Stony River (72 page)

“That’s all right, Willy,” she said. “You go ahead. I’ll look into renting one of these apartments—they
are
very nice; maybe more than I need, though.”

“The one that’s available is a one-bedroom. I just like the extra space.” Willy was positively aglow in the wealth of his new environment. “I want you to be happy here. I haven’t been here that many times, but already I feel like I was born to live in this town. You know, Sevana, I wouldn’t be surprised if we spent the rest of our lives here—not
here
, of course, but in Calgary I mean, in our own private penthouse and the whole city knowing our names.”

“Yes.” Trying to catch his vision, she threw back her head. “This will be the place where we forge our dreams.”

“Together.” Willy took her glass from her and spun her around. “The town won’t know what hit it when we take it by storm.”

“No,” she said, a little dizzy. She had wanted to make a fresh start without any unrealistic attachments to the past—and here it was, waiting for her.

Willy whisked into his room and came out in a three-piece suit looking like a million dollars. Sevana found him a dazzling figure, and swayed by his fine appearance let him kiss her goodbye. “I might be late, doll face,” he said as he went for the door. “If this was the only night I had the pleasure of your company, I’d stay home without question; but since I’m to be blessed with a happy succession of days with you, I’ll sacrifice enjoyment for business this one time.”

After Willy left, Sevana roamed through the suite again—her feet sinking in the thick carpets as soundlessly as they’d once sunk into the deep duff by Avalanche Creek—before she got up the resolve to talk to the manager. Entering the hall, she saw a girl unlocking the next door down, and the girl returned the casual glance. She was young and glamorous, dressed with perfect taste, her eyes artfully made up to be large and dark in contrast to her upswept light-brown hair. It went through Sevana’s mind that she was just the elegant, urbane type to suit Willy. For while Willy was attracted to Sevana, she knew he had always found her somewhat unconventional; and while their differences didn’t seem to matter to him at present, she was insightful enough to think maybe they should.

Down in the manager’s office she was told yes, there was a vacancy July first and she was lucky to get it. She filled out an application and put down a holding fee until it was time to make the full deposit. Then she stepped out on the street, surrounded by tall buildings, trying to get a feel for her new neighborhood. She hadn’t gone very far when she came to the violin shop she’d passed last winter. Through the window she saw the artisan working alone at the back, his dark head bent over the wood he was planing. Her mouth went dry. She swallowed against the sandpaper sensation in her throat and walked into the shop.

“Hello there.” The fiddlemaker looked up, smiled as he came forward. He had pale skin and a hawklike nose. “Can I help you?”

Sevana opened her mouth. “I—just wondered—” Her voice sounded weak and scratchy. She tried again. “I wondered if you had any violins made by Joel Wilder.”

“Joel? No, I don’t. I wish I did. But every violin he makes is spoken for before it is begun.”

“You know him, then?” she asked, a flush stealing into her cheeks.

“Yes, of course. He’s one of the finest violinmakers in the country. Quebec—Toronto—Vancouver—the masters want none but his.”

“I—had no idea.”

“I saw one of his violins once,” the craftsman bent forward to confide in a tone of respect. “I have not forgotten.”

“No—” said Sevana, from somewhere distant, “neither have I. Thank you…” And she walked out the door. Her head spun. Joel, predicting fame for her as an artist, while neglecting to mention that a humble shepherd living in obscurity in an outlying mountain valley had already made his own name known across the continent!

The lights of the city began to come on as she walked back to Willy’s apartment. She stood in front of the bay window that framed a thousand points of light, folding and unfolding her hands. Never had she felt so misplaced. It was the same feeling she’d had the first time she was in Calgary, but now even more pronounced. This was to be her life—but it didn’t seem like hers at all. She tried to think about the mountains Willy had promised lay not far from town. She tried to think about the knowledge and experiences she would gain at the University. But the anxiety didn’t go away.

She lay down in the spare bedroom where she was to spend the night, but couldn’t stop a trembling that had overtaken her. It seized and held her, went away, began again. She heard Willy come in. He opened her door, letting in a crack of light, and spoke her name to see if she was awake. At first she wasn’t going to answer, but she needed something to rescue her from the viselike anxiety that held her in its grip. She sat up. “How’d it go, Willy?” she asked thinly.

He came in and knelt beside the bed in his familiar aura of spiced cologne. “We’ve got him, Sevana—exclusive rights to everything he paints.” His voice sounded jubilant. “If people want to buy his paintings, they have to come to us.”

“That’s wonderful.” Just his presence in the room was easing the smothering feeling of panic. “I’m holding for that apartment across the hall.”

“We’re on our way.” He uttered the words in supreme satisfaction as he reached for her hand. “This can be your room until it opens up.” They had already discussed that possibility, and as part of the arrangement he had promised to be on his best behavior. He’d even checked to make sure the door had a lock. “Say, do you always sleep in your clothes?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said promptly, as something remembered from long ago. “And with my boots on, and my revolver handy.”

Willy laughed as he stood up. “Sometimes I think you’re as crazy as I am. Well, goodnight, Sevana. If you get lonely, you know where to find me.” And that was as much coercion as he put forth, being severely limited by his prior agreement.

But the minute he was out of the room, the fear instantly returned. She followed him out into the hall. “Willy—”

“Didn’t take you long,” he joked, turning in surprise, moving toward her—asking in mock concern, “Still have that revolver?”

She didn’t know how to tell him that she wanted to assure herself that her feelings for him were real—that she needed something to chase away the irrational fear making her tremble in apprehension. She looked at him wordlessly.

“You don’t want to spend the night alone?” he asked huskily, and folded her into his arms. But when she didn’t answer, he looked in her eyes and saw a sparkle that might have been tears.

