Kaleidoscope ~ The Circle
Cynthia HatchPart I
“He's been talking since five o'clock this morning. Seems he got crosswise with the Brownsville boys and decided to take his chances inside. I'm sorry about your little weekend in the country, Cath, but a bird-in-the-hand, you know?”
“It's okay. Joe, really. I'm sure I can find something to keep me busy.”
“Well, if you get lonesome, if your social calendar's screwed up or something, give me a ring. I can probably rustle up an extra pair of bowling shoes.”
“I'll keep it in mind. Thanks for letting me know, Joe.”
Catherine hung up the phone and flopped down on the bed with a sense of freedom she hadn't known In weeks. The bird in the bush had been a wild goose at best, a possible witness rumored to be holed up near New Haven. Even if she'd found him, it was doubtful that he knew much that would help their case, assuming he was willing to cooperate at all. In any event she'd have been out of the city most of the weekend. Now suddenly two full days had been given to her out of the blue; no paperwork, no guilt over files left unread. Could she find something to do? Her heart began to race in answer.
She jumped up and hurriedly put away the contents of her overnight bag. It was still not quite nine, but sunlight was streaming into the apartment like a benevolent omen of things to come. She flung open the terrace doors to the Saturday morning sounds and the summer freshness that hung over the city, still unsullied by the fumes that would soon rise from the traffic below. A breeze lifted her hair, as she moved to look out towards the expanse of green that lay like an oasis in the hot, dry canyons of the streets. Even now children would be pouring into its cool shadows and sunny fields: poor children from the dark, cramped corners where nothing ever grew; children of privilege, trailing bright balloons and anxious nannies, and below them, like mirror images, those other unseen children would be playing, pale and sturdy, safe in their secret