ALMOST AS IF WE ARE ONE
JoAnn Baca
Part 2
Dinner with Shane Briscoe was an experience Catherine thought she’d never forget. Jenny had extricated herself from their company with her bald excuse about a phantom headache, and Shane had seemed almost relieved that his dinner “party” was reduced to a dinner “date.” They had gone on to the restaurant Jenny had told them about, to find a table reserved in a quiet corner. Not very subtle, Jen! Catherine thought in wry amusement.
By the end of dinner, Shane and Catherine felt like long-lost friends. No, more like kindred spirits. They had discovered a wealth of common interests, and the similarities in their tastes in music, literature and art were almost uncanny. Even their outlooks on life were surprisingly compatible. After one evening together, Catherine felt more comfortable with him than anyone else she knew -- except Vincent. In fact, in many important ways, Shane reminded her of Vincent. He seemed to have the same greatness of heart, the same tortured spirit, the same quiet strength. He was a remarkable man, cultured and refined, but not snobbish or effete. His modesty was exceeded only by his unpretentious charm. And she liked him...very much.
They had parted outside the restaurant just as it was closing. Shane had hailed a cab for her and waited until she’d given her address to the cabbie, then leaned in to ask if he might call her tomorrow. Catherine had fished in her purse and produced her business card. As he took it, he had grasped her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a shy kiss upon it. He released her hand with reluctance, and she heard him saying as the cab pulled away, “Until tomorrow then. Goodbye, Catherine.”
* * *
She was awakened at 6:00 a.m. by an excited Jenny demanding, “Spill it, Cath!”
Catherine groaned, “Jeez, Jen! I didn’t have to get up for another half hour! What are you calling so early for?”
The voice in her ear chirped, “Because I couldn’t wait, that’s why! Uh...unless he’s there with you now, in which case I’ll just scoot!”
The temptation was almost irresistible. Almost. Instead, in a disgusted voice, Catherine muttered, “No, Jen, he’s not with me now. Honestly, what kind of tramp do you think I am? Don’t answer that -- you did ask the question!” She yawned loudly. “Well, since I know I’ll never convince you to get off the phone without some information, I’ll give you the five cent tour of my dinner with Shane Briscoe: he’s an amazing, fascinating man, and I enjoyed myself immensely, and he said he’d call, and he probably will, and now can I go back to sleep?”
“Absolutely not! Give! Details! Is he a good kisser?”
It sounded to Catherine as if Jenny was settling in for a nice, long blow-by-blow account of the previous evening. Considering her options, Catherine thought it might be better to try to go along a bit with Jenny on this subject rather than to continue to discourage her friend from speculating about the other -- the only -- man in her life. She could make a big deal out of the courtly kiss on her hand. Then, if Jen were to take off from there, imagining things, and Catherine didn’t dissuade her.... No, carrying on a charade wouldn’t be fair to her friend, and she didn’t like the idea of lying in any case.
Instead, rubbing her eyes to clear the sleep from them, she replied, “I don’t know, Jen, and really, that would be none of your business! Look, he’s very respectful, very old-world. I think he just enjoyed having someone to talk to. Don’t expect too much from this. Remember, he’s in the middle of a book tour.”
Jenny persisted. “I don’t know, Cath. I’ve got one of my feelings about you two. I don’t think this is over by a long shot. In fact, if I were a betting person....”
“Stop right there, Jen! I don’t think I want to know what you’d bet on! I’ll talk to you later. Goodbye!” Catherine replaced the received rather more forcefully than she usually did, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
* * *
Vincent contemplated the volume in his hands with awe. Finally, in a hushed voice, he expressed his appreciation. “An autographed first edition in pristine condition! Thank you, Catherine. How did you manage it?”
Thrilled that the gift had pleased him, she related the circumstances. “I met Shane Briscoe yesterday, and I mentioned that I had been introduced to his work by a close friend who couldn’t make it to his book-signing. I told him that your copy of his first collection of poems was well- loved...and well-worn. Today when I saw him again, he had this with him. It’s quite rare, he tells me. He asked your name, then inscribed it for you.”
