“So, what do you plan to do with all these paintings?” I asked.
He finally set me down on my feet. “I don’t know,” he replied, moving around me.
I turned in the direction where I thought he had moved. “What do you mean you don’t know? You told me you wanted to touch the world. What happened to that man?”
Warm palms pressed through the thin fabric of my shirt as he wrapped his arms around my waist. He nuzzled my neck as he gently kissed it.
“He met you.”
I ran my fingers through his silky hair. It was longer than usual, and I loved feeling the soft texture against my fingertips.
“So, you met me and abandoned your dream? I don’t like the idea of that.”
“No, Chantel. I met you and decided that I didn’t need to touch the world.” He rested his stubbled cheek to mine. “I just need to touchyou.”
I sit and pick up her journal again to continue where I left off. It’s clear she was in love with him. I can feel it in every entry she typed, but she has yet to say it.
I think she would be the kind of person to type it over and over, but then it occurs to me that words weren’t her way.No, they’re mine.Music was her way of showing how she felt.
I pick up the photo album from my workbag and flip through it to the print copy ofAcquiesce.At first glance, this painting of a young woman, marked only with two bold F-holes, sitting in the grass with a white sheet surrounding her, appears the simplest.
To acquiescemeansto submit or comply silently.The label for this piece is so unusual that I’ve always wondered why he called it that, but she used that same word for her journal entry. Perhaps it’s the fact that she willingly removed her clothes and posed in the sunlight, doing it all without protest.
They each give me such similar yet uniquely individual points of view. They merge together to harmonize in a symphony so evocative that I feel it altering my very soul with each separate movement played.
“Here. Sit right here,” he told me, slowly leading me backward.
I felt a wooden bench of some kind touch the back of my legs. “When did you move this down here?”
“I just dragged it over this morning. It’s from the vineyard. The men use it during lunches, but it will work perfectly for today…until I’m ready to get you down in the grass,” he explained.
He lightly pushed on my shoulders, and I sat down without protest.
“Will you play while I set up?”
I placed my violin case beside me. “Of course. What would you like me to play?”
“Anything,” he replied as his fingers traced the line of my jaw.
I reached over to my case and unsnapped the locks. Feeling around the familiar silk, I found Diva’s neck and gripped her firmly before lifting her to my shoulder.Time to show him what we can do,I thought, getting ready to start playing.
“Wait.”
I lowered her from my shoulder.
“What are you going to play?”
I smiled confidently, knowing this piece was one that often shocked people with its slow and at times methodical vibe, but then there was that moment—that amazing shift when Diva would take control and, at a hellacious speed, the piece would turn to arctic fury.
Standing, I raised my violin to my shoulder. “Vivaldi, ‘Winter.’ It’s from?—”
“The Four Seasons,” he finished for me.
“Yes. You know it?”
“I do, and I would love to hear you play.”
I closed my eyes and began.
