Reverb

  Elisabeth listened to him play all summer, night after night, getting better and better. But since he’s crossed the line to great, her fear of losing him to his muse has become pervasive, constantly looming. Like losing Cameron. And that’s how she knows she’s in love with him.

  She felt compelled to bring up her concerns on their way back from the café tonight. And James said exactly what she wanted to hear, and she melted, even though she knows it was bullshit. She doesn’t think he knows. He probably genuinely wants to stay connected. And then he kissed her. Totally out of the blue. Wow! It was electric. Set her body tingling…

  She sips her tea. Warm and sweet. He stops playing. She’s sure she feels him smile. She smiles. It’s close to midnight, way too early for him to quit for the night. He’ll pick it back up at some point. Ten minutes or half an hour. No telling really. She hasn’t caught a pattern yet, except that he plays longer and longer each night. Lately, she hears him in the mornings sometimes, too, after going back up to shower following breakfast. His muse’s talons are digging in. ‘I play to kill the void that comes without you,’ he’d said. She laughs, shakes her head. It’s impossible to believe him, even though she wants to.

  Weeks pass, and most feel like a dream. James takes them to Mortaitika and Messogi on the east side of the island, where they spend hours exploring the shallows of the Messonghi river that flows from the pine covered hills. They go to Corfu City, shop but don’t buy anything, then on a whim go up to see the crystalline bay of Gouvia. They go para-sailing. Elisabeth loves it. Spectacular view from above—lush rolling hills blanketed by groves of olive and citrus; rocky coves bordering the turquoise Ionian; a funky adobe church built on a jetty in the middle of the bay.

  A week of adventures is followed by a quiet one at home. Then they’re off again, back north past Sidari out to the glassy lagoons of Acharavi. Then to the long sandy beaches of Kavos on the southernmost tip of the island before rounding out the week in the emerald pine forest in the hills of Skipero.

  They laze three days in a row on their beach, reading, napping, talking, playing. They spend hours shopping, chopping, preparing meals. They trade off cooking. With minor resistance Elisabeth agrees to trade off reading to Cameron at night, since they both love it, and Cam doesn’t seem to care as long as it’s One Fish, Two Fish or Go Dog Go.

  “How come you won’t play for me?” She asks him on the deck that evening.

  “I do.”

  “In front of me, for me and Cam.” Her head’s in his lap. He sits on the bench, leaning up against the house, running his nails lightly against her scalp, pulling his long fingers loosely through her hair over and over. It feels fantastic, tingling, yet soothing.

  “Why do you need to see me play? You can hear me. I’m your lullaby.”

  “You are at that.” She falls asleep every night to his playing, comes right through her bedroom window. She blushes, a twinge of lewd invasion. “But you’re turning this around. I don’t want to talk about me. I want you to answer my question.”

  He laughs. “Okay. Let’s see.” He strokes his cheeks and chin. “The guitar, of late, is kind of like playing Tavli—to pass the time of day, or night as the case may be. I’ve never been a performer. I don’t like being watched. I get that enough without the guitar.” He glances down at her, his soft chestnut hair falling into his eyes, then his face lights up and he cocks an eyebrow. “But what you want to know is what I’m afraid of. And that would be you seeing me as a musician, and a mediocre one at that.”

  “So you won’t play for me, in front of me, because you’re afraid I’ll see you as less than perfect?”

  “I’m afraid you won’t see me. I don’t want you to confuse the man with the music. I have a hard enough time separating them myself. You’re my lighthouse.”

  She smiles, humbly. “My father used to tell me, ‘Fall in love with the art, not the artist.’ Didn’t listen, of course. I’ve always been enamored with creative excellence. Like I said, it’s a big part of what attracted me to Jack.”

  “Your father is right. Truth is, most woman I’ve been with were more enamored with the musician than me. But to be fair, I wasn’t much to be with. It scares me who’ll you’ll see, how you’ll see me forward if I introduce you to my muse.”

