He sets her mug on the counter within her reach and resumes his position behind her again, holding his tea. She hears him blow on it, then take a sip. It doesn’t matter what he sees. Good, bad, or indifferent, capturing dynamic moments—stopping time and directing perspective onto beauty instead of strife is beyond fulfilling. It’s intoxicating.
Next.
Cameron full-faced, through the turrets of their sandcastle. James in profile just in front of him, focused on his task. They look remarkably alike, could easily be father and son with their mass of fine hair to their shoulders, and falling over their brows; their wide eyes and long lashes, full lips set in a whisper of a pout.
Next. Cameron splashing, sunlight faceting the water like diamonds falling all around him.
Next. He and James in a water fight. Beads of water flying off James’ long fingers are frozen in motion, the stream only two inches from hitting Cam’s face. Cameron’s eyes are hugely wide, as is the smile on his laughing face an instant before the water hits him.
Next. James stares into camera, head shot, his hair haloed with the sunlight behind him. He looked cast in bronze.
One shot after the other resonates. The images vibrate on the screen as if they are breathing. Breathing life into her. She holds her breath every time she double clicks. When the image appears and tells its story, she exhales. The camera is a portal to the past; her aim with every shot—to create a time machine back to the scene to relive it, or to view for those who missed it. And it occurs to her right then that James is right again. She loves engaging with the camera. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.
Last shot. Double click. The shot is wide. James is just to right of center, staring straight ahead, his mass of dark hair frames his stunning face; his green eyes are striking against the whitewash exterior of the house, and the complementary colors of orange to violet to deep indigo of the sunset reflected in kitchen window above him. The balance, chiaroscuro and juxtaposition are as perfect as he is beautiful.
She looks at it another moment then picks up her tea, sips it and turns to face James. He stares at his image on the screen. He does not look at her. And she stops breathing again.
“Don’t quit. Ever. No matter what.” He looks at her then he looks back at the laptop, takes a drink of his tea, then turns away, picks up the guitar against the wall as he walks out of the kitchen, leaving her with his image on the screen.
She hears the screen door shut, and a moment later he starts playing. She stares at his image one more second than closes the picture, closes the file, shuts down the computer and clicks the laptop closed, then disconnects the camera and sets it back in the corner against the back-splash. Then she goes to join James on the deck again.
Elisabeth shuts the screen gently. No indication he’s heard her. He’s picking a fast riff she’s never heard before. His fingers crawl up and down the frets quickly and precisely. He gets a sharp, tonal resonance from each string he plucks, his fingers a blur of fluid motion. His eyes are closed, and remain so as she stands watching him. She sips her tea. Tastes rich from the milk. The night is warm. Cameron is safe in his bed. James plays on, lost to his muse. It will never be her. And suddenly she recognizes loneliness, or at least that feeling she used to get so much with Jack. And she freezes up inside.
He looks at her, holds his hand over the strings silencing the guitar. “What?”
“I am so screwed.” She glares at the guitar. She can’t help it.
“You’re not.” He sets the guitar down, leans it against the bench. “I won’t touch it again tonight.”
“Don’t say that. I’m sorry. Do what you want to do. Play. Please.”
“No. I don’t want to. I was just hanging out, waiting on you.” He stands, moves to the railing. “It’s a nervous habit. I can’t help picking it up if one’s around.” He turns back around, leans against the rail, shoves his hands deep in his pockets and glares at the guitar. It reflects the moonlight and the ambient light from the kitchen windows. He gives a quick laugh. “I’ll knock it off. I promise you, I won’t go back to obsession. I can’t get there anymore anyway, even if I wanted to.”
“Do you want to?” She holds her breath even though she knows the answer.
“In moments, yeah.”
She sighs. Any other answer would have been a lie. “This moment?”
“No.” He flashes his single-dimpled grin. “I’m right here, ‘Lisbeth. I want to be with you.”
Her ire dissolves. She so wants to believe him...
