Chapter Thirty #2
The long walk gave me plenty of silence and time alone with my thoughts, but still I feel that I’ve arrived at no answers. What is happening here, between me and Art? Is it, as the article implied, a romantic liaison, or does he merely see me as a friend? Even a lonely charity case?
I know that he was taken with me when we first met, and certainly there have been moments when he’s looked at me in such a way that I suspected he did harbor some feelings that were more than simply friendship.
And yet, he’s been such a gentleman; he’s never tried anything untoward.
He’s the exact opposite of Stanley Pierce.
What will I do about Stan? What do I envision for my life when I return this fall to the city? How could Mamma and I possibly carry on with our New York life without him as our benefactor? But far worse to consider is the alternative—taking back up with him as we were before.
I could not. The thought makes me shudder.
And why have I walked to Water’s Edge? Did I truly intend to come here and knock, then waltz in for supper with Art and Aunt Alice? No, no. I need to sit and think, before I do anything rash and foolish. But before I’ve done so, a voice calls out across the warm evening air. “Evelyn? Is that you?”
My cheeks heat with instant embarrassment as I spot Art, standing in the candlelit doorway, and I know that he’s seen me. Lurking here, alone and uninvited, in his aunt’s garden.
I try to offer a laugh, but it comes out like a puff of air. “Oh, Art! Hello!”
“Hello,” he answers back, his confused features rising in a smile as he steps out into the evening.
“You must think me terribly rude to appear like this.”
“On the contrary, I couldn’t be more delighted.
” He looks relaxed, the jacket of his ever-present suit unbuttoned, cravat off, and the top of his collar undone.
His hair is uncombed, even a bit messy. He really is impossibly handsome, and my heart tips sideways with longing for his young and unspoiled beauty.
Art pauses a few steps before me, crossing his arms in a casual stance. “You may appear in this garden anytime you like. Only, when I glimpsed your shape from my window, I believed I must be seeing things. Hoping so badly to see you that I’d imagined your likeness as some illusion.”
So then, he did want to see me. The sound of the evening all around drones in my ears, the crickets, the peepers, plus the thrashing of my suddenly quickened heartbeat.
I pull back my shoulders and decide that I will meet him in a place of candor, too.
“Art, I’m afraid that you and I have caused a bit of a stir. ”
He narrows his eyes. “Oh?”
I tell him about the Herald article and Mamma’s admonition that I am to stay away from him. He uncrosses his arms, a thoughtful look creasing his features. “But I’m confused. Why can’t we be seen together?” he asks. “What’s the harm in that?”
A fluttering of hope dances through my belly like the wings of a butterfly. Art does wish to be seen with me! But just as quickly, that joy flies away. In its place, a terrible worry settles like a leaden weight: Am I ready to discuss everything with Art?
I sigh. The only way to remove this stone I’ve been forced to carry is by taking it up. So in that moment I decide: I must tell Art the truth. Or at least enough of it for him to understand—me and my highly unusual, complicated life.
I draw in a long, steadying breath, and then I begin.
“I had a…friend…back in New York City. He’s taken a particular interest in my career.
He’s an investor in several shows. You could say he’s been very generous toward me, and my mother, and…
my brother.” My voice falters, and I feel myself careening toward the loss of all my resolve and composure.
But then I swallow and will myself to go on.
“But this fellow might get, er, that is to say, he might not be happy to see reports of me spending time with another man. He might become, well, jealous.”
I hear the sound of Art’s exhale. What must he think? The silence stretches between us, filled with the pulsing of my unease and the sounds of the crickets and other nocturnal creatures until, after what feels like an eternity, Art says only, “I see.”
Does he? Can he truly know what it means to be starving, as I was?
To find a temporary salvation on the stage, only to learn the hard realities of that place?
Can Art, or any man who has never been kicked out of a home for which he could not pay the rent, understand how it feels to be a fatherless showgirl?
Forced to accept a rich man’s largesse in a most terrible deal, in order to save herself and her family?
But Art doesn’t press for more details, and I’m so unbelievably grateful for that courtesy that it gives my heart another pinch.
Then follows another thought: Mamma. Am I being selfish here, risking everything?
Not for myself. I could survive on my salary.
But there’s Mamma’s life, too. I can’t carry all of it on my own earnings.
And God forbid, if I were to break with Stan, would that put my work in jeopardy?
He’s an investor in so many of these theater companies; it’s smoothed the way for some of my work.
If I offend him, might that have the opposite effect?
It’s getting darker now as evening settles more fully around us.
I see Art’s face only through the graying shadows, but when he speaks at last, his voice is steady, and I can hear deep feeling in it.
“Listen, Evelyn. I don’t know much about the world of Broadway.
Or the life you live in New York. The life you’ve had to live.
All I know is that I want to. To know more. To know you.”
I’m so relieved that I could weep. That Art is not horrified by me, by any of what I’ve revealed to him or even my abrupt and inelegant appearance outside his door.
But then he takes one step closer, eliminating the gap between us, and to my further surprise, he reaches forward to take my hand in his, saying, “You’ve caught me entirely unaware, Evelyn. ”
My heart twinges. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just come without—”
“No, I don’t mean finding you out here tonight.”
