Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:
Studies prove that human beings are highly motivated to form attachments throughout their lives. Forming relationships, be they with family, friends, or mate, makes it possible to attain basic needs and desires. Childhood and adolescence are particularly important stages in learning how to relate to others. Weak and/or interrupted attachments during this time can result in unhealthy relationships later in life.
Saturday morning Vivien woke up feeling energized. The near-disaster last night had been avoided and she and Declan had come out unscathed. In spite of being the worst party date ever, he wanted her. Liked her for who she was. And for who she was not. She felt unbelievably lucky.
Now something real could begin. She could already picture it. They would eat lunch together, go out to the movies and restaurants on Friday and Saturday nights. Maybe the Second Shift would become their place—the place where they first got to know one another. They would spend weeknights having lengthy conversations on the phone, talking about nothing, just savoring the simple sound of each other’s breath on the other end. He was the spark that lit her from within, that hand that brushed aside the cobwebs that had threatened to replace her very soul. For a split second she contemplated the gravity of this new path, for it had been a long time since she’d permitted herself this simple hope. But a moment was all she would allow. The road of fear had a checkpoint at doubt, looped through disgust, and dead-ended in despair. And she’d been down that road before. Heck, she was living on it.
Leave it to Ramona to sabotage this newfound euphoria.
“I can’t find my navy pencil skirt. Did you borrow it?” Her mother stood in her doorway, face set in a deep scowl. In fact, Ramona looked downright evil: unruly hair, bloodshot eyes, clenched jaw.
“And good morning to you, too,” Vivien answered in an overly cheerful voice.
Ramona stood, unmoving.
“Or not,” she said, taking it down a notch. “I don’t have your skirt, Mother. I would never wear that kind of thing.” They actually did swap clothes now and then, being the same height, her mother only slightly wider in the hip and chest area.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “It’s just so…career-ish. A little too mature for me, if you know what I mean.”
Ramona raised a hand, pinching the bridge of her nose as she let out a long sigh. “I need to be ready by ten.”
“Ready for what?”
“I’m going away for the night.” Her head remained bowed, but she dropped her hand, letting it fall as if it were made of lead. “With Ricardo.”
“Ricardo?” she repeated. “Who’s Ricardo?” And what kind of name was that? It sounded like an erotic dancer.
Ramona looked up, her body tense. “Vivien, you’ve met him on two separate occasions. The charity dinner? At Ambrosia’s?”
“Oh. Yeah.” The image of a tall, dark man festooned in gold popped into her head. “What happened to Charlie? No—Charles, right?”
“Look, I can’t possibly fill you in on all the details of my private life, now can I?”
Vivien balked. What was her problem? “I never said you should.” What kid wanted to know that kind of stuff about their parent anyway? “Like I said, I haven’t seen your skirt.” She attempted to say this dismissively, adding an “is there anything else?” look to seal the deal.
Ramona stared at her, a strange look on her face. “You think I’m some kind of whore, don’t you?”
“Mother! What?”
“That’s right. You think I’m nothing more than an over-the-hill divorcee with loose morals and an even looser—”
“Stop!” she shouted, covering her ears.
“You have no idea how hard it is. I’m tired. I’m just so tired.” Ramona’s entire body seemed to sag with these words.
Vivien softened. “Mom, I know. I know you’ve had some bad luck. I’m not judging you.” She hesitated, weighing her next words. “It’s just…sometimes…I think you make things harder than they have to be.”
Ramona cocked her head, eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”
Whoops! She was heading into dangerous territory. But now that she’d begun, she felt a suicidal urge to continue. “Well, yes. I think you do.” She swallowed. “You’re always dating that type—the type of man who’s, you know, just like him.” She checked to see how her mother was taking this. Ramona looked mildly incensed. She plunged ahead nevertheless. “I’ve always thought you should pursue—just an idea, here—an entirely different category of men. How about looking for someone who’s just a regular guy?” As opposed to an asshole, she wanted to scream. “Someone kind. Down to earth, like—I don’t know—a teacher? That would be something new.”
