Every thought
in his mind fell away, leaving only the music, the swirl of energy from the
musicians behind him, the gentle swaying of the conductor as he glanced his
way, drawing him into the tempo.
At last
he was home, the place in which he would find the greatest joy and the sweetest
peace.
Every performance was an
intensely spiritual experience; for though he had no formal religion, Stani had
early come to recognize a force outside himself, profoundly present in
music.
It seemed to surround him, lift
him away from the small, ugly places in his life.
In the midst of music, he found the assurance
of communion with his better self.
When the music
ended, he was breathless and drained, but at the same time euphoric.
That feeling might last for hours, but he
knew eventually it would fade and he would be left with a void of longing and
restlessness.
Why couldn't he get to
someplace in between, somewhere neither high nor low?
How could he be certain that the next time he
played, he would be able to reach that incredibly sweet place again?
As his arms fell to his sides, he dropped his
head.
With bow and violin in his hands,
he brought them together on his chest, standing poised for several moments as
though deep in prayer.
As he
acknowledged the applause of the orchestra members, now on their feet, and
accepted the conductor's embrace, he looked around for Milo.
Where was he to go from here?
Slowly, the memory of the morning
returned.
He was alone, on his own.
He tried to remember what hotel he was to
stay in, how he was to travel around the city for the next two days.
They had discussed it, he and Milo.
He had been given his instructions, but now
he couldn't recall the details.
Stepping out of
the stage door into the sunlight, he was greeted by the miraculous sight of
Robert, standing next to the limo waiting for him.
Of course, Robert would have his schedule,
make certain he wasn't late or in the wrong location.
Maybe he could have figured something out
himself, but it was comforting to know there was someone watching his
back.
If he meant to prove anything to
Milo, he couldn't afford to slip up now.
He would go to
his hotel, eat and rest, even practice a little.
He'd even avoid the hotel bar, order room
service and go to bed early.
Milo would
be amazed when he listened to the concert over the radio on Christmas Eve.
He would be proud of Stani for having turned
this potential disaster into a glorious success.
Chapter Three
The sun was
already well up when Emily woke.
For a
while, she remained on the floor next to the barely glowing remnants of the
fire, gazing at the shaft of light between the drapes.
No bright sunshine this morning, and judging
by the dampness in the cold room, there would be heavy clouds in the sky.
The day of hard work, and the peace that had
finally come in response to her prayers, had combined to ease her into a deep,
dreamless sleep unlike any she'd known in quite some time.
No need to hurry back to consciousness, she
thought, stretching gently beneath the quilts.
No one to jar her from her bed, no place to rush to, only another day at
home.
Today, she knew
she would not be anxious, she would not try to think her way to a
solution.
Today, she would watch
expectantly, welcoming whatever came, knowing it was part of the design for her
life.
Not her own narrow-sighted plan,
but a much grander scheme that would be revealed in its proper time.
There had been signs and miracles enough
already to convince her that this journey involved much more than she could
comprehend.
Today she would eagerly
greet the future, accept the challenges, and watch for more signs to lead her
forward.
She smiled,
drawing the covers closer around her ears.
That sounded much more like something her mother would have said.
Her mother, who ran out to meet adversity
head on, armed with only her passion for living and her faith in a loving God;
she had found some cause for joy in every day, packed as much living as
possible into every hour.
Emily had
always thought herself too down-to-earth compared to her mother's
effervescence, wishing she had less of her father's practicality and more of
her mother's free spirit.
Maybe there
was hope for her after all.
Finally
crawling out from the warmth, she prodded the fire back to life and dressed
quickly in the relative warmth of the bathroom's little electric heater.
Urging up the dial on the thermostat, she
peered out at the heavy gray clouds moving slowly across the valley.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, she
switched on the radio that had always sat on the kitchen counter, and tuned to
the local AM station.
She caught the
last few words of the forecast as the set came to life.
“. . .heavy
accumulations possible.”
“Ooh, that
sounds ominous,” she answered.
“And
exciting.”
The idea of being cocooned
here by a winter storm, the wind howling and snowdrifts piling up outside the
door, held a certain romantic appeal.
It
also called for some hasty measures to ensure she didn't romantically freeze to
death.
Leaving the
radio on as she ate her breakfast, she chuckled at the simplicity of the local
reports of holiday gatherings and livestock for sale.
An ad from the hardware store for
snow-blowers, now in stock, reminded her that she had best be prepared and she
made a mental list.
Water, wood, light
and a means to get out once the storm was over.
Bundling into her coat and gloves, winding her muffler up around her
ears, she began by hauling in more firewood from the little lean-to shed,
stacking it on the back porch.
She knew
she had her father to thank for the generous supply, which he had put in that
last spring when a tree near the gate had fallen.
He had lamented the loss of the old tree, but
accepted it as a gift that would warm the house during the winter to come.
Two years later, it was indeed serving her
well.
Repeatedly
taking the bucket to the pump, she filled every available pot, even pouring
several bucketfuls into the tub in the first floor bathroom.
