He had parked the old Chevy underneath a mammoth oak tree, its hair of Spanish moss flowing with the breath of a strong winter’s wind. Deep in the shadows, the shelter only seemed to make the cold feel that much colder.
Brando cranked over the key, the motor starting with a roar. After the initial rush, it settled, and a slight humming filled the quiet. Even though Brando was warm, the heater added another level of protection to ward off the chill. I took a deep breath in. The warm air stirred up the smell of leather, chocolate sucker, his cologne, and roses.
We sat as idle as the Chevy, turned on, but neither of us spoke or moved. Brando had seemed distant after I gave him the memory board. Not from me, but from life in general. Part of it was Elliott, I knew, but I had the distinct feeling it was something else—something that felt a lot like deliberation. And of course, there were my parents and their friends.
As if to prove my thoughts correct, we both sighed, one right after the other. Being immersed in that crowd for even short periods of time felt a lot like being immersed in a deep Russian winter. The entire scene stole the moisture straight from the skin, could really age a person.
I left him to his quiet while my own thoughts seemed to thaw and float. Nothing pressing came to mind, so I studied the old house with its many columns and its line of ancient oak trees in the darkness. Under the glow of the moon, it reminded me of an old civil war ghost. The Cane River sat behind the historic estate and, at night, became a mirror to the stars. The water became as black as the velvet sky, a perfect host to its starry opposites.
Without thought, my hand found his, needing to feel his skin against mine. Ever so faintly, I ran my fingertips back and forth over his knuckles. I leaned in even closer, settling my arm around his, and crossing one leg over the other. My thin satin dress glided to the side, exposing bare skin.
He missed nothing. His eyes caught the movement and held for the briefest of seconds before he gave me his profile once again. A sigh escaped his lips, something I didn’t hear from him often.
A satisfied smile came unbidden to my face. “Do I trouble your mind, Brando Piero Fausti?”
“More than I care to admit.”
I rested my head against his shoulder, nuzzling even closer to him. That’s when I noticed them. Three pictures sat on the dashboard. I had to strain my eyes to make them out in the darkness.
I moved in closer for a better look. The first picture was a black and white of me that Violet had taken at the studio for her project, titled:The Contrary Ballerina. I had on what Brando called my ‘frilly wear’—all pink—and my hair came down in loose waves around my head. Wild even.
She had me sit forward, one of Mick’s cigarettes in my mouth, the pink lipstick she had given me vivid even in mercurial tint. My feet were en pointe, but covered in Converse.
A Polaroid sat in the middle. The picture Violet took at the cabins of Brando and me.
The third picture came from Harper’s Bazaar. Maja Resnik and I had teamed up to do the photo shoot.
“Why did you pick those three?” I waved my free hand toward the dash. The paleness of my skin could rival any ghost. “The pictures.”
He stared at me for a moment. “The two girls I know,” he said, his voice soft. “The girl who’s so stubborn she won’t get out of her own way. And the classical ballerina who glides and moves like she’s floating.”
I tapped the third picture with my fingernail, the one he dubbedclassical ballerina. The sound of it was loud in the silence—tap, tap.
“The magazine had wanted both of us for the photos. My mother was thrilled from her fingers to her toes.Think of it!” I said with false bravado. “Two generations! Such a reflection! The old ballerina and the young!” I brought my voice down to a normal level. “Not this one, but another. We were both in silhouette, nose to nose, hands to hands, like a thin layer of glass, or even an era, had separated us.”
I shook the picture. “We also recreated the famous paintings that were done of Maja by the famed Italian artist Matteo Ballerini. He was obsessed with her, you know. Her eyes. Her breasts. Her legs. After he died, his art exceeded even his expectations, I believe.”
He kept his face forward when he spoke. “Maja tell you all of that?”
“I read his memoirs.” I smiled, remembering how much I had enjoyed it. It felt torrid. The perfect Maja exposed as human. “Their letters were included. He was in love with her. Truly, madly,deeplyin love with her. And I quote:Their love was full of naked days and nights of endless pleasure.Oh—” I sucked in a breath, released it in a loudwhoosh“—he was obsessed with her belly button too! He said it reminded him of a perfectly shaped grape.”
Grape had come out with a pop on the endingp. We both laughed, him more than me this time. After the humor faded, silence filled the empty space once again.
I ran a fingertip over the middle picture, the one of us. “Tell me about this one.”
“Mine. All mine.”
Again his deep thoughtfulness, his silence, took up all the air inside of the car. At this point, there was nothing more to do or say to sway the outcome of the inner war that raged. Whatever he had planned seemed to be causing havoc on his mind and heart—whatever it was seemed to come at a price for him.
Looking up, I studied the stars. For reasons beyond me, intuition perhaps—a need to see him every so often—I looked to Brando, expecting his stare to still be forward, but instead, he stared at me.
“What?” I asked, giving him a small, simple smile. “Do I have residual stars in my eyes?”
He opened the glove compartment, took out a clean handkerchief, and informed me that I’d be blindfolded. I gave in, not wanting his silence any longer, not wanting to change the direction of the wind. He secured it around my eyes and tied it in the back, rendering me sightless. A moment later, the Chevy moved forward.
Decision made.
* * *