Abruptly, Christophe Laval came to mind and she shuddered with revulsion. Cancel that! Christophe and Ramona, on a date? That would be nasty! He was young and…youthful and…not old. Well, he was older than she was, of course, but she and Christophe, they had a connection of sorts. Plus, he was heartbreakingly beautiful. Wait. What had she just been in the middle of saying?
Ramona reminded her. “A teacher.” The words came out with revulsion, as if Vivien had just suggested she date a mortician.
“Just a thought,” she replied, turning her head away so she could give her eyes a good roll. After a minute she added, “I don’t want to see you get hurt again. That’s all.” Which was the truth.
Ramona sighed, more loudly this time, and took a step into the room. “You don’t have to worry. I know how to take care of myself. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Vivien studied her. Ramona looked like damaged goods. Wary, crumpled, her former beauty faded like an old photograph. It made her sad. And more determined than ever not to end up like her.
“I appreciate your concern,” Ramona went on, “but I have a plan for the rest of my life, and it does not include some completely average, middle-aged putz whose idea of a good time is spending Friday nights at Applebee’s and Saturdays with his ass parked on the sofa drinking Miller Lite. I’d rather shoot myself.”
“Mother, please,” Vivien said. Ramona always was overly dramatic. “Isn’t there some kind of middle ground? You don’t have to swap filthy rich for blue collar in one fell swoop.”
“Vivien, darling, I hesitate to point this out to you, but you are a mere child and you have no idea what you’re talking about. Believe me. I’ve been out there for a long time and I know exactly what my options are. And they’re getting scarcer by the minute. Finding a suitable bachelor in this town is nothing short of impossible.”
Vivien gritted her teeth. This conversation was going nowhere. And she resented the fact that her mother assumed she was clueless. She was not a child anymore. “All I’m saying is, you look exhausted. Do you ever sleep? Why don’t you take a break from the dating scene for a while? Relax and take some time for yourself.”
“Time for myself,” Ramona echoed. “I don’t even know what that means! That’s just a bunch of nonsense I can’t deal with right now.”
“OK. You win,” she said, hopping out of bed and into her bathroom. “Have a fabulous time this weekend and tell Ricardo I say hey.” With that, she closed the door firmly in Ramona’s face.
“What is it? What’s the surprise?” Vivien was smiling, biting her lip to keep from looking overeager.
Christophe suppressed his own smile. “You really want to know? You’re sure?”
They were sitting at the kitchen table over coffee, as was now their habit, before tackling the reorganization of his belongings.
“It’s just something I picked up the other day. I thought it might interest you.”
She took one last swallow. “Well, show it to me and we’ll see if you’re right.”
Pushing himself to his feet, he led the way down the hall and stopped before what she’d previously assumed was a closet door. He placed his hand on the knob and paused dramatically. “This way, mademoiselle.”
She step
ped inside a very small, very dark room. Christophe shuffled along the wall to the opposite side and parted the curtains. A dim light lit the room and she gave a quick intake of breath. Beneath the window sat a brand-new upright piano.
“It’s nowhere near the best,” Christophe said quickly, “but I thought perhaps you might take up playing again. If the idea suited you.”
She was speechless, the sight of the instrument knocking the wind right out of her. What had he done? She thought she’d been clear on this point; she didn’t play anymore. How dare he presume she would start again just because he’d gone and bought a piano? Out of the blue? Without even consulting her? “You didn’t…you didn’t get this for me, did you?” she said at last.
Christophe was looking at her carefully. “That would be highly presumptuous, wouldn’t it? No. In fact, I myself played when I was younger and I’ve been meaning to get back to it.”
His answer gave her some relief. “I didn’t know that.”
They stood in silence. “So, what do you think?” he said finally. He looked both proud and expectant, like a child awaiting his parents’ reaction upon presenting them with an undecipherable work of art.
“Um, I think…” She stalled, resentment giving way to sympathy. Really, it was quite a touching gesture. She found it hard to believe he actually cared that much about her to go and do something so rash and she certainly didn’t want to burst his bubble. “I think you should definitely start playing again.”
Christophe exhaled, bubble burst. “I see. Yes. Well, I was hoping this was something we might do…together.”
She looked at him with uncertainty.
