For Willard, his children had decided on a telescope that would take its place before the sliding glass door downstairs; for Margaret, a mother’s ring that would take its place proudly on her right hand, and which prompted a listing of the three birthdays. Brian carefully marked in his memory the date of Theresa’s. To Margaret and Willard together the children gave a gift certificate for a weekend at the quiet, quaint Schumaker’s Country Inn in the tiny town of New Prague, an hours’ ride from the Twin Cities.
From their parents, Jeff, Amy and Theresa received, respectively, a plane ticket home for Easter, a pair of tickets to an upcoming rock concert by Journey and a season ticket to Orchestra Hall.
To Brian’s surprise, each of the Brubakers had bought a gift for him. From Margaret and Willard, a billfold; from Amy, blank tapes—obviously she knew he and the other band members learned new songs by taping cuts from the radio; from Jeff, a Hohner harmonica—they’d been fooling around on one at a music store, and Brian had said he’d always wanted to play one; and from Theresa, an LP of classical music, including Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat.
When he opened the last gift, he looked up in surprise. “How did you have time to find it on such short notice?”
“Secret.” But her eyes danced to her father’s, and Brian remembered Willard’s leaving the house for “last-minute items” yesterday.
To Brian’s relief, he, too, had brought gifts. For Mr. and Mrs. Brubaker, a selection of cheese and bottle of Chianti wine; for Amy, a pair of headphones, which brought a round of good-natured applause from the rest of the group; for Jeff, a wide leather guitar strap tooled with his name; and for Theresa, a tiny pewter figurine—a smiling frog on a lily pad, playing the violin.
She smiled, placed it on her palm and met Brian’s irresistible green eyes across the living room.
“How did you know I collect pewter instruments?”
“Secret.”
“My darling brother, who can’t keep anything to himself. And for once, I’m happy he can’t. Thank you, Brian.”
“Thank you, too. You’ll make a silk purse of this sow’s ear yet.” Which was ironic, for Brian was far, far from a sow’s ear.
She studied the frog with its bulging pewter eyes and self-satisfied smile and lifted a similar smile to Brian. “I’ll call him ‘The Maestro.’”
The fiddling frog became one of Theresa’s most cherished possessions, and took his place at the forefront of the collection shelved on a wall in her bedroom, It was the first gift she’d ever received from any male other than a family member.
__________
THAT CHRISTMAS DAY, filled with noise, food and family, passed in a blur for both Brian and Theresa. They were more conscious of each other than of any of the others in the house. The family ate and got lazy, ate again, and eventually their numbers began thinning. That lazy wind-down prompted dozing and eventually, an evening revival of energy. As most days did in this house where music reigned supreme, this one would have seemed incomplete without it. It was eight o’clock in the evening, and the crowd had dwindled to a mere dozen or so when out came the instruments, and it became apparent the family had their favorites, which they asked Jeff and Theresa to play. Margaret and Willard were nestled like a pair of teenagers on the davenport, and applauded and chose another and another song. Eventually, Brian and Jeff branched off into a rousing medley of rock songs, during which Theresa joined in, Elton John-style, on the piano. Then Jeff had the sudden inspiration, “Hey, Theresa, go get your fiddle!”
“Fiddle!” she spouted. “Jeffrey Brubaker, how dare you call great-grandmother’s expensive Storioni a fiddle. Why, it’s probably cringing in its case!”
Jeff explained to Brian, “She inherited her fiddle from one of our more talented progenitors, who bought it in 1906. It’s modeled after a Faratti, so Theresa is rather overzealous about the piece.”
“Fiddle!” Theresa teased with a saucy twitch of the hip as she left the room. “I’ll show you fiddle, Brian Scanlon!”
