In the Shadow of Blackbirds(11)

I giggled and nudged him back, though what I wanted so badly was to wrap my arms around him and hold him close.

“Stephen?” called his mother from the dining room. “Are you back there? Did you find Mary Shelley?”

“Show me some of your new photographs before we have to go sit with the ladies,” I whispered.

“They’re going to wonder what’s taking you so long.”

“I don’t care.”

“All right.” He put The Mysterious Island aside on the stairs and stood to his full height, about five inches taller than me but probably six inches shorter than his giant of a brother. I noticed his sturdy arms and lean stomach beneath his white shirt and found my blood burning fiery hot in my veins. I debated placing my goggles back over my eyes in an attempt to conceal my physical reaction to him.

He led me into a back sitting room wallpapered in peacock green. Chairs and a sofa upholstered in a pinkish hue that reminded me of the inside of a seashell formed a circle around the room’s center. Vases of dried lavender sweetened the air. Framed photographs—nature scenes, family members, still lifes—formed a patchwork quilt of glossy sepia across the walls.

Stephen headed toward the corner behind the largest armchair, lifted one of the photos off its nail, and brought it to me. It was the image of a monarch butterfly drinking nectar from a rose. Even though the photograph was printed in brown and white, the clarity of the insect’s shading made me feel as though I were looking at wings a vivid orange, a flower the softest whisper of yellow.

“This is one of my favorites,” he said.

“It’s gorgeous. How did you manage to catch a butterfly in a photo? They fly away so quickly.”

“My father taught me how to stay extremely still and keep a camera pointed in the right direction. I had to sit in our backyard for an hour before I caught it.”

“You’re the most patient person I’ve ever known, Stephen. I wish some of that quality had rubbed off on me.”

“You’re patient when you work on a project you love.”

“Not the way you are.” I reached out and touched the frame, a couple of inches below his fingers. “What did you write down here at the bottom?” I squinted at two words in the lower right-hand corner. “Mr. Muse?”

“That’s a fake title. Julius makes fun of the names I give my pictures, so I turn the real ones into anagrams to keep him from figuring them out.”

“I wonder … let’s see … Mr. Muse…” I examined the words, letting their letters unscramble and fit back together like puzzle pieces in my brain. “Ruse … rum … sum … Summer?”

“Cripes.” He grinned. “You’ve gotten faster than when you were little.”

“You taught me well.”

“I’m going off to war, Shell.” His words just flew out there, smacking me in the face like a stinging bucket of ice water.

“I know.” I shrank back. “Your mother told me. Why on earth did you enlist when you’re so close to finishing school? I thought you were going to college.”

His eyes shifted toward the window to his right. “I need to get out of this house. Everyone on this island ends up spoiled or corrupt. There’s so much wealth and pampering and selfishness. I’m tired of being part of it.”

“Are you running away?”

“I don’t know.” His fingers inched closer to mine on the frame. “Maybe.”

“Be careful over there, Stephen.”

He turned his attention to the floor.

“I’ve grown up looking at my father’s Spanish-American War scar,” I said. “Remember that pink line running down his left cheek?”

Stephen nodded. “I remember.”

“He says it gives his face character, but it’s always made me terrified of war.”

“I’ll be fine.” He looked directly into my eyes with an expression that made me think he wasn’t necessarily sure he would be all right. He held my gaze, and I almost felt he was about to lean forward and kiss me, even though we had never once kissed when we were younger. We stood close enough that I could smell spearmint on his breath, even over the aftershave.

I slid my fingers up the frame until I touched his hand. “Please stay safe. It’s not everyone who has the patience to photograph a butterfly.”

He gave me a smile that seemed both grateful and sad.

I swallowed, and he continued to search my eyes with his own, as if he were trying to say something he couldn’t articulate with words. The space between us shrank. Our breathing accelerated until it became the only sound in the house. My heart pounded like I was about to leap off a cliff a hundred feet high.

Before I could say anything awkward to break the spell, he pulled my face toward his and kissed me. I lost my balance at first, but then I closed my eyes and held his smooth neck and enjoyed the warmth and hunger of his mouth. His hand moved to the small of my back and brought me closer. Our stomachs touched. Our chests pinned the photograph between us. He wrapped his arms around me and held me tight against him, as though he were kissing life itself good-bye.

A deafening bong rang out in the hallway. Our lips parted, and the grandfather clock chimed eleven times. Neither of us said a word—we simply panted and remained together, entangled, tipsy, our mouths hovering a few teasing inches apart. His hairline above his neck felt both soft and bristly against my fingertips, which intrigued me.