He comes to her then, takes her face in his hands and kisses her, hard but soft, gentle but with power. Deep, intertwining, connected. He sucks her in, almost swallowing her up, pulling her to him, his hand now on the back of her head, the other at the nape of her neck, his body pressed firmly against hers, her nipples grazing his chest as he pulls back. He lets his lips linger just barely touching hers, and whispers, “I want to be with you.” Elisabeth is literally swooning, dizzy with desire, lust. Then he slides his hand into hers and leads her inside. She can hardly breathe, let alone walk as he guides her down the hall to her bedroom.
He stops next to the bed, stands facing her and begins undressing her. He kisses her again as he unbuttons her shirt, then softly kisses her neck down to the top of her breasts, and every part of her tingles. He gently pushes her now open shirt off her shoulders then moves his huge hands over her breasts, caressing them lightly while his slender fingers graze her nipples.
Elisabeth gasps with pleasure. James smiles, bends his head to put her breast in his mouth, massages her nipple with his tongue. She groans, her nipples harden to rocks, and she runs her hand through his hair and gently holds the back of his head to her a moment. Then he moves back to her mouth and kisses her again, and again. She doesn’t touch his sex, fearing any approach by her may startle him and spark evil memories.
James slides his hand down her belly, unbuttons her pants, slides his hand inside, combing the tips of his long fingers through her pubic hair and cupping her crotch, pressing his palm into her clitoris. Another gasp escapes her lips and he smiles again. She does, too, then kisses him gently, passionately. He unbuttons his shirt while they kiss, unzips his jeans and dribbles them off his narrow hips, then sits on the bed, puts his hands on her hips and gently pulls her khaki’s down. She steps out of them as he pulls her to him.
He’s very gentle, almost cautious, but tantalizing to the extreme, with a slow hand focused on pleasing her. He separates only to get a condom from his wallet, shyly explaining it was gifted from one of the locals he plays tavli with, on the day they’d fought—the old man’s solution to all problems with women. Elisabeth quivers with his touch, welcomes him exploring her body, directing the scene. James strokes her inner thigh, her body arching with desire, then runs his long fingers through her pubic hair, up her belly, then gathers her breasts and smooshes his face in between them, then releases them and runs his hand ever so lightly over her nipples again. Her body shudders and she draws a quick audible breath, which solicits another smile from both of them. She’s breathing in quick gasps now, her heart coming through her chest, lust consuming her.
“Please...” she begs. “Be inside me.”
Then he’s on top of her. Then inside her, filling her up. He’s kissing her neck, up to her lips, finds them with his, but Elisabeth feels his shift as he pulls back and stares down at her, but not at her, more like through her, clearly seeing something else in his head. His eyes are wide with terror. She grabs his face with both her hands and kisses him. He resists at first, for an instant pulls back, glares down at her, but then his eyes narrow and he draws her into focus, seeing her, and returns her kiss, but hard. Aggressive. It almost hurts, skates the pleasure/pain line.
“Don’t stop. Don’t pull away. Stay with me.” Elisabeth whispers in his ear. She slides her hands to his back, presses gently at the base of his spine to get him deep inside her. Her hips move of their own accord now, pressing against his, plunging him into her a
gain and again. She groans, breathing fast and hard, intense pleasure climaxing in her groin, the pit of her belly. Her body shudders and quivers with lingering delight. She grins up at him. “Thank you,” she whispers.
He smiles down at her, kisses her lightly then rolls on to his back, pulling her on top of him in a swift, smooth motion as if she were virtually weightless. Elisabeth laughs, puts her hands on his chest to adjust him still inside her, then feels his stomach go rock hard and his expression morphs from pleasure to rage. His hands go rigid on her waist and she’s locked in his grip. He’s back in his hell again, eyes filled with fear and anger, she feels him trembling beneath her. His jaw is tightened, squared, lips set in a hard line. He looks like he wants to kill her.
She draws another quick, audible breath. Then she slowly brings her hands to his face, and gently holds his neck and jaw line. “James.”