When the beautiful classic violin came back with Theresa, Brian was amazed to hear the sister and brother strike into an engaging, foot-stomping rendition of “Lou’siana Saturday Night,” along with which he himself provided background rhythm, while he wondered in bewilderment how Theresa happened to know the song, so different from her classics. After that, the hayseed in all of them seemed to have stuck to their overalls, and Jeff tried a little flat picking on “Wildwood Flower,” and by that time, the entire group had gotten rather punchy. The usually reserved Willard captured Margaret and executed an impromptu hoe-down step in the middle of the room, which brought laughter and applause, to say nothing of the sweat to Margaret’s brow as she plopped into a chair, breathless and fanning her red face but totally exhilarated.
“Give us ‘Turkey In The Straw’!” someone shouted.
Again Brian was shown a new facet of Theresa Brubaker, a first-chair violinist of the Burnsville Civic Orchestra, as she sawed away on her 1906 classic Storioni, scraping out a raucous version of the old barn-dance tune, in the middle of which she lowered the violin and tapped the air with the bow, the carpet with her toe and watched her mother and father circling and clapping in the small space provided, while in a voice as clear as daybreak, Theresa sang out:
Oh, I had a little chicken
And it wouldn’t lay an egg
So I poured hot water up and down her leg
Then the little chicken hollered
And the little chicken begged
And the damn little chicken
Laid a hard-boiled egg.
She was joined by the entire entourage as they finished by bellowing in unison, “Boom-tee-dee-a-da ... slick chick!”
Brian joined in the rousing round of applause and shrill whistles that followed. As he laughed with the others, he saw again the hidden Theresa who seemed able to escape only when wooed by music and those she loved most. She covered her pink-tinged cheeks with both hands, while the “fiddle” and bow still hung from her fingers and her laughter flowed, sweet and fresh as spring water.
She was unique. She was untainted. She was as refreshing as the unexpected burst of hayseed music that had just erupted from her grandmother’s invaluable 1906 Storioni.
He watched Theresa bestowing hugs of goodbye on her aunts and uncles. She had forgotten herself and impulsively lifted her arms in farewell embraces. Already Brian knew how rare these moments of forgetfulness were with Theresa. Music made the difference. It took her to a plane of unselfconsciousness nothing else could quite achieve.
He turned away, wandered back to the deserted living room, wondering what it would take to make her feel such ease with him. He sat down on the piano bench and picked out a haunting melody, one of his favorites, with a single finger, then softly began adding harmony notes. Soon he was engrossed in the quiet melody as his hands moved over the keyboard.
The house quieted. Amy was in her room with the new headphones glued to her ears. Willard was downstairs setting up his new microscope. Margaret had gone to bed, exhausted.
There were only three left in the room where the tree lights glowed.
“What are you playing?” Theresa asked, pausing behind Brian’s shoulder, watching his long fingers on the piano.
“An old favorite, ‘Sweet Memories.’ ”
“I don’t think I know it.”
Jeff wandered in. “Play it for her.” He swung the old Stella up by its neck, extending it toward Brian, who looked back over his shoulder, with a noncommittal smile. “Do old Stella a favor,” Jeff requested whimsically.
Brian seemed to consider for a long moment, then nodded once, turned on the bench to face the room and reached for the scarred, old guitar. The first soft note sent a shudder up Theresa’s spine.
Jeff sat on the edge of the davenport, leaning forward, elbows to knees, for one of those rare times when he didn’t have a guitar in his hands. He simply sat and paid homage. To the song. His friend. And a voice that turned Theresa’s n
erve-endings to satin.
She realized she had not heard Brian sing before. Not alone. Not ... not ....
It was a song whose eloquent simplicity brought tears to her eyes and a knot to her throat, tremors to her stomach and goose bumps to the undersides of her thighs as she sat on the floor before him.
My world is like a river
As dark as it is deep.
Night after night the past slips in
And gathers all my sleep.
My days are just an endless string
Of emptiness to me.
Filled only by the fleeting moments
Of her memory.
Sweet memories ...
Sweet memories ...
He hummed a compelling melody line at the end of the verse, and she watched his beautiful fingers, the tendons of his left thumb grown powerful from years of barring chords, the square-cut nails of his right hand plucking or strumming the steel strings.
She watched his eyes, which had somehow come to rest on her own as the words of the last verse came somberly from his sensitive lips.
