorm, a rush of golden candlelight, racing in maddening rings, jailing her in place.
Until all that remained was the taste of champagne, the ticking of the clock, the music…
Oh…
And Peter Lake.
Returning to her, leaving the dance, a pit of fire at his back. Eyes set on her. A ghost in red. Smoke, still warm, in the breeze.
No.
Beverly Penn, a woman of flesh and blood. Not a ghost or a puff of smoke. She was his friend. His choice.
Peter Lake could have run to Florida and the safety of the summertime. He could have escaped the monstrous metropolis that had destroyed him. The same city that kept her at bay, forlorn and empty. Lifeless.
But he was here. Now. He'd chosen her.
Of all women, all girls.
And he reached out for her. Touched her. And she solidified into reality, found her heartbeat, contained it.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
And his every gesture was so beautiful that it almost made Beverly burst into tears, right there and then.
I love you.
Curse you, Peter Lake. Born on the deathbed of a year. A year, his gift. One more year. 1916, 1917.
For her, one more second. One more hour. One day more. He chose her now.
I love you.
Her.
Me…
And Beverly knew nothing, all at once. How much longer would this storm of candlelight last?
I don't want to go.
She bent under the weight of her own isolation. This didn't inspire cruelty or greed, the way it previously had. Instead, Beverly felt inspired. Fearless. And… desperate, too.
A delicious, intoxicating desperation.
And Peter Lake alone stood out in the golden chaos that thundered around her. Dressed in black, his eyes glassy with emotion.
I don't want to go.
So Beverly went to him, retreating in her steps. Once, then again. A slip, a lunge, a brush with death, and she was collapsing into his embrace, and the world spun as wildly as a marble and she clung to him, with all her might.
Just keep holding me…
Peter Lake spoke to her now as if he were at the verge of tears. Hands clutching her back and her hair, her own behaving similarly upon him. He called her 'love', and it destroyed her. But she had no time to weep.
Keep me here…
She had no time to scream. To rage, to dwindle, to tease.
Stay with me…
Only to kiss him, in the darkness, in the middle of a staircase. To delight in the musical intensity in his breathing. His mouth, opening, inviting. The taste of him.
Please, Peter…
To devour him. Desire him. Ache for him.
His soft gasps. His hands, caressing her. His beautiful compassion, persevering through these breathless exchanges.
"You're not vain, Beverly… You're anything but vain…"
You…
His heart, her heart. Her life in the palm of his hand. Ba-dum, ba-dum.
To let his arms, his voice clothe her. To speak to him quietly. To find her peace, his mouth. She wasn't afraid.
You're the night that precedes the dawn.
To remove his clothes. To see him.
She'd never seen a naked man before, neither had she ever unrobed herself in front of one. Therefore, she'd never understood the secrets behind the embarrassment of it all, to unclothe, to let others see you.
She still didn't, really. She was naked now and she felt none of this. She'd felt thicker self-consciousness fully clad, in a room of gold, at the deathbed of a year.
You…
But him… Embarrassed or not, he was afraid. Terrified. And she had no idea why.
She couldn't conceive how he could hide himself so thoroughly in those sad black clothes, to call himself ugly or old, to tremble so much, as if he feared her disappointment.
Black hair, black eyes, ablaze with intensity. The lamplight, drenching him. Colors suddenly burned within him, around him. A deep amber, warm as toffee, melting into the smoky shades of his stubble, the buzzed areas of his head, the skin around his eyes, the hollow of his throat. Strokes of burnt yellow glimmering off the dark hair on his chest, his arms, some lilac, some red. The beautiful blue shadows cast by the muscles tensing under his skin, coursing the sturdiness of his limbs, wherever her fingers wandered… And all of him moved, every time he breathed. Every part of him was alive.
You're the rain that precedes rainbows.
And Peter had no idea how much she loved him. He would never know how beautiful he was, right now, standing before her. Try as she might, with her words, and her hands, and her lips, he would never believe her, but she did try regardless. She told and told him…
Your every glance is an invitation.