He grabs her wrists, hard. It pinches but she doesn’t resist as he pushes her back but doesn’t let go, then flips her on her back and moves on top of her again, keeping their bodies pressed together and himself inside of her. He looks down at her now, studies her, his anger gone. He grins, releases a nervous laugh. Elisabeth slowly puts her hands on his face again, pulls him in and kisses him, gently at first, then passionately, and lingering. His hips begin moving, in an ever increasing rhythm. His breath quickens, his muscles tense, his jaw tightens again, but he keeps his eyes fixed on hers. She moves with him, totally wet again with his balls gently tapping her ass, the base of his rock hard cock slamming against her clit again and again. Don’t come. Don’t come. It’s not about her this time. She stares back at his gorgeous face, his hair hanging in his eyes, now distancing with mounting sexual tension. She follows his motion, syncs with his rhythm, arches her body to maximize his pleasure and James groans, closes his eyes, throws his head back and opens his mouth as if screaming, though no sound comes out. Elisabeth isn’t sure if he’s experiencing pain or pleasure as he climaxes, his expression masked, unreadable as he empties himself. His body convulses into hers and she spontaneously comes again, pushing herself against him, relieving her tension. James finally relaxes on top of her, and when she opens her eyes to look at him there’s a hint of a grin on his face, and she feels no need for further clarification.
They laid side by side for quite some time in silence. They hold hands.
“There was always this moment of realization that there was no way out.” He whispers. “It happened every time they tortured me, that moment I knew the restraints would hold me, that I was absolutely helpless. There was this weird dual to it. Unmitigated terror. Complete surrender.” He pauses. “It’s what I feel for you now, only in reverse.”
“What?”
“I love you, ‘Lisbeth. And that scares the hell out of me.”
She can’t help smiling, even though she knows he isn’t. She tries to ignore the twisted reality behind his analogy.
Chapter Twelve
Fall blows in cold and hard with an early storm. Rain and wind pound against the thin plate glass windows and doesn’t let up for three days. Outside has been cold, and damp for upwards of a week now, keeping them inside. The trick is amusing Cameron. He colors, he paints, he builds, he makes messes. James holds down the notes and chords and teaches him to strum the guitar. Elisabeth spends hours with him in front of the laptop playing PC learning games from Curious George to Clifford the Big Red Dog. She and James read to him book after book until their own exchanges take on Dr. Seuss speak. And one more time around the track with Thomas and she’s going to throw that little blue train right out the window.
James stays. He shares her bed every night. The last two mornings she’s woken before him, lay on her side and watched him sleep. This morning he watches her. She opens her eyes and he’s leaning up on his elbow with his head in hand, watching her. His hair hangs in his eyes, framing his sculpted face like a soft, hooded shroud. The pine-filtered sun pours in through the bedroom window haloing him a moment, but it’s short lived. The sky darkens again and shadows the room, and James, momentarily distancing him. A chill passes through her, from the outside in.
“Morning,” he says casually.
“Hi.” She smiles up at him, then Cameron starts crying. “Bye,” she frowns, then kisses him as she gets out of bed and she goes to her son. James stays in bed. As she lifts Cam up out of his crib, she hears the guitar through the wall. James keeps it in the bedroom at night, in the corner next to the closet, practically in arms reach of the bed. She changes Cameron’s diaper and listens to James play, smiles at his choice with the opening pick of the old rock tune, When September Ends by Green Day. He switches to strumming and the wall between them buzzes with the guitar’s resonance and his rich tenor as he sings softly. She holds Cam’s hand against the wall to feel the vibration and they both giggle with the shared experience. Remarkably, sometimes James makes the instrument sound as if a full band is backing him.
As she finishes up with Cameron, James stops playing. He has the timing down. She has to give him that. She hears him get off the bed and put the guitar down, then rustling, then a zipper. A few minutes later, she and Cam meet him in the kitchen. He’s already started breakfast. Blueberry pancakes today. And they’re good.