She slipped into the darkness
Of my dreams last night.
Wandering from room to room
She’s turning on each light.
Her laughter spills like water
From the river to the sea
Lord, I’m swept away from sadness
Clinging to her memory.
The haunting notes of the chorus came again, and Theresa softly hummed in harmony.
Sweet memories ...
Sweet memories ...
She had crossed her calves, hooked them with her forearms and drawn her knees up, raising her eyes to his. And as he looked deeply into the brown depths, grown limpid with emotion, Brian realized she was not some soulful groupie, gazing up in adulation. She was something more, much more. And as the song quietly ended, he realized he’d found the way to break down Theresa’s barriers.
The room rang with silence.
There were tears on Theresa’s face.
Neither she nor Brian seemed to remember her brother was there beside them.
“Who wrote it?” she asked in a reverent whisper.
“Mickey Newbury.”
She was stricken to think there existed a man named Mickey Newbury whose poignant music she had missed, whose words and melodies spoke to the soul and whispered to the heart.
Since she could not thank the composer, she thanked the performer who had gifted her with an offering superseding any that could be found wrapped in gay ribbons beneath a Christmas tree.
“Thank you, Brian.”
He nodded and handed the Stella back to Jeff. But Jeff had quietly slipped from the room. Brian’s gaze returned to Theresa, still curled up at his feet. Her hair picked up the holiday colors from the lights behind her, and only the rim of her lips and nose was visible in the semi-darkened room.
He slipped from the piano bench onto one knee, bracing the guitar on the carpet, his hand sliding down to curl around its neck. He could not make out the expression in her eyes, though he sensed the time was right ... for both of them. Her breathing was fast and shallow, and the scent he’d detected in the steamy bathroom seemed to drift from her skin and hair—a clean, fresh essence so different from the girls in smoky night spots. Bracing elbow to knee, he bent to touch her soft, unspoiled lips with his own. Her face was uplifted as their breaths mingled, then he heard her catch her own and hold it. The kiss was as innocent and uncomplicated as the Chopin Prelude, but the instant Brian withdrew, Theresa shyly inclined her head. He wanted a fuller kiss, yet this one of green, untutored innocence was oddly satisfying. And she wasn’t the kind of woman a man rushed. She seemed scarcely woman at all, but girl, far less accomplished at the art of kissing than at the art of playing the violin and the piano. Her unpracticed kiss was suddenly more refreshing than any he’d ever shared.
He pushed back, straightened and intoned quietly, “Merry Christmas, Theresa.’’
Her eyes lifted to his face. Her voice trembled. “Merry Christmas, Brian.”
Chapter Five
THE WEEK THAT FOLLOWED was one of the happiest of Theresa’s life. They had few scheduled duties, the city at their feet and money with which to enjoy it. She and Brian enjoyed being together, though they were rarely alone. Everywhere they went the group numbered four, with Jeff and Patricia along, or five, if Amy came, too, which she often did.
They spent an entire day at the new zoo, which was practically at their doorstep, located less than two miles away, on the east side of Burnsville. There they enjoyed the animals in their natural winter habitat, rode the monorail part of the time, then walked, ate hot dogs and drank hot coffee.
It was a sunless day, but bright, glittery with hoarfrost upon the surface of the snow. The world was a study in black and white. The oak branches startled the eye, so onyx-black against the backdrop of pristine landscape. The animals were sluggish, posed against the winter setting, their breaths rising in nebulous vapors, white on white. But the polar bears were up and about, looking like great shaggy pears with legs. Before their den, Theresa and Brian paused, arms on the rail, side by side. The bears lumbered about, coats pure and as colorless as the day. A giant male lifted his nose to the air, a single black blot against all that white.
“Look at him,” Brian said, pointing. “The only things that are black are his eyes, lips, nose and toenails. On an arctic icefloe he becomes practically invisible. But he’s smart enough to know how that nose shows. I once saw a film of a polar bear sneaking up on an unsuspecting seal with one paw over his nose and mouth.”