His warmth. The welcome weight of him. He was strong, but he didn't abuse his own power. She didn't feel shackled by this embrace or crushed by this body. He never hurt her.
And his lips, exploring, adoring… Worshiping parts of her that she'd never even previously considered worthy of worship.
Her collarbones. Her chest and the bothersome heart it housed. Her soft belly.
And… oh…
You invite me to wait a little longer.
To cry out. Beverly Penn, a scream. To laugh. To hear his laugh and laugh again.
She was burning. She was nervous, but she was delighted, too. And the night was too deep and the lamplight was thick and blinding and she wanted him now. As soon as possible.
She couldn't allow herself to sit still, imagining, theorizing. Not anymore.
To burn and not feel afraid of the wildfire that will follow.
To embrace him, hold him close, and feel his own arms lock and tighten around her. His voice, a whisper.
To flash across the sky and not tremble when the thunder replies.
To feel him. Them. The way he found his way into her, how he let them unite, as painlessly as possible. This surreal, pleasant, wondrous intimacy.
To see what wonders await me.
To love, and love, and wonder if her heart may give out for loving this deeply.
Oh…
A cave forming in her chest. A galaxy, depthless, absorbing everything. These colors. The golden winter that enveloped them. Cool, comforting, slithering between their bodies.
The man in her arms. His gentleness. His caution. The patience behind this pleasure…
Castor, Pollux, Capella, Ursa Major…
His shoulders moved under her hands. And his body was as pliant as a desert. Waving, trembling, shaping anew, every time they came together.
Ursa Minor…
And the look in his eyes, the lamplight molten into the black… Fireflies. Teardrops of gold.
Peter…
She saw herself reflected there and she couldn't recognize what lay beyond his gaze. What made him look at her so vividly. What caused his lips to move without forming a single word.
Why do I look so beautiful in your eyes?
As if she were a rare, beautiful language that he was struggling to understand. As intricate as it was mesmerizing.
I only hope you see yourself as beautiful, too, in mine…
She'd taken so long to learn how to play piano. So many years of this death-ridden life spent trying to speak a tongue that wasn't her own. And now she had become his music sheet, lain upon this bed. These paper whites.
If only you knew…
And Peter Lake looked upon these notes, these curves of ink and webs of sound. Trying, longing to decode them. Caress them into life, the way she'd done for years.
If only I could speak now without burning you…
So she may waft like perfume in the air and be free of this cage of paper…
But I can't speak…
He wasn't a thief. He wasn't greedy. He didn't demand a bite of her delight, he let her keep it all to herself.
I don't even know what to say…
He offered all he could, gave her all he had. Surrendering himself to her, piece by piece. His hands. His mouth. His body. His pleasure.
And Beverly felt endless. She was torrential rain. A sandstorm. A whirlwind. Everconsuming, everlasting, indestructible. Powerful enough to reshape the world that had broken both of them down.
But at the same time, I have so much to say…
And she kept kissing him, and touching him, and receiving the same attention from him. Every affection, reciprocated. Every sigh, shared. They understood one another, cherished each other. Beverly wanted to treasure all of him. To let him know that not a single detail was amiss. That she loved his face, his hair, his body, every part of him that she could touch. And all that she couldn't touch, too. His voice, his every spoken word. His thoughts, his soul, his heart, his memories. His past, his present, his future.
I love you…
To soar.
To transform…
Oh...
She was sound, aloft, spinning, running, flying. A symphonic ecstasy rocked her body and, all of a sudden, the fog lifted, her vision sharpened. And she felt calmer, less afraid. Her previous impatience fading into a pleasant clarity.
She was alive. She was unbreakable.
I love you…
Peter Lake watched her, a shadow of concern clouding his eyes, and she touched his face. Reminded herself that this was not a dream.
I love you completely.
To want him again. A different, less selfish longing. To bring him back to her, hug him, envelop him. She wanted him to have everything he'd given her.
