Ciji Ware (34 page)

“And why was that?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know, for sure. But I knew I needed some time off to… to think and to learn more about the kind of music that made me so… so—”

She searched for words to express the soaring feelings she had experienced singing and playing her electrified harp that night in front of the wildly appreciative audience.

“To play the kind of music that made you happy?” Sim suggested encouragingly.

She beamed. “Yes! The kind of music that made me
happy.
So I decided right then and there that I would go back to New York, sublet my apartment, postpone auditioning for orchestras and chamber groups, and see where this new road would take me.” She smiled soberly. “It all happened so fast, and, frankly, I didn’t even know if you’d… be interested one way or the other. Especially when I… I didn’t go back with you to Monmouth that night.”

“Oh, I’d have been interested.”

She let Sim’s remark pass. Then she blurted, “I stopped by Monmouth as I drove back into town on Monday.” She suddenly felt shy making the admission. “All the lady on the desk said was that you’d checked out. I’d thought you’d gone to some other location way north of here, or maybe back to San Francisco.”

“I can see how you’d think that,” Sim allowed, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

“Liz Keating just happened to mention that you were still here and that Doctor Gibbs had offered you the cottage while you continued your Audubon project. That’s when I thought I’d leave a note inviting you to come hear the new-and-improved Aphrodite Jazz Ensemble, and I…” Her words trailed off a bit breathlessly.

“That was fast work, getting the band together again, but then, I’m not surprised, considering the great response you got that first night.”

“The debut show’s this Saturday. I was afraid you might not run into Doctor Gibbs and you wouldn’t get the message in time.”

“Well, thanks for taking all the trouble to drive out here.”

“You’re welcome,” Daphne said, gazing intently at one of the birdhouses to avoid Sim’s gaze.

“Look for me in the front row.”

“Really?” she said, turning. “You’re willing to come hear a lot of the same songs?” She gave him a sidelong glance, “At least we have a new drummer and a saxophone player. Both women.”

Sim rose from his rocking chair. “Sounds pretty wild. Hey,” he said, switching subjects. “I’m starved, are you? Would you like to drive into town, or can I rustle up an omelet? That’s about all I’m equipped to do out here.”

“Oh, I can’t stay to dinner,” she replied hastily.

“Why not?”

She felt heat flood her cheeks again, and offered weakly, “Well actually, you look exhausted. You’re probably dying just to grab a shower and hole up tonight and—”

“On my last mile back, I certainly felt that way,” he acknowledged, “but now I’d love to have your company. Will you stay for a bit and have dinner with me?”

“Actually,” Daphne said, suppressing a smile, “I could eat an alligator. I’ve been playing ‘Claire de Lune’ at the Eola Hotel for a bunch of drunks all afternoon and, believe me, that really takes it out of you.”

Sim put his head back and laughed. “You’ve already got a day job? You’re amazing!” Then he swung a khaki-cloaked arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief hug. “Playing ‘Claire de Lune’ is kind of like sitting for hours in waist-high water waiting for a red-eyed vireo to show up. It can get to be a real drag.”

“Exactly,” she said, suddenly feeling giddy. “Tell me what I can do to help get supper on the table.”

“Easy. You pour the wine while I take a quick shower.”

***

Sim pulled shut the shower’s muslin curtain and rid himself of his shorts and T-shirt while he stood inside the stall that Bailey had added on to the hexagonal building. His previous sensation of grinding fatigue had miraculously disappeared, and an unnerving sense of expectation had taken its place.

Man, what a surprise to see a light glowing through the trees as he dragged his body back to the cottage after days of grueling work. His backpack had felt like it was filled with lead bricks the last few miles he’d tramped along the Trace, and his only thought had been to strip off his clothes and fall into bed.

A feeling of deep contentment washed over him as he stuck his head under a cascade of hot water. He recalled his amazement at his first glimpse of a slender figure with a mass of wonderfully curly blond hair silhouetted against the screened door. The wildest thing was that he had been
thinking
of Daphne Duvallon the last few hours… disappointed that she hadn’t responded to his email. He’d figured that their timing and geography had become impossible obstacles even to establishing a friendship, let alone anything more serious. He’d assumed by her silence that, after she’d thought better of going to bed with him, she’d simply blown him off. It had been a depressing thought, and it had led to
other
depressing thoughts, such as how long could he keep living like some man without a country? Without a reason to tramp through the woods and come home? Then, he’d seen that light winking through the stand of oaks, and in an instant, his entire outlook had changed.

“Hey, shutterbug… you ever coming out of that shower?” called Daphne.

Sim poked his drenched head around the curtain and grinned. “Took a while to wash off all the mud. I’ll be right out.”

***

After their hastily assembled dinner of eggs, bacon, and toast consumed at the tiny table where Sim’s CD player had been, Daphne could see that overwhelming fatigue had begun to reclaim her host.

“Look… you’ve got to get some sleep, Sim, and I’m bushed, too.” She seized her flashlight and pointed to the door. “I’m going to go on home, but thanks so much for a lovely supper.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she protested. “You look as if you’re about to drop right where you’re standing.”

“I am, but even so, a bit of air will do me good, and, besides, I want to see you safely past those unpredictable ducks in Bailey’s pond.”

“They bite?” Daphne picked up her purse off the day bed while Sim threw on a pair of tennis shoes.

“No… I was making that up,” he said, laughing. “It’s a private joke between me and myself. I dislike ducks. They’re the only one of our feathered friends I could do without.”

“Ducks?” Daphne repeated, astonished. “They’re such benign creatures. Why don’t you like them?”