It was a new side of Brian Scanlon: nature lover. She was intrigued and turned to study his profile. “Did it work?”
His eyes left the bears and settled on her. “Of course it worked. The poor seal never knew what hit her.” Their eyes clung. Theresa grew conscious of the contact of Brian’s elbow on the rail beside hers—warm, even through their jackets. His eyes made a quick check across her shoulder where the others stood, then returned to her lips before he began to close the space between them. But Theresa was too shy to kiss in public and quickly turned to study the bears. Her cheeks felt hot against the crisp air as Brian’s gaze lingered for a moment before he straightened and said softly, “Another time.”
It happened before the habitat of another animal whose coat had turned winter white. They were watching the ermine coats of the minks when Theresa turned toward Brian, saying, “I don’t think I could wear—”
He was only three inches away, encroaching, with a hand covering his nose and mouth, eyes gleaming with amused intent.
She smiled and pulled back. “What in the world are you doing?”
From underneath his glove came a muffled voice. “I’m trying the polar bear’s sneaky tactics.”
She was laughing when his glove slipped aside and swept around her, his two hands now holding her captive against a black railing. The quick kiss fell on her open lips. It was a failure of a kiss, as far as contact goes, for two cold noses bumped, and laughter mingled between their mouths. After the brief contact, he remained as he was, arms and body forming a welcome prison while she leaned backward from the waist, the rail pressed against her back and her hands resting on the front of his jacket.
“There, you see,” she claimed breathily, “It didn’t work. I saw you coming anyway.”
‘‘Next time you won’t,” he promised.
And she hoped he was right.
__________
PATRICIA TOOK THEM on a guided tour of Normandale College campus, beaming with pride at its rolling, wooded acres. They were walking along a curving sidewalk between two buildings with Patricia and Jeff in the lead, when Jeff’s elbow hooked Patricia’s neck and he hauled her close, kissing her as they continued ambling. Brian’s eyes swerved to Theresa’s, questioning. But Amy walked with them, and the moment went unfulfilled.
__________
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT they went to St. Paul’s famed Science O
mnitheater and lay back in steeply tilted seats, surrounded by an entire hemisphere of projected images that took them soaring through outer space, whizzing past stars and planets with tummy-tickling reality. But the dizzying sense of vertigo caused by the 180-degree curved screen seemed nothing compared to that created by Brian when he found Theresa’s hand in the dark, eased close and reached his free hand to the far side of her jaw, turning her face toward his. The angle of the seats was severe, as if they were at a carnival, riding the bullet on its ascent before the spinning downward plunge. For a moment he didn’t move, but lay back against his seat with the lights from the screen lining his face in flickering silver. His eyes appeared deep black, like those of the polar bear, and Theresa was conscious of the vast force of gravity pressing her into her chair and of the fact that Brian could not lift his head without extreme effort.
His forehead touched hers. Again their noses met. But their eyes remained open as warm lips touched, brushed, then gently explored this newfound anxiety within them both. There was a queer elation to the sense of helplessness caused by their positions. She wished they were upright so she could turn fully into his arms. But instead she settled for the straining of their bodies toward each other, and again, the unfulfilled wishes that grew stronger with each foray he initiated.
The elementary kiss ended with three teasing nibbles that caught, caught, caught her mouth and tugged sensuously before he lay back in his seat again, watching her face for reaction.
“No fair making me dizzy,” she whispered.
They were still holding hands. His thumb made forceful circles against her palm. “You sure it’s not the movie?”
“I thought it was at first, but I’m much dizzier now.”
He smiled, kept his eyes locked with hers as he lifted her hand and placed its palm against his mouth, wetting it with his tongue as he kissed it.
“Me too,” he breathed, then carried the hand to his lap and held it against his stomach, folded between his palms before he began stroking its soft skin with the tips of his callused fingers while he turned his attention back to the broad screen. She tried to do likewise, but with little success. For the interstellar space flight happening on the screen was vapid when compared to the nova created by Brian Scanlon’s simplest kiss.