“Willy, I’m so afraid,” she said in a low voice. “Are you?”

“Of course I am,” he said, and started kissing her. But he didn’t say what it was he feared.

And there against his chest, it irreverently crossed her mind that the only thing she knew for sure frightened him was marriage. Here she was, going after a relationship, reaching out for love, and he didn’t even like the prospect of commitment. Where could this lead, then? The thought left her even more confused than she was already feeling.

“What are you afraid of?” he finally asked in her ear.

“I don’t know,” she said, trying to think it through. “Willy, I think I could love you if I let myself. I think I could fall in love with you. But it’s all so uncertain. Do you think we could love each other all our lives?”

“Of course we could,” he said, bending to kiss her throat. “I can prove how much I love you and put an end to all your doubts, if you’ll just let me.”

His earthy scent filled her head. She didn’t answer.

“You say the word.” He wasn’t going to pressure her. “Whatever it takes to someday call you my own.” His voice took on an inspired sound. “Hey—what say we get wild and make some hot spiced cider in that fancy new kitchen of mine?”

They drank their cider. Then they sat very close on the couch in the darkened living room with the city in their window, not talking—Sevana tucked into the crook of his arm, trying to get used to the fact that she had pledged her destinies to this town and this man. She was not accustomed to relying on him, trusting him, thinking of him in those terms. But it was all right to let down her guard and think of belonging to him. It was all quite exciting, really. She had this debonair art professional saying he loved her, she had a wonderful job and a potentially satisfying career, a chance for more education, and all of this luxury set before her. Had she really been given all this to have? She tried to imagine that easy and extravagant lifestyle as her own. There would never be a shortage of fresh vegetables
here
. She tensed, flinching involuntarily, and the trembling began again.

Willy, who was almost asleep with his arm around her, lifted his head. “Sevana, are you cold?”

“No.” A hesitation. “I’m not sure what it is.”

He straightened. “You’re not scared of me, are you? You know I’d never hurt you.”

She took a deliberate breath and forced herself to stop shaking. “No, I’m not scared of you. I—love you.” She said it to make it concrete—the fact that she was committing to make his life her own. Then she was silent, for she was forcing back a smothering emotion that would have overcome her if she’d let it. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, determined not to cry—then suddenly fled the room. Willy didn’t follow.

She apologized in the morning while she helped him get the oatmeal and cocoa ready with the few packaged items he kept on hand in the contemporary kitchen. “I don’t know why I acted the way I did last night.”

“I do,” he said. “Everything was so new to you, you were feeling overwhelmed.”

“Yes,” she said, relieved for any plausible explanation he could understand. “That’s exactly so.”

They were back in Lethbridge before noon. Willy wished her luck with her packing and went to take over for Len, who was filling in for him at the shop. But Sevana, with an unbearable restlessness, took one look around her apartment and left again, walking all the way out to the riverbreaks. She found a driftwood log on the gravel bank and took a notebook from her pack to write Joel about her new direction—as if putting it in words might help clarify it to her mind. The water was running high and turquoise today, purged by snowmelt from the mountains.

She sat with pen poised over the paper. That was when she realized that with April well underway, Joel could be heading home now, and a letter sent north might never find him. And then, belatedly, she realized that since he was getting married, it didn’t matter if he knew her plans or not, because she was no longer a vital part of his life. She crossed out the salutation and wrote no more. Likely the next time she heard from him, it would be in the form of a wedding invitation.

She rested her chin on pointed fingertips. It was a green spring day, and all she felt was darkness. Willy was the closest person in her life right now, and she felt disconnected even from him—not the way you should feel when you’d been discussing love with someone.

Everything seemed off. The direction she had chosen was reasonable to a fault, but it did not sit well with her. Her dream of art had never recovered its original position after toppling before greater desires—and with its fall, she had lost not only her sense of direction, but her very sense of identity. Joel had told her she must find out what life truly meant—but all she had found out, so far, was that life—as best she could determine—meant nothing at all. She had never wanted to embrace Fenn’s futile view of life, but now she was backed into a corner where she saw no likely alternative.

She walked back home and sat at the table, looking for an answer in Joel’s weatherworn Bible. The pages were crinkled by a hundred mountain breezes. Soon she was staring out the window, her heart fleeing away again, nothing to stop its flight—back to Joel and the days that were lost.

A knock on the door interrupted a long, troubled soliloquy of her thoughts. David stood on the balcony, and his kind look was like the sun to her. She welcomed him in. She felt a relief at his presence, as if just by his being there, his stability could help her own unsteadiness.

“I see you’re reading a good book,” he noted, settling on the edge of the other chair as if he intended to stay only a minute. “Thought I’d stop and see if there’s anything you need before I go.” He was about to leave for his week at the mission.

“I don’t know of anything, David. I appreciate you thinking of me, though.”

“You’ll be gone by the time I get back.” They had already said their goodbyes officially Wednesday night at church. He had even organized a small party in her honor, to which he had contributed some sunken cupcakes no one had touched. Nobody would be happier to have Krysta home than the members of the food committee. “Is Willy helping you with the move?”

“Yes, he’s got it all arranged.” There was something she liked about his eyes. They were surrounded by eyelashes darker than his blond hair, intensifying their blueness. Now they were considering her with some unknown thought behind them. “I’ll look up the church you told me about in Calgary,” she said, to fill a little pause that had fallen in the room.

“That makes me feel better about you going.”

Even though he had never said so, she suspected he had guessed about Willy and her. And she felt he was disappointed. Maybe he was still hoping she would distract Joel from Chantal and save the day. But life wasn’t perfect; she was sorry she couldn’t accommodate his rosy, unrealistic wishes concerning her and his good friend Joel. He was such an idealist—the way she had been before she was disillusioned.