A Passion for Pleasure(100)
“What’s so amusing?” Sebastian asked.
Clara realized she was smiling. She’d had no idea that loving him could be both the most daunting and exhilarating thing of all. “I love you.”
Wary hope flashed in his eyes. Before he could respond, Clara shook her head to forestall him.
“I was so frightened after Richard died,” she said, her gaze on his mouth as she continued stroking his lower lip, “and then when my father made his accusations and forced me leave Andrew. For the past year, I’ve lived with fear as my sole companion. And yet I’ve realized that the only times I haven’t been afraid, I’ve been with you.”
For a long, stretched moment he just looked at her, then he took her hand in his. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known. And you’re the only one who has ever challenged my own courage.”
“Because I know who you are. I know what you are capable of. I do still love the man you once were, Sebastian. I’ve loved that man for years. He’s the brilliant, charming musician who showed everyone, including me, how to find pleasure in life.”
She lifted herself onto her elbow, sliding her hand down his neck to his bare chest. “But the man you are now, the man I love with everything I am, is the man I know. I know the shadows and light that color your heart because I feel them too. You are the man who has proven that goodness and hope still exist, even in the face of despair. You are the man I love.”
A shuddering breath escaped him. Clara’s heart thumped hard in the wake of her admission, fear of his rejection rising to the surface. But no. Confirming what she had always believed about him, Sebastian turned to brush his lips across her forehead, down the slope of her cheek to her lips.
And then he kissed her, locking their mouths together in an affirmation of their inseverable union.
Two movements linked together. Sebastian studied the sheet of music and tightened his hand around the pencil. Starting with the woodwinds, then the full orchestra building into a crescendo in preparation for the piano’s entry. A stack of fourths. E, A, D, G. Blue, white, yellow, brown. He scribbled the notes and played them with his left hand.
Anticipation flared in his blood. Caution, too, for he didn’t quite dare to believe that a one-handed piano part would be any good, much less please an audience. His right hand had always been dominant, its dexterity concealing whatever imperfections lay within the composition. Focusing on his left hand required a perfection of musical balances and dynamic gradations, allowing no room for inadequacy.
He played the notes again. The dark orange bass of the orchestra resounded through his mind. Then the cadenza. He wrote another measure, trying to make his way a few more steps to the end, gritting his teeth when his hand faltered and the pencil dropped to the floor.
Before he could bend to retrieve it, Clara stepped forward. Sebastian straightened, not having known she was in the room. Apprehension tightened his spine.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
“Just a few minutes.” Her gaze skimmed over the papers littering the piano surface. “I heard the music and thought you were here with Andrew.”
“He’s with Mrs. Danvers in the kitchen.” Sebastian reached for the pencil, but Clara moved away and took hold of the arms of a chair. She pulled the chair closer to the piano, then picked up the smudged sheet of paper.
For an instant, Sebastian didn’t understand. And then when it hit him, he felt his breath almost stop. He stared at his wife, gripped by an emotion he couldn’t name and had never experienced before. Her eyes soft with tenderness, she nodded toward the keys.
“I remember the basics of piano music,” she said. “But what I don’t know, you can show me.”
Sebastian swallowed hard and turned back to the piano. He played a chord with his left hand and showed Clara where it should be placed on the staff. Clara carefully transcribed the notes onto the paper, then looked up at Sebastian and waited.
Sebastian heard the double bass, the colors of a sunset. Then he listened for the echo and pointed out the structure of the notes so that Clara could write them down. Her penmanship was neat and precise, the notes marching like soldiers across the page. Together they worked for the next half hour, until several lines of music filled the paper.
When Sebastian finally lifted his hands from the keys, a deep satisfaction rose in him, a sense of fulfillment that he hadn’t experienced in longer than he cared to remember. He flexed his right hand. His third finger curled toward his palm, but no wrenching despair accompanied the reminder of his disability.