“Soon enough, my house will be in order. What enticement is left to bring you back?” He tilted his head, eyes dancing. Was he being serious?
“I’ve come to rely on your company,” he said, answering her thoughts.
His frankness rendered her speechless once again. While she valued his friendship—quite a great deal, obviously—there was something that nagged at her conscious each and every time she knocked on his door. The more intimate they grew, the more she felt as if, perhaps, something was not quite right. This feeling lay dormant for the most part, but would, now and then, stage an attack, springing out of nowhere like a devious older brother, knocking her off balance and completely upending all the good feelings she gained during these weekly visits.
Vivien frowned slightly, her gaze breaking from his. But, no. How could this be? She was prone to overreacting. How cruel it would be to disappoint him unnecessarily. She’d made the decision to befriend him and now she was simply going to pull back and leave him all alone? She couldn’t dare be so selfish. “I suppose I could give it a try,” she said. “But I’m not promising anything.”
His expression brightened visibly. “Have a seat.” He waved his arm toward the bench in a grand gesture. “Why don’t you see how it feels?”
She hesitated. “You know I haven’t played in years so…this could be scary.”
“It’s like riding a bike. You never forget.”
Still she stood motionless, wishing he would leave her to herself for a few minutes so she could work out the kinks before playing for an audience.
Christophe beckoned her forward. “Come. Try. You have nothing to fear from me. I’m sure to be just as rusty.”
She swallowed and took a step, then another, finally edging around the bench and having seat. Long ago, when she’d played at the old house, they’d actually had a designated “music room,” complete with a Steinway concert grand piano (only the best would do for Alan Allen’s talented little prodigy). Christophe’s was a midpriced upright. Yet still daunting, she observed as she gingerly placed her hands on the keyboard. Turning to him, she said in a barely audible voice, “I don’t know what to play.”
“How about some warm-up scales?” he suggested. Struck by another thought, he spun around and began rummaging through a stack of music books on a nearby table. “Or this?” He set several pages of sheet music on the music rest before her.
She scanned the notes and title and soon a slow smile crept across her lips. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “This is actually the piece I performed at my first big recital when I was eight years old. ‘The Firefly,’ by Anton Bilotti. What a weird coincidence!”
Christophe smiled along with her. “Rather fortuitous.”
She closed her eyes and listened to the music play in her mind for several minutes. Then she took a deep breath and placed her hands in the proper position. The keys felt cold and smooth and familiar, and her fingertips began the strokes she had once known so well. Before she realized it, they were dancing along the black and white, and somewhere deep inside of her, a door, long ago swollen shut from disuse, blew open with a pop. The music rushed through her body, filling the dusty corridors with a fresh new breath of life.
Floating back in time as the notes crystallized in her memory, the event played itself before her eyes like a favorite old movie. Her parents sat in their seats, first row, smartly dressed, hands folded in their laps. Ashton was next to them. At fourteen he was in a goofy, awkward stage and refused to take anything seriously. Every time she looked at him he gave her a thumbs-up sign and a stupid grin, eyes crossed. The concert hall was part of the university and was a much larger venue than she had ever played before. It felt cold and impersonal.
When it was her turn, she walked across the stage, her black patent leather shoes making crisp clacks across the polished floor. She smiled, curtsied, and seated herself, glancing one last time at her family. Her father’s face was hidden behind the video camera. Her mother sat impossibly erect, her legs tightly crossed, top foot bobbing in rapid-fire motion.
Vivien wasn’t nervous. She had practiced; she was ready.
The piece went flawlessly. With the fading of the final note, Ashton jumped to his feet and whistled loudly between two fingers. Her parents shone with pride, nodding their heads in all directions, taking credit for this small but noteworthy musician.
It was a feeling she would never forget.
“Impossible!” she heard from far away. She looked up to see Christophe with an ecstatic look on his face. “That was impossibly beautiful.”
A hot rush spread across her cheeks and she actually felt a bit lightheaded. She withdrew her hands and laid them in her lap in an attempt to arrest their trembling.
“How am I to follow that?” He came up behind her and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder, one thumb touching the bare skin of her neck. “You should have given me some kind of warning.”