  She looks up at him. She smiles to hide her trepidation but is grateful, at least, he’s admitted she’s returned. “No worries, then. I was in love with the man before the music, so we should be okay.” Her breath catches in her throat. It’s the first time she’s confessed to being in love with him.

  He stares down at her, wisps of fine hair catching in his long lashes, then bends down and kisses her. His lips are warm, thick, wet. He’s inside her mouth with his tongue, swallows her in for an instant, then withdraws, holds his lips to hers for a split second, then parts. Her entire body flushes, tingles. She smells sex oozing from her pores, but resists her powerful desire to pull him back to her or reach out to him, knowing she must wait for him to accept her invitation.

  James straightens, lays his head back against the house and closes his eyes. “There were times when I would be creating music with someone, or a group of musicians, and we’d achieve what felt like this perfect harmony, the sound we were generating transcending the boundaries of the physical, venturing into the surreal. It was wild. Like we were one, all of us one being, intertwined, blended.” He pauses. “Kind of like what I feel with you now.”

  She stares up at him. He doesn’t open his eyes, but she catches just a hint of a smile whisper across his gorgeous face. It isn’t ‘I love you.’ But it’ll do. She closes her eyes and snuggles in.

  Chapter Eleven

  Syrup drips from his fork like the sweat that trickles down his neck. He sits at the table, his usual place, eating pancakes. He’s in his running attire—his white linen shirt hangs open, unbuttoned all the way, his dark gray sweatpants almost black at the sweat-soaked waistband. He takes a large bite of his stack, looks up at her and smiles.

  “What?”

  “I see you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I see the child in you, when you’re with Cameron, and the two of you are creating, building, pretending. And there’s the angry insolent teen when you’re shutdown and inaccessible; and the orphan, the lost boy afraid to love.” He smiles, sort of. “And whether you play for me or not, I see the musician—the way you hold your hands, the size of them, the shape of your fingers. I hear you at night and in my head now even when you’re not playing. You’re driven. I want to share your passion, meet your muse so she doesn’t get between us.”

  “She?” James arches an eyebrow.

  “You know what I mean. Please play for me.”

  He stares at her. “You are relentless, woman.” His smile morphs into a mischievous grin. He pushes his plate away, leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “You want to share my other side ‘Lisbeth. Then show me the other side of you. Haven’t seen a portfolio, a photo album, not one picture you’ve shot, not even those first ones of Cameron and me from way back.”

  She stares at him. “‘The other side of me?’”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No. I don’t. I don’t think I want to. You want to see my work, James?” She smiles. “I will, if you will. I sent my portfolios to my folks, but you can see my online book, though we have to go into town to get a connection, which I’ll be happy to do later this afternoon, after I see you play.”

  He stares back at her. She can’t help smiling. He doesn’t. He cocks his head to the side but stays fixed on her. “I’d love to see your book, but for this exercise, I’m not sure car bombings, riots, war scenes are...appropriate—which is what I assume you’ve got.”

  “Yeah. Most of what I have online is pretty much standard AP stuff.”

  “I’ll agree to your challenge if you show me what captivates you, turns your head, catches your eye, turns you on. Show me your passion, besides Cameron. Then it’s a de
al. You show me your other side, I’ll show you mine.” He smiles teasingly.

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Create it. Shoot anything you want, because it inspires you, not because it sells.”

  Elisabeth stares back at him. Love to. “Okay. I’ll pick up the gauntlet.” Game. “I need a subject.” Set. “I choose you.” Match.

  He laughs. “Why does it have to be me?”

  “Don’t be coy, Sweetie. You know why. You challenge me to be beautiful. Let yourself be.”

  He flashes a conciliatory smile. “Who sees the pics?”

  “Me and you, if that’s what you want.”

  “Okay. But I have some rules. You have today, and today only. This is a one-time thing. I don’t want the camera in my face, minimal intrusion, just like any other day when you happen to have it with you. I say when it’s okay. I say when it’s not. And it stops if I say so.” He stares at her, searching. “And I expect to be dazzled.”