I swallow, and my throat feels thick. “Oh?”
“No, I mean all of it. I mean you.” Art lets out a low laugh.
“I came up here, supposing I’d have a quiet visit with Aunt Alice.
And instead, you appeared before me. And well, I am no longer even aware of what’s night and what’s day.
I’m not sure of anything. Only that I now spend my time counting down the minutes until I can see you next. ”
My entire body could melt with relief—to hear Art speak these words that echo my own frantic thoughts and entirely unexpected longing.
Without thinking, without giving myself time to summon restraint or reason, I lean toward Art, and I press my lips to his.
I hear his small gasp of surprise, feel the slight tensing of his startled body.
But he’s not the one in pursuit; it’s me, so I lean even closer to him, hoping to give him permission to receive my kiss. And to return it.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Art pulls back, cleaving his lips from mine. And he whispers one cruel and heartbreaking word: “No.”
I’m confused. And crushed. Did I misunderstand all of what he just said, what I took to be a confession of his feelings for me?
“No,” he says again, another stab to my heart. But then he goes on, “Not here. There’s something…There’s a place I’d like to show you. Would you walk with me?”
He’s still holding my hand, and I can feel his gentle tug. “What place?” I ask. “In the dark?”
“Yes, I know it well enough, I could lead you there with my eyes closed.”
“All right,” I agree, returning the gentle squeeze of his hand and falling into step beside him.
We walk in silence for several minutes. Art guides me through the dark and up a slight incline until we come to a halt, and I can’t help but gasp in surprised delight.
It’s not dark here, even though night has fallen over us. “Where are we?”
“We are in Aunt Alice’s orchard,” he replies.
“What…what are they?” I ask, looking around at the flickering lights, too many to count.
“Fireflies,” he answers, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “When I was a child, Aunt Alice would bring me up here on summer nights. They love the fruit trees. They really are something, aren’t they?”
“Fireflies, yes,” I repeat. Though I haven’t seen a firefly in years, living in cities as we have, I remember them from when Daddy was alive, from my summer nights as a child.
There must be thousands of them here now.
They light up the dark all around us. Forget your tower lights, Stan, I think.
The air glimmers as the glowing creatures dance around the fragrant fruit trees, casting their spell of pure and pastoral magic.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“I think we could be in Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I reply, laughing, dropping his hand, and running up the nearest row of trees. “How long will they be here?”
“A few weeks,” he answers. “For the summer, but not after.”
“That makes me sad,” I say, pausing my steps. “I wish it could last forever.”
“Evelyn.” When Art says my name, I can tell he’s right next to me.
I can feel him, the heat from his body, the energy that seeps off of him.
It’s desire, and it’s the first time I’ve ever sensed him overcome by it; it’s the same need that overpowers me as I turn toward him.
Finally, as he leans toward me, and he kisses me, I kiss him back with all of the longing that has been building inside me.
And when I raise my arms to twine them around his neck and pull him closer, his courteous timidity melts away at last. He kisses me with a hunger that feels as though it could swallow us both.
“Art,” I whisper his name. There’s something happening inside of me, something I’ve never experienced before, and I’m begging him to help me because he’s the only person who can.
He removes his jacket, laying it down on the ground. As I lower myself onto it, I reach for him and pull him to me. His body curls over mine, and I can feel the desire that pulses in him, in both of us.
I need to be closer to him, to peel away layers until there’s nothing separating us.
He’s guiding me out of the folds of my dress as I’m pulling at his buttons.
When I feel the warmth of his skin, my own flesh ripples in delightful response.
I’ve never known anything like this—his fresh scent, his taut limbs, his body that fits so perfectly against mine that it feels as though we were formed for each other.
Still I crave even more of him. I know what comes next; of course I do. But I’ve never longed for it. Not like I do now. “Art, please.” I’m beneath him, awaiting him, in need of him to deliver me.
Just as I think I can’t bear it a moment longer, he pulls back. “Evelyn, my angel.” His voice is raspy. “We shouldn’t.”
“Don’t you wish…?” My hand slides over his body, my touch whisper soft as I trace a line down his back. I sense his own body crying out for more. But he stills my hands, pressing his own palms gently on top.
“Of course I do, my beauty. Every ounce of my being longs for you. But not like this. Not unless…Oh, Evelyn, I know this sounds rash, but I’m certain of it. I’ve never been more certain of anything. Will you marry me? Be mine not only right now but forever?”
I answer first with my lips, pulling him back to me.
“Yes, Art, I will,” I murmur into his ear.
And with that, I feel the very last drop of resistance leave him, and he gives himself over to me as our bodies meet in the deepest of places.
We ride the swell of our shared desire together.
I need him just as madly as he needs me, and we can only make it to the other side of this perfect torture if we cross over as one.
I tremble as his body loves mine; it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, the pressure and the pleasure building until there’s nothing left to do but to break apart.
And when, at last, we cry out together in our shared joy, I feel as though our promise of eternity has already been consecrated.