“Positive.
No doubts at all.
Just promise you'll write in words I can
understand.”
Now he took her hand in
his, shocked at how cool and soft it was.
“I thought I had dreamed you, Emily.
But I could never have conjured up someone like you.
I came here searching for memories, but
you've given me so much more than that.
Thank you.”
Cautiously, he lifted
her hand to his lips, hoping she wouldn't pull away.
But her eyes, wide and smoky gray now, met
his as if she fully understood the effect she had had on him.
Dear amazing
Emily,
This is indeed a
letter of thanks.
For your gracious
hospitality, for your time, and most especially for the generous gift of your
self.
I cannot begin to
put into words what it means to find that I actually have some memory of the
hours we spent together.
If I am never
to recall the other events of those days, at least I have found something that
proves I was in fact there.
Waking to
learn that something so horrible had happened and having no idea what part I
might have played has caused me as much pain as any of my injuries.
While I accept that I may never regain the
memory of the accident and how I escaped with my life, I now understand what
followed.
I am in awe of the effort you
made on my behalf.
Where you found the
strength and courage I cannot imagine.
However, having spent time with you, I begin to see what
an extraordinary young woman you are.
As I look back at
the past few hours (I am writing this as the car speeds ever farther from your
home), I realize how much more I wanted to ask about you and your life.
I want to know about the things you love, the
music and books, your favorite season and time of day, the colors you love to
have around you and your favorite flavor of ice cream.
And I want to know all about your family,
your friends, how you spend your leisure time.
I feel we are old friends, united by a very powerful bond, yet I realize
I know so little about you.
Please, will
you share these things with me?
When I am
performing tomorrow night, in my heart I will dedicate my performance to the
woman who saved my life, and who I now hope will remain a part of that life—to
my amazing friend, Emily.
All my best (your
pen pal?)
Stani
Courtship
Chapter Thirty-three
Dear Stani,
I find myself
overwhelmed by your letter.
First you
refer with such intensity to your feelings about the accident.
Then you want to know my favorite flavor of
ice cream?
Are you always so mercurial?
If so, I shall have difficulty knowing what
in your letters to take seriously and what to laugh at.
There is one very
serious matter I want to address, right at the start.
You must
not
think of me as the person
who saved your life.
I believe with all
my heart that nothing I did for you could have saved you if you were not meant
to survive that night.
You lived because
there is more you are meant to do with your life.
It was an act of God, and I did nothing more
than keep you safe until help could come.
So please don't think of me as anything more than the person who was in
the right place to help you when you needed help.
You yourself, if you will think about it,
were the one who did something extraordinary, by walking up that hillside to
find help.
Your own desire to survive must
have kept you going all those hours.
I can understand
your wanting to know the details of the events leading up to the accident, but
that too may be part of your healing.
It
must require great faith to accept the loss of those memories.
I'm sure you did nothing to cause the tragedy
of that night.
Learning to accept loss
and move on with life is something I know about.
It is never easy, but the moving on can bring
comfort and in time peace.
You ask about my
family.
As I told you, both of my
parents are dead now.
My mother died of
cancer when I was fifteen and my father died two years ago after spending three
years completely disabled following a stroke.
It took me some time to pick up my life, the life they would have wanted
me to have.
After wandering in a
depressed fog for over two years, I finally came home and found the answers I
needed.
I had believed that everything I
had loved, my family and my home, was lost forever.
There is no way to describe the miracle that
made me understand that I could come back here, start my own life, and keep all
that my parents had already built.
It
was that miracle that had brought me here that Christmas week.
You will forever be a part of that for
me.
In many ways, you helped me as much
as I helped you.
I realized that beside
the miracle of your surviving that night, my own worries had been short-sighted
and selfish.
I had doubted the wisdom of
God's plan for my life, which I have never done since.
I believe so completely that everything
happens for a reason, as part of a greater plan.
Our meeting, unusual as the circumstances may
have been, was meant to bring something to both our lives.
Enough of my
personal philosophy!
Let's see, you
asked about friends, which would take another several pages, since each of them
is so special to me.
And music and books
are
the substance of my leisure time, little as
there seems to be
of it.
I love spring, summer, fall and winter
equally.
Sunrise and sunset are second
only to nighttime,
when the
stars are so incredibly brilliant in the sheer darkness of night in the
country.
My favorite
c
olors are found in the rainbow and the
countryside in fall.
And last, but not
least, my favorite ice
cream is
predictably chocolate.
Now it's your turn.