“I don’t blame the ducks,” Sim hastened to say as he held open the door to the veranda for her. They set off in the direction of Daphne’s car. She felt the comforting, steady presence of his hand on her arm as they strolled down the footpath toward the stand of trees that separated the meadow and the lawn surrounding Gibbs Hall. The birdhouses, perched on their poles, towered in the darkness above their heads.

“Then why don’t you like our daffy little friends?” she teased.

Sim’s voice had lowered in the silence surrounding them. “It’s one of those association things.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled.

Sim was silent while they walked several more yards down the path. “I associate ducks with one of the worst periods of my life,” he said finally.

“How so?” she asked, attempting to sound casual, although she instinctively knew this conversation was turning into anything but.

Sim was staring straight ahead. “I was in a duck blind when my former wife, Francesca, went into labor with our daughter. It was in a remote area outside Sacramento and I was photographing mallards and a rare pair of Peking ducks that had apparently ridden the air currents in a Pacific storm and landed on a pond. No one could reach me for two days. And so, I’ve always associated ducks with… with that sad time. It’s stupid, really.”

“No, it’s not,” Daphne said softly as they arrived at the edge of the rolling stretch of manicured lawn that surrounded the main house. She was both amazed and gratified that Sim had finally opened up a little about this previous taboo subject. “It’s a silly analogy, but I feel exactly that way about ‘Claire de Lune.’”

“Really?”

“It’s not the composer’s fault I hate that pretty melody,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s just that my mother used to nag me to play it for friends at the most inappropriate moments… just to show off that she had spawned such a
talented
darlin’ lil’ girl!” Daphne’s voice mocked her mother’s Southern drawl. “I associate that music with the feeling that my mother only cared about how I performed… not who I was as a person. I wanted her to love me because I was her daughter, not a trained seal.” She gently pulled Sim’s sleeve to halt then-progress on the path. “To this day, if I hear the first four bars of ‘Claire de Lune’—and especially if I play it myself, like I did today—I go into a total funk.”

“Remind me never to hum Debussy.”

Daphne smiled at Sim’s attempt to jolly himself out of his pensive mood. “So, maybe,” she suggested gently, “the mere quack of a duck automatically triggers all those sad, painful feelings about… losing the baby.” She gently squeezed his hand. “I don’t know how any parent survives the loss of a child, Sim. I can only imagine what sorrow comes with such tragedy.”

“Francesca just couldn’t get past the fact that I wasn’t there when she… when she went into labor.”

“Why did you accept the job, if she was so close to her due date?” Daphne asked softly.

“The baby wasn’t supposed to be born for another four months.”

“Oh… Sim… how awful. But when you left on the Sacramento shoot, you had no reason to believe the pregnancy was in trouble, did you?”

“No…” he said, gazing sightlessly at the starlit sky. “Francesca was still putting in brutally long hours at her law firm. Whenever she did have some free time, she wanted to go to some San Francisco society thing, or entertain colleagues. We never just took walks or lay around the apartment reading the paper.” Sim paused, as if replaying the scene in his mind. “The day I left for Sacramento, everything seemed perfectly normal, except…”

“Except what?”

Sim was silent for a moment. “Even before Francesca knew she was pregnant, she’d been… out of sorts. Moody. Later, I just chalked it all up to her hating the fact that some of her fellow lawyers were teasing her about her pregnancy beginning to show.” Sim smiled slightly. “Francesca had been the epitome of San Francisco chic, and she couldn’t stand the way she had to dress. She refused to stop smoking and still drank wine. She avoided any discussion about how she was feeling, but I think she really hated her body at that point.” Sim shrugged. “You know… the usual stuff I imagine a lot of professional women go through when their lives and their physiques are changing so drastically.”

“Who finally called it quits to the marriage?” Daphne asked, unable to stem her curiosity.

“She did,” he said shortly.

“Is it something you’re… willing to talk about?” Daphne asked cautiously.

Sim paused a long moment and then took her arm again, guiding her across the lawn in the direction of the front gate as he spoke.

“About two months after she lost the baby, I finally felt I had to accept a photography assignment. That it was time to
try
to start getting on with our lives. When I got back from that trip to Alaska, the entire apartment on Taylor Street had been cleared out.”

“Oh, my God…”

“It was empty of every single thing, except for—”

Sim broke off in the middle of his sentence. It was too dark for Daphne to read the expression on his face, but she peered at the outline of his profile. Instinctively, she reached up and grazed the back of her hand gently against his face.

“Empty, except for what?” she murmured.

“The only furniture left in that whole damn apartment was the mattress to our queen-size bed… and a baby’s bassinet.”

“Sweet Jesus…”

“She hadn’t wanted any baby stuff in the house until the child was born, but my mother couldn’t wait that long to give us that bassinet. She’d used it for both my sister Brooke and me and was very sentimental about it, so she had it delivered to our apartment as a surprise.”

“That’s so touching… what happened?”

“Francesca was upset. She said it was bad luck and had the delivery men shove it in the guest room closet.”

“So, when you returned from Alaska, you found the bassinet… and what?” Daphne asked delicately.

“It had obviously been yanked out of the closet because it was tipped over on its side. I found a blue legal folder with divorce papers stuck to the crib mattress ticking with a couple of diaper pins.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Sim! How cruel.”

“She was pretty angry.”

“I can understand that she would be devastated to lose her baby,” Daphne protested. “But why would she feel that your not being there when she went into early labor was
your
fault?”

“I should have arranged some way for her to track me down.” He shook his head. “Cell phones weren’t used as widely back then, but I could have been more aware—”