And Peter trembled on top of her, and despite their current position, Beverly felt at ease, even empowered. She moved and found naturality in doing so. Making love to him was wonderfully easy.
I love you painlessly.
Peter closed his eyes, yielding to the climbing pressure she was building within him. He shuddered, his face twisting with intensity. Beverly stroked his back with both hands.
Let it go, Peter…
She kissed his neck, his jaw, his lips. She was gentle, the way he'd been. And Peter found his pleasure, like she'd found her own. Very soon, he let her disarm him.
Let it happen…
He caressed her face and her shoulders. He breathed erratically. And then his body seemed to pulverize at the edges, joining the dusty embers of the lamplight, and Beverly kept him where he was, inside of her, in her arms. She watched him, mesmerized.
And then he spoke. Quietly, amidst the tremors and the sighs.
"Beverly..."
Her name. Just her name. It sent a delicious shiver down her spine.
To speak, at last.
"Peter..."
"Beverly."
Whispers upon whispers.
"Peter."
To tell him everything... To lounge in the half-light... This peace...
I love to love you…
To watch him. His reaction was heartbreaking. The way he reiterated himself, and held her, and trailed kisses all over her face.
"I love you. I love you."
The smile that conquered his lips. The weakness in his voice.
"I love you…"
This man… This miracle…
His adorable face, flooded with emotion. His dark, gentle eyes. His unspeakable joy. His devotion. Her devotion. Her peace. She felt an infinite tenderness for him.
I'm real, Peter. You know that, right?
To keep him here. Forever. As long as he allowed her.
I'm real…
To relax. To fall asleep. Fearlessly. Willingly. Peter Lake kept his arms around her.
All was well…
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
Voila. Prologue, done. Now it's time for the plot to actually begin.
So, here are Chapters 60-69 of "A Star in the Lake," converged into one chapter, from Beverly's eyes. Boy, I loved writing this. I was literally on fire. This is the perfect chapter for me to truly get into Beverly's skin and understand her perspective. I feel like writing Part 2 is gonna become so much easier thanks to my experience writing this chapter alone.
I linger a lot in ASITL, in different details. I plan to do that in this story, as well, but the reason why I do it so often in Part 1 is because Peter is very observant. He's deep, introspective, he slowly savors the world around him. He is amazed by everything. He takes Beverly in and just watches her, wonders about her forever. He likes to study the details of something. There's a reason why he likes machinery: he appreciates the artistry of complexity, the tiny details behind something. And I feel like Beverly is much less specific in her enjoyment of reality.
Which is why, here, when I'm writing from Beverly's eyes, I keep drawing comparisons between her and practically everything around her. Fire, sandstorms, whirlwinds, etc. Big, powerful things. Loud and indestructible. She jumps between them relestlessly.
I want to write her as greedy - not in a bad way, necessarily, but simply greedy, desperate to feel. She wants to be everything, feel everything, see everything. She doesn't linger on details, like Peter. She jumps right into the imagery and consumes it, without a second thought, before exploring another. She has no time to linger. Hence why I make my sentences very short and quick and her constant thought process (cause Beverly is constantly thinking, I believe), restless, insatiable, consuming her.
Her emotions, too. That she goes from being wonderfully happy to being angry, in the same violent fashion. That she is overwhelmed by Peter's kindness and gives in to her desire. I felt very energetic while I wrote this, so I think I did a good job properly visualizing and getting in the shoes of Beverly, who is the embodiment of "lust for life."
She's full of so much unspoken passion that, yes, if she were to begin explaining it, she could burn everything in her wake. She's powerful. She's a contained explosion. Whereas Peter is water, slow, depthless. Hiding in plain sight. Present in every little detail of the world around him.
So yes. I love writing from this woman's POV, and now that I'm 5 chapters in, I feel like I'm comfortable enough to write from her eyes in the same way I so easily write from Peter's eyes. I'll be busier next week, so I don't know if I'll update, but if I'm able, I'll be here. And I'll return to you as soon as I can. Cause this is just the beginning :3