  “No pressure there.” She glares at him, barely refrains from sticking her tongue out. “Well, I have some rules, too. When you come back down after your shower you bring the guitar with you. You play for me when I say so, where I say so, and stop only when I say so.”

  “No way.”

  “Why not? I’ll be as reasonable as you. It’s for today only, right? A one-time thing...”

  “Damn it, ‘Lisbeth—”

  “Oh, and since you’ve already dazzled me, I expect greatness.”

  He glares back at her, flashes her this ‘fuck you’ grin. She laughs. So does he. She turns away, gets the digital Canon tucked against the wall at the end of the counter and takes the lens cap off as she turns back to James. Focuses on him. He watches at her. Doesn’t flinch. Click. She catches his insolent grin. “Get ready to be dazzled.” Click.

  He smiles, raises an eyebrow. “I’m going up to take a shower.” He stands, brings his plate to the sink then pauses and looks at her, but is somewhere else in his head. “I’ll be back down later.” And instead of doing the dishes per usual, he walks out.

  “Don’t forget the guitar.”

  James waves goodbye without looking back, and just as he clears the kitchen doorjamb she notices he’s dropped all but his middle finger and is now flipping her off.

  She’s about to take Cameron on a hike up the hill after changing him, when James shows up two hours later. He has Jack’s guitar. Even still, she’s on him the moment he walks through the door. “I thought we were going to be reasonable. I can’t put together a series in one day without my subject.”

  “Sorry.” He gives her a sheepish grin, stands the guitar case up and rested his hands on the narrow end. “This is hard for me. Harder than I thought.”

  “Which part?”

  He smiles. “All of it. Look, I told you, I’m not a performer. The times I’ve been on stage have always been as back up and I’ve lurked in the curtains. So, in the shower I’m trying to figure out what the hell you’re looking to see. And it occurs to me that you’re not looking to be serenaded. Your interest stems from your fear you’ll lose me to ‘her,’ and you want to get to know your perceived competition.” He renders his analysis as a statement of fact.

  “Thank you, Wilhelm Wundt,” her witty retort, mocking his earlier Freud comment. He flashes a grin. “Though fear is not my motivator here. Taking the male approach, instead of wishing and whining, I’m proposing solutions to potential problems. I want to meet one of your many sides, hear what you hear in your head, witness your process of creation when your muse beckons so she never gets between us. I’m looking to share as much as I can get of you, James,” Elisabeth boldly confesses.

  He nods, thank God. “I know. It’s just, well, not a space I’m terrifically familiar with, or comfortable in. Never really have been.” He runs his fingers through his hair, but it falls back in his eyes instantly.

  “I know—”

  “‘Ames!” Cameron comes bounding into the living room and goes after Jack’s guitar. “Ooh, mine.” He grabs the case around the narrow neck and pulls it away from James.

  “Hold on a minute, Cam.” James catches the guitar before it falls on her son, then lays the case on the floor and shows Cameron how to open the locks. “Here. Like this.” His face is right up against Cameron’s, both in profile, both exquisite.

  Elisabeth goes to the kitchen, gets her camera and comes back to the living room. James kneels in front of the open case. Cameron is up against him plucking and stroking the guitar strings.

  Get the two of them, and just a suggestion of the guitar. Stop it down to 2.4, blur out the background. Focus on Cameron’s eye. Sharpen. Right there. Click.

  “Play for me.” She watches him through the lens, hoping to capture any change in his expression, focuses on his tiger-eyes.

  He doesn’t move. He stares down at the guitar.

  Click.

  “Cameron’s playing right now.” He glares at her.

  Click. Shit. Missed it.

  “Cameron. Come here, baby.” She lowers the camera, smiles at James. Cameron gets up and comes to her. “Hey, sweetie pea.” She kneels, opened her arms to her son and gathers him in. “Look at James.” He does. “Would you like to hear him play daddy’s guitar?” Then she whispers in his ear loud enough for James to hear. “He can play it very well!”