Her body tensed with his touch. She kept her eyes straight ahead and tried to keep her pulse under control. He had never touched her before like this. “You’re going a little overboard on the compliments, don’t you think? It wasn’t anything.”
He said nothing. After a moment, she felt the warmth of his hand disappear. Turning to look at him, she wondered if she’d been rude. “I mean, it was totally mediocre. I could do much better.” She paused. “With practice.”
He narrowed his eyes a fraction. “And do you intend to? Practice, that is?”
She twisted her mouth to the side in contemplation. She hadn’t allowed herself to reach a decision. “I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
He was always doing that, pushing her when she had no answer. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea.”
“Why not? Help me understand.”
She fidgeted around on the bench. “Because…” She wanted to tell him it was too much, going this direction. With him. It made her uncomfortable, and just the slightest bit frightened. But instead all she said was, “I quit.”
“But that was years ago. You’re a different person now. Sometimes in life, it is important to take stock and revisit things.”
But did she really want to “revisit” this? It was no small task to reopen a chapter that had been previously closed. Especially one that had been so…emotionally charged. On the oth
er hand, it was not impossible. She had vowed to be more adventurous. And clearly he desired this from her for some reason or another.
“I suppose,” she said, allowing just a hint of possibility. “I’m certainly not going to perform again. It would have to be…you know, a different kind of thing. And I don’t want anyone to know.”
His eyes shone. “Of course. It will be between you and me. No pressure. Only pleasure.” The hand moved once again to her shoulder, this time giving the neck the tiniest of caresses. “I have some very interesting explorations we could make together. And I think you’re just the one to do it.”
She was confused by this but could not deny that she was pleased by his confidence in her.
“Do you have a piano at home?” he inquired.
“No.” She shook her head. “My dad sold it after the divorce.”
He nodded as though he’d assumed as much. “What would you think about coming more often then? Maybe twice a week?”
Her hands began to tremble once again.
Christophe had moved off and was once again fussing with the stack of music on the table. “Because I was thinking,” he said, turning back to her, “that we could begin working on this.” He handed her a slender folder and stood hovering while she opened it.
“Tristan und Isolde, ‘Prelude,’” she read. “By Richard Wagner. I’ve never heard of this.”
His mouth dropped. “Never heard of it? How can that be?”
She shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “Well, maybe I have. I just forgot.”
Christophe grabbed the folder and with remarkable agility maneuvered himself onto the bench. Their thighs touched briefly, and she scooted an inch or so away.
“It’s an opera,” he explained. “A tale of tragic passion—truly immortal music! Actually it’s an old love story dating back to the Middle Ages which has been retold many times over. I believe the first legend appeared around 1150.”
He paused and his eyes gradually lost focus. “Imagine a love that cannot be. It is vague and hesitating, overshadowed by the dark cloud of duty, hanging over both lovers. Tristan, a nobleman and knight, serves the man to whom Isolde, the Irish princess, will be married. Their secret love for one another is forbidden. Unwilling to accept this, they share a goblet of poison, unaware that the contents have been switched to a potion of love. Rather than dying, their passion soars to the highest state of ecstasy. But as fate would have it, they are at the mercy of this passion, and inevitably the lovers are caught. Tristan is gravely wounded. He is carried back by ship to his native land, and Isolde soon follows. She holds him in her arms as death takes him. Overcome by grief, she herself passes from this world.”
He returned his attention to her. “Naturally there’s much more to the story. I have given you the condensed version. We can discuss it in more depth during your future visits.”
She let out a slow breath. “Wow. That’s so intense! It reminds me of Romeo and Juliet—the forbidden love and the dying together part.” And she now recalled how she had discussed this very subject with Declan on the family room sofa.
“Yes, both are tragedies. Quite possibly Shakespeare was influenced by earlier works.” His upper arm brushed against hers as he twisted to look her in the eye. “So, tell me Vivien. Are you up for the challenge?”
She held his gaze for as long as she could and then glanced over at the music. It looked complicated for sure. But nothing she couldn’t handle. Alongside her anxiety, a strange excitement began to buzz inside of her. He wanted to work on this beautiful story—a love story—with her!
How could she possibly say no?
Twelve