He picks the guitar up throughout the day and fiddles with it, but it’s yet to feel like it’s between them. Quite the opposite. Surprisingly, Elisabeth finds she enjoys being the recipient of his passion. It’s Cameron’s daily lullaby; a soundtrack while reading, or a melodic background behind casual conversation.
They play countless games of Tavli, fondle and tease while Cameron naps, and make love several times during the evenings until she surrenders to exhaustion. Only then does he leave the bedroom, go to the living room and practice, often late into the night.
By the time the stormy weather finally passes, the three of them are climbing the walls to get out of the house. A few days pass with a breath of summer past, warm and splendidly languid. Then the beach turns windy and cold again, with only intermittent sun through most of October. Their excursions to the beach are shorter each day. Today, Elisabeth gets only a few good shots of James and Cameron running with the kite before losing the sunlight to the darkening sky. They’re back inside within a couple of hours, and Cameron is bored. And so is she.
“Let’s go somewhere.”
“Where?” James sits on the couch, the guitar in his lap. He’s picking at it softly, almost unconsciously, a smooth blues riff.
“Let’s get off this island. Go to the mainland. Down to Athens. It’ll be warmer there.”
“Athens is five hundred miles away.”
“I know. So?”
He gives her a vague smile, shakes his head and then his forest eyes veil, and he gets sucked inside. Lost to her.
Shit. “James!”
He startles, his eyes flash awareness as they fix back on her. “What?” He’s back in the living room with her, sort of.
“Where did you just go?”
“Down to Athens, with all those people.”
Cameron’s on the floor ripping apart a Lego castle James built.
“Let’s leave in the morning.”
It takes some convincing, but they do. Elisabeth takes the Canon. James flat out refuses to bring Jack’s guitar.
They take the auto ferry across and spend two glorious days driving down the coast of the Greek mainland. She thoroughly enjoys watching James drive, his body an extension of the vehicle, casual but in control, his hair blowing wildly around his stunning face, talking about everything and anything. Driving keeps Cameron entertained, especially when the top is off—he lets his arms fly in the wind, or just stares at the passing scenery taking it all in, or naps.
They stop often, exploring the rich history of the regions they pass through. Up the hill to Nekyomanteion, where they’re awed by the massive stone ruins of the Oracle of the Dead; then down to the Acheron River, where James laughingly mocks her when she refuses to let Cameron wade in the wa
ter that ostensibly carries souls to the realm of Hades. They lunch in the beach town of Riza, then roam the ruins of Roman Villas there, then move on to the city of Nikopolis, where they stop for the night. Thick Byzantine walls of stone and brick are crumbling throughout the city, enhancing the essence of its ancient history.
After supper, they stroll along the shore of the quiet Mediterranean. The evening is warm. The sky is violet fading to indigo. Cameron sets a slow pace, stopping every other second to explore a shell or sand crab. She and James meander along the water’s edge. The sea reflects the last of the light and looks like wet stone.
“What does your father do?”
She’s taken aback by the question. He’s never asked about her family before. She’d been careful to avoid the subject of family since their one encounter going down that road. “My dad is a retired English professor. Why?”
“What about your mom?”
“Middle-school English teacher. A brief stint as an aspiring writer, but she never followed through. Why do you ask?”
“You’re clearly well versed in the history of the places we saw today. It was impressive. I was wondering how you come by your breadth of obscure knowledge.”
She smiles at his backhanded compliment. “It has nothing to do with my parents, I assure you. I studied art history in school. And traveled a lot of the world in the last ten years—gathered snippets along the way. My mother prefers her house and her garden. My father reads about places, studies their cultures through their literature, but he never goes anywhere. The man is sixty-eight years old and he’s never been out of the United States.”
“Well, at least they were home at night for dinner.”
She laughs, looks at him, feels him withdraw. He hadn’t meant it to be funny. “I’m sorry. I gather you didn’t grow up in a typical suburban home.”