Vincent opened the book to the flyleaf and read:
To Vincent,My gratitude knows no bounds. Until this
moment, I did not know my muse. You have sent
her to me. Be you ever blessed.Shane Briscoe
A shudder broke over Vincent as he read the words of the inscription. Without looking up, he inquired, “Catherine, did you read this?”
She shook her head, her soft brown hair glimmering subtly in the candlelight as it brushed her cheeks. “No. He asked me not to. Why?”
He closed the book. Setting it discreetly on the shelf beside his bed, he gave her a quiet, carefully neutral response. “No reason. Thank you again.”
Sensing sudden, uneasy undercurrents within their Bond, a frown creased her brow. “What’s wrong, Vincent? What did he say?”
He sought to dispel her curiosity with a slight smile and a shake of his head, but he did not make eye contact with her. Instead, he busied himself with pouring tea. “He...thanked me for being the instrument of his meeting you.”
Catherine considered that she might have misread the puzzling signals vibrating through their Bond; she was still trying to plumb the depths of her understanding of that fragile but tenacious filament which connected them so profoundly. Vincent didn’t seem distressed now. Perhaps it was best to go on visual clues when unsure of what the Bond was telling her.
Smiling, she sought to reassure him about the poet. “He’s very respectful and polite, Vincent. He reminds me of you, in fact -- in so many ways. The two of you are much alike.”
Still avoiding her eyes, he commented, “I am glad, then, that you have made another friend.”
Curious about his aloofness, Catherine responded, “Yes, I do believe we’ll become friends, Vincent. At least, I hope so.”
***
The two weeks of scheduled book-signings and talk show appearances in and around New York City passed too swiftly for Shane. The blur of the publicity machine passed him by, as he was almost totally absorbed in another subject -- Catherine Chandler. He drove his publicist crazy as he constantly requested schedule changes to accommodate lunch dates, dinners, or evenings with her.
Shane pinched himself every morning during his New York stay, hoping he would not awaken from the dream he was in, the dream in which Catherine was his constant delight. She was more than he’d ever imagined a woman could be -- beautiful, of course, but also incredibly fascinating. Well-read, well-traveled, comfortable in patched jeans as well as what he always thought of as “major jewelry,” and with the kind of lightning-quick mind that seemed attuned perfectly to his -- he had fallen swiftly and hard for her, unable to help himself. His secret fantasies were now filled with images of her -- this woman who had dropped magically into his life, who brought him such joy, such contentment merely by her presence. He had let all his carefully constructed guards down with her, and now she possessed him totally.
Shane was wretched at the thought of continuing the tour without Catherine beside him. How could he explain to her how important she was to him, how integral to his life she had become, how his desire for her threatened to overwhelm him? His love for her had grown almost too deep for words. But she hadn’t the least clue how he felt, not by any overt word or sign.
He hadn’t been able to trust himself to so much as kiss her. That one brief kiss on the hand the night he’d met her had been virtually the only physical contact he’d allowed between them. He knew that if he let himself lose the rigid control he’d imposed on himself, he might frighten her with the intensity of his feelings. And with everything else that was happening in her life and his right now, the time was not right.
Besides, it wasn’t as though she were throwing herself at him. As restrained as he had been, she hadn’t pushed at all for any physical intimacy. It wasn’t that she never touched him -- occasionally she’d take his arm, or offer her hand for assistance in getting out of a cab. But she did nothing which could be categorized as an invitation for more affectionate contact. Yet she wasn’t repelled by him. It felt more as if she were respecting his space, granting him the decision of when to make the first move in that direction. He thought that when he finally had the courage to offer her more, she would happily accept it. At least, he hoped she would.
Anyway, she was committed to her work, and he couldn’t ask her to put her life on hold to follow him. He couldn’t ask anything of her...yet. But he had time...all the time in the world. And she was worth the wait.