Even though I have read the liner notes of
your recording, I'm not sure where you were born and raised (and can't quite
tell by your accent!).
I know nothing of
your family, where you actually live and certainly nothing of your tastes,
although I imagine them to be very refined.
And one pressing question, do you always wear black?
I am also curious to know what sort of music
you listen to, as opposed to the music you perform.
There is such a world of beautiful music, how
can anyone limit themselves to only one variety?
Enough.
You must be bored to tears by now.
Most sincerely,
Emily
She had not
expected him to be so warm and genuine.
After the first intense moments, when he’d looked at her with such
wonder and tears had filled his eyes, Stani Moss had seemed to be someone she'd
known for a very long time.
All of the
mystique, the image of the brooding young genius, had melted away as she
watched him.
Standing before the mantel,
seeming to picture them together, pacing beside the hearth, as if measuring the
space where he had lain all those hours, he was suddenly very real and
vulnerable.
“I was here, on the floor,
and you were in that chair.
Is that
right?”
In his eyes, she saw clearly
that he needed as much as wanted her to tell him that his memory was accurate.
They had sat
side by side on the couch, and he had told her he still couldn't remember anything
else about the night of the accident.
“I
was afraid it was all lost, but now at least I have this.
I suppose that should be enough.”
He asked about his condition when she found
him.
“You were very
cold, you had lost a lot of blood, and your left arm was dangling, as if it had
been torn from the shoulder.
I was
afraid between the shock and the exposure that you might lapse into a coma, but
eventually you did rouse somewhat, enough to let me know you were aware of
me.
I suppose that's what you remember,
those few minutes.
The power was out and
the only heat was from the fireplace.
That's why I put you here on the floor.”
He had listened
in silence, looking around the room as if trying to imagine the scene.
“How long?”
“About eighteen
hours.
Jack, he's the sheriff, came late
the next morning.
He was also my
guardian at the time, and he came when he heard there was smoke coming from the
chimney up here.
You see, I wasn't
supposed to be here.
I had come home
without telling anybody.”
She had smiled
at the slightly puzzled look in his eyes.
“Let's just say I had a lot of explaining to do.”
He asked to see
the place in the yard where she'd first found him.
Taking him there, she described the way he
had fallen, how she had first believed him to be dead, and the rush of energy
that had erupted when she realized he was alive.
She tried to explain how she’d used the
coverlet to drag him inside.
“From that
point on, something outside me seemed to take over.
I just wanted to get you in out of the snow.
I'm sure it was quite a sight, but in the end
it worked.”
Linking her arm through his,
she’d led him back to the house.
Suddenly, standing there talking about the horror of those first
moments, she had remembered the sight of his bloodied face and felt she needed
to take him back inside to safety again.
The most
unexpected thing about the whole meeting, she decided, was how easy they had
been with one another from the start.
It
had seemed the most natural thing in the world to go into his arms in those
first few moments.
He had buried his
face in her hair, whispering her name over and over, and she’d been keenly
aware of the unfamiliar, though not at all unpleasant, warmth she felt in
response.
From then on, they had seemed
to frequently reach for each other, touching hands or linking arms.
When he had taken her hand and lifted it to
his lips, saying thank you for whatever it was he felt she had given him, she’d
been stunned by her own reaction.
Under
any other circumstances, any other man who had done such a blatantly romantic
thing would have found her far from receptive.
She would have jerked away, or even laughed in his face.
But when Stani's eyes had met hers, filled
with a mix of emotions she dared not try to interpret, she’d been deeply moved
in a way she had never been before.
When she had
walked with him to the gate, where the car and driver waited, Stani had turned
and drawn her into his arms, held her close and laid his cheek against
hers.
“Until next time?” he'd whispered.
She’d been
surprised at how pleasantly warm his breath was on her face.
“Next time.”
As the car had backed out of the drive, she had held up her hand, hoping
he couldn't see that it was actually trembling.
Of course, he
was even more beautiful than his photographs.
No camera could ever catch the true color of his hair, the flash of his
smile, or the intensity of those dark eyes.
Dressed in black, a tailored shirt and impeccably creased trousers
topped by a sport coat of the finest wool, black on black glen plaid, he had
seemed uncommonly elegant.
Yet he wore
his clothes as though he had put little or no thought into their selection,
seemingly unaware of the impression he made.
The fall of auburn waves across his face, the way he gestured with those
strong, slender hands, compelled her to watch him.
She had been surprised by his voice, deep and
warm with that unusual accent.
Everything about him was appealing and left her wishing he would come
again.