  “Play ‘Ames! Play. Play.”

  James glares at her, shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

  “Peeeze!”

  “Woman, you have no shame.” He lifts the guitar from the case, so Elisabeth holds back another witty retort, though none actually comes to mind. He leans back further, sits on his heels and positions the guitar in his lap, strums it, tightens a few strings, strums it again, nods and looks up at them. One of his huge hands is spread over the strings silencing them. The fingers of the other are poised like a spider frozen on the neck.

  She doesn’t lift the camera. She can’t move. She sits on her knees, Cameron stands wrapped in her arms. They both stare at James. There is little separation between him and the instrument. His arms wrap around the guitar like a lover, melding the two into one. “Play anything.” She has to hear the sound of the image before her.

  He cocks his head, narrows his eyes on her, then he looks down and starts picking the guitar. Fast. Smooth. Measured. Like rain. The rich melody bounces off the wood floors and bare walls and vibrates right through her. He mixes in strumming, like the building of a storm, until he’s only strumming. Totally fluid. Holds a perfect rhythm as he builds tension intertwining minor and major chords, like heavy wind and lashing rain, his long fingers sliding the length of the guitar neck with only an instants pause as he lands the chord, then he brings back in picking, until he’s only picking again, like droplets hitting tin in a summer shower, then freezes as he plays the last note, letting it resonate, then holds his huge hand over the strings deadening the sound, looks at her.

  “Don't stop. Keep playing.”

  “Play, Ames. More!”

  “No.”

  “Ahh!” Cam pouts.

  “Let’s go to the beach. Come on, Cam, let’s go build a masterpiece.” He puts the guitar back in the case, shuts it and stands. Cameron pushes off his mama, goes to James and lifts his arms.

  “Soder’s ‘Ames.”

  “You’ve got it, little dude.” He lifts Cameron onto his shoulders and they look down at her expectantly.

  She dismisses them with mock demands of castle craftsmanship worthy of photographing, and comes out to the deck fifteen minutes later with a lunch basket full of sliced turkey, hard cheese, a box of crackers, three apples, and bottled water, of course. She brings the Canon. She acquiesces to digital to view the shots on demand. She can always Photoshop for color correction and effects later.

  James refused to take the guitar, claimed sand could ruin it. Grains under the frets or something. She’d felt like screaming, but really, there was no point in arguing. Be back in the house for the rest of the evening in just
a few hours. She’ll get him to play later.

  The boys build an elaborate sandcastle a few feet above waterline while Elisabeth sits on the lounge chair on the patio reading Crime and Punishment. When she calls them for lunch half hour later, they’re both covered in wet sand—hands, arms, knees to toes.

  James rinses them both with the hose next to the back gate. Cameron giggles and splashes, James right along with him. Elisabeth gets her camera, and focuses on them as James lifts her son onto his hip and cleans his toes with the hose while Cameron kicks at the streaming water. Droplets fly around them like fireflies, lit from the afternoon sun.

  Click. And again. And again.

  After their meal, when the remains of lunch are cleared, Elisabeth attempts to put Cameron down for his nap, but he refuses. It’s becoming his new thing—not wanting to sleep during siesta anymore. James and Cam are looking at the Dr. Seuss book, Oh, The Places You'll Go, balanced on James outstretched legs when she comes into the room. Cameron sits happily among the pillows on the floor, curled into the cove under James’ arm, his little body pressed against James’ torso, practically in his lap. Her son touches the illustrations, tracing his pudgy fingers over his favorite images as James reads. Both look up at her standing with the guitar a few feet from them.

  James shakes his head. Cameron pushes himself up, goes to the guitar, grabs the neck and tries to pull it from his mama. “Play, Ames. Peezze!

  Elisabeth realizes her son is trying to give the guitar to James. She helps Cam carry the instrument over to where he now sits cross-legged on the pillows, then lets Cameron hand it to him.

  James takes the guitar before Cam drops it, but holds the neck, balancing it upright on the floor and doesn’t bring it in his lap.