In the barn, after some searching in dim,
cobweb-hung corners, she located the snow shovel and placed it next to the back
door in readiness.
She rummaged the
kitchen drawers until she discovered a bundle of plain white candles, stowed
away for just such an event.
With her
own supply of fresh matches, at least she was assured of enough light to move
around the house in the darkness if the storm took down the power lines.
Satisfied that
she was as ready as she could be, she waited for a repeat of the weather
forecast.
At last, with suitable
solemnity, the local broadcaster announced that a major winter storm was
predicted for the entire listening area.
Residents were advised to make preparations today, as the storm was
expected to move in during the overnight hours.
High winds, sleet and snow were anticipated over the next forty-eight
hours.
Law enforcement agencies were
advising holiday travelers to leave immediately or postpone travel until the
storm had passed.
At the
conclusion of the forecast, she turned the radio’s dial to the FM station
broadcasting from the University in Charlottesville.
A Radio Theater production of Dickens’ A
Christmas Carol was in progress.
Leaving
it playing, she browsed the cabinets for potential candle holders.
In the pantry, her search was rewarded with
the discovery of an oil lamp, its base full of golden liquid.
This she carried to the front room, placing
it on the table by the window.
It could
be safely burned at night, and would give off much better light than the
candles.
Her plan had
been to continue cleaning today; and now that she was prepared for the storm,
she put herself to work in the dining room.
She'd always loved this room, with its big bay window and built-in china
cabinet.
The long table and delicate
chairs were part of her mother's legacy from her French grandmother, as were
the china and silver.
The cabinet was
packed with stores of crystal and linens, all treasures the family had used
frequently, inventing special occasions to warrant celebration.
Smiling at the
memories, Emily acknowledged there had been happy times here, in spite of her
mother's always delicate health.
Her
mother had insisted that life was to be lived to the fullest, every good day a
cause for celebration.
Even the days
when pain slowed her pace or confined her to the house were spent in the
company of her family.
They had shared
everything, spending hours just talking, reading, and playing games together,
music always the background for every activity.
For most of those years, there had been enough good days to offset the
bad.
Gently dusting
the gilt frame of the huge mirror that hung over the sideboard, Emily paused to
consider her reflection in the glass.
While she was not dissatisfied with her looks, she would have much
preferred to be more like her mother.
As
it was, other than her pale gray eyes, she knew she was the image of her
father.
Her heavy dark hair, high
forehead and straight nose were definitely his, as was the generous mouth that
seemed to habitually curve up at the corners.
She was tall and slim, as her mother had been, but she feared her angles
rather than curves were more like her father.
She looked well enough.
Boys
seemed to be initially attracted by her looks until they found out she had no
interest in allowing them to paw over her.
“Why is it,”
she asked her reflection with a thoughtful frown, “that as soon as male and
female sit down together the male finds it impossible to resist touching the
female?
I have concluded that further
research on this topic is pointless, as the result is invariably the same.”
With a flip of her dust cloth, she dismissed
the unwelcome advance of an invisible suitor, giving her reflection a
self-satisfied nod.
After lunch, a
bowl of last night’s stew, she turned her attention to the kitchen.
The classical music broadcast kept her
company, filling the room with the voices of holiday choirs and familiar
carols.
She sang along, as she took down
the muslin curtains and washed the windows, watching the gathering clouds
moving ever lower on the distant ridge.
In the yard, a flock of wrens dove in and out of the flower beds and her
friend the squirrel, joined by his mate, rustled through the leaves.
Otherwise, everything was still; not even a
breeze stirred, as if the wind were resting, gathering its strength.
The stillness seemed an ominous sign that the
valley was bracing for whatever Mother Nature had in store.
When she had
scrubbed all the cabinet doors and counter tops, polished the range and
refrigerator until she could see her face in the surfaces and mopped the floor
twice for good measure, she rested at the kitchen table, sipping tea and
browsing through the collection of cookbooks which had first introduced her to
what had become a passionate obsession with food.
Four-color prints of towering layer cakes,
glistening meringue-topped pies and rows of perfect cookies made her mouth
water.
But at the sight of a succulent
standing rib roast nestled on its platter with gleaming red-skinned potatoes
and tiny fingers of orange carrots, she let out a moan of exasperated longing.
When the storm
had passed, she vowed, she would drive into town, announce her intentions to
Jack, and drop a hefty wad of cash at the market.
She would prepare a feast, invite her allies,
and renew her relationship with the old range, the scene of so many culinary
triumphs in the past.
Laughing, she
closed the cookbook and replaced it on the pantry shelf.
Enough torture for now.
She surveyed her remaining stock of cans,
took ham and cheese from the refrigerator and decided a soup and sandwich
supper would just have to do.
If only
her appetite were not so keen, and her tastes so well-developed; but a lifetime
fascination with food, the preparation and the eating, had spoiled her for
plain fare.
She mixed a can of peas and
carrots with one of chicken noodle soup, and grilled her ham and cheese
sandwich in butter.
Not exactly gourmet;
but soon, she promised herself, there would be better meals on this old table.