The Lover From an Icy Sea (48 page)

She next lay back on the moss and brought him down on top of her, wrapped her legs around his, did the same with her tongue, and let him slide easily inside.

Other than the setting, nothing was particularly remarkable about this act of love. What was remarkable was what next—and for the next ten minutes—greeted his eyes: namely, that she never once closed hers.

As they moved into their easy rhythm, she looked at him—eyes to eyes, eyes wide open—and he knew for the first time that it was really him she was making love to and not to some fantasy fuck.

When they concluded and she came just a second or two before he did, the second most remarkable thing happened: she spoke to him in Danish. “Jeg elskar dig” she said with her eyes open, looking at him, looking into his eyes. And then she said it over and over again.

To every one of her declarations, he provided an echo: “And I love you.” He, too, said it with his eyes open—looking at her, looking into her eyes—over and over again.

Chapter 59

Kit and Daneka lay in the same position for several hours and made love twice more. The only sounds they heard during the entire afternoon were those of their own passionate declarations, marginally punctuated by the drip of water trickling down the granite wall and splashing into the pool.

As if by mutual consent, they decided to get up and get dressed only when the sun’s rays had disappeared entirely from the overstory. It would be light, Daneka knew, for another several hours. They were approaching the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. In Denmark, the sun would finally dip below the horizon only after ten o’clock, maybe later. If lucky, they might also get another celestial surprise sometime this week, but she wasn’t about to make any promises. In all of the years she’d lived in Denmark, even she had never seen the aurora borealis—the Northern Lights.

They drove at a leisurely pace back to Svaneke.  That they’d forgotten to buy groceries in Rønne never once occurred to either of them. The village seemed deserted as they entered, and Kit thought its inhabitants had probably all retired to an early dinner.

“
I’ll make us a little light supper, darling,” Daneka said as she closed her car door. “Why don’t you, in the meantime, make us a fire.”

“
Deal.”

“
Oh, damn!” she said as she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. “We never went shopping! Are you terribly, terribly hungry, my darling?”

“
Nah,” he lied.

“
Would it be okay if I made us a soup from whatever I’ve got in the cupboard? I’ll just run over to the general store and pick up some bread. We’ve got wine.”

“
That sounds about perfect.”

Kit took out a cigarette and lit up as Daneka walked off in the direction of town and slowly disappeared from view. He noted appreciatively how she’d give her hips an exaggerated swing and occasionally glance back over her shoulder with a provocative smile.

*  *  *

Kit was no child: he’d been in and out of love before; had known long, lonely nights and heartbreak; had been the cause of some to others. He also knew that Daneka was, relatively speaking, little more than an acquaintance, and that anything could happen—and probably would happen—in the coming weeks, months and years to test the mettle of their love. He contemplated for the first time whether it was still too early to propose marriage to her. He wanted nothing and no one else in the world—except maybe his Lucky Strikes. She, he knew, would be sufficient for his entire happiness. She’d declared her love for him on several occasions—even that very afternoon, spontaneously, in her own language.

What, then, were the obstacles? Money, of course. He didn’t want hers, but could he ever really make her believe that? Those who had, he knew, were always suspicious of the true motives of those who didn’t. It was the curse of being wealthy. How could he convince her that money meant nothing to him—and least of all, her money?

Then, too, there was the high life to which she was clearly attracted. He could be content anywhere with her—but most especially here in Svaneke. Could she, with him? Somehow, he doubted it. He suspected she needed New York the way a junkie needs dope, and that there’d simply be no way to wean her from the city. They might go crazy from the pace, the demands, the unending and countless ways in which it could abuse people even as it charmed them. He’d leave it in a second if she’d agree to come away with him. If she wouldn’t, then he’d stay and be content to grow old and ragged. But at least he’d grow old and ragged with her—and that was all that really mattered.

Perhaps the garden and his hands could convey to her what his words and mouth could not. Maybe the effort and promise of beautiful springs and summers forever after would be enough to persuade her to stay with him here.

He looked around and immediately began to make a more detailed survey of the grounds and to scope out the project. Never—or at least rarely—had a thing so excited him. Not even his photography. He would plan it like a canvas and let his soul be the brush. The result, he was certain, would convince her.

Chapter 60

Two fires burned in two hearths—Kit’s doing. Two fingers burned when she distractedly reached out over the stove while thinking about where his fingers had been that same afternoon—Daneka’s doing. Two flames flickered in two hearts—their mutual doing.

He sat in front of one of those fires sketching, if only in his mind, when he heard an expletive from the kitchen, jumped up out of his chair and and went in.

“
What happened, Daneka?”

“
Oh, just a silly thing. Not paying attention to what I was doing.” She held up the two offended fingers for his inspection. He gave them each a kiss, then went to the refrigerator.

“
Butter or ice cubes?”

“
Oh, butter for sure.”

“
Here, hold out your fingers,” Kit said as he, in turn, held out the block of butter. She did, and he smeared the block over the burns. “Does that mean no dessert tonight?” he asked.

“
Nothing of the kind. It just means you’ll have to pay particular attention to these two little wounded soldiers.”

“‘
Will do—promise.” I’ll just have to devise a plan.”

They sat down to a simple supper after Daneka had first set out and lighted candles in each of the downstairs windows and in the two sconces over the fireplace. In the meantime, Kit opened a bottle of Echezeaux—expense had clearly not figured in Daneka’s choice of a wine—and poured them each a glass.

“
To you and to your wounded soldiers,” he said as he raised his glass.

“
To you and to your wickedly wonderful tongue,” she answered as she pulled out her chair, sat down and raised her glass to meet his.

Their supper consisted of something with morrels and barley she’d poured out of a package and added boiling water to. In addition to a baguette, she’d brought back a bunch of radishes and a jar of cornichons, a wedge each of Danish Fontina and Dutch Gouda, a couple of tins of Corsican sardines, half a pound of the local herring, and a variety of fruit—peaches, strawberries, bananas. The calories were light; the taste, colossal.

“
You know, don’t you, that the way to a guy’s heart is through—.”

“
His stomach, darling. But of course. Every woman knows that!”

“
Actually, I was going to say his nose,” Kit said as he downed a sardine.

“
And what we both really should have said—if we want to be entirely honest with each other—is through his head. The little one, that is. Though sometimes there’s not really much difference between the two,” she added as she tore off a piece of bread.

“
And the way to a woman’s heart?”

“
Why, through her head of course.”

Kit picked up a second sardine and added a radish to make it a mouthful. “Do you think I could have a go at your garden first thing tomorrow? I’ve got it pretty well planned out. I just need to have a look at the soil, see if it needs some compost, worms, or anything else.”

“
Absolutely, darling.”

“
And you think you can find what I’ll need—if I need anything—in Rønne?”

“
Certainly. I’ll be going there tomorrow anyway—and probably every day this week. I think my mother and I need to do some fence-mending. You just give me your daily grocery list, and I’ll get what you need at the local garden supply shop. There’s a good one in Rønne—though nothing here.” Daneka finished her soup, stood up and took her empty bowl into the kitchen. He heard her rinse it off, then open the door to the dishwasher, pull out the rack and carefully place the bowl inside. He wondered whether she’d also expect him to retire each bowl or dish or plate at the instant he’d cleared it; or whether he could wait until he’d finished his meal, maybe even sit for a leisurely moment at the end of it and have a cigarette—outside, of course.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Just as he was taking the last spoonful of soup, she came through the door, picked up his bowl and soup spoon and returned to the kitchen—where he heard her execute the same series of tiny tasks.

Was it merely a coincidence, Kit wondered, that her compulsive cleaning seemed to start whenever her mother somehow entered into the conversation? He didn’t yet have enough data to reach even a tentative conclusion, but he made a mental note to continue observing her whenever her mother’s name should come up in one of their discussions. In the absence of discourse, he knew he wouldn’t be able to infer anything at all—he wasn’t a mind-reader. But maybe there’d be instances enough for him to form an educated conjecture.

Daneka came out of the kitchen and sat back down. She took another sip of wine, then helped herself to some of the fish.

“
So which do you prefer, darling—herring or sardines?”

“
Anchovies.”

“
Really? And why’s that?”

“
One of the guys at the studio—a production assistant—is gay. He helps dress and undress the models. I remember he once said that all women’s cunts smell like anchovies—even the beautiful ones. Ever since that day, anchovies have been my favorite fish.”

“
Indeed.”

“
Yup. He has a good eye for his work. He just doesn’t have the right nose for it.”

“
And to you, darling? What do they smell like to you?”

Kit looked down at the bowl of fruit she’d set out on the table. “Strawberries. Peaches. Bananas. But mostly strawberries. Maybe it’s the douche they use.”

“
Or maybe it’s what they—or their guys—put in there before they put something else in there. ‘Know what I mean? I once had this guy put a strawberry inside me if you can believe it,” she said with a smirk as she reached for some fruit.

Kit felt himself blushing as he thought back to their evening at the Boathouse. “Ever have a banana?” he teased.

Daneka harrumphed. The combination of conversation and wine was clearly having its desired effect. As Kit emptied the bottle into both of their glasses, Daneka broke off a last piece of bread for herself and a second one for Kit. “Shall I cut us some cheese, darling?”

“
Yes, please.” They ate their cheese in silence. When they’d finished, it was Daneka who broke that silence.

“
Now about dessert…”.

“
What about dessert?” Kit answered. He noted she wasn’t immediately rushing off to rinse the empty dishes and load the dishwasher.

“
I trust you’ve been planning it as hard as you’ve been planning my garden. At least I hope so!”

“
The garden’s a no-brainer. But as for desserts, I’m running out of ideas. I think I’m going to have to brush up first thing when we get home.”

“
Oh, darling! We’ve only just gotten started!” she said with a smirk. She still hadn’t touched the empty dishes, he noted. At the same time, her mischievious little smirk got him thinking about newer possibilities.

“
Let me see those wounded soldiers.” Daneka extended her hand and added a pout.

“
Another kiss?” she asked.

“
Of sorts.” Kit stood up from the table and picked up Daneka’s napkin. He stepped around behind her chair, rolled the napkin into a long strip, brought it up to her eyes and tied it around her head.

“
Oh, dear,” she said almost too gleefully. “Something with a bit of kink?”

“
Shush.”

“
And me a little mink?

“
Shush.”

“
Distinctly back from the brink—of extinction?

“
Shush. Once and for all!”

“
Yesh, Sir.”

“
Shush again or I’ll gag you.” This time, Daneka said nothing—but grinned conspiratorily. She was now blindfolded—and so at Kit’s entire command. He took her by the same hand she’d just extended and pulled her out of her chair, then led her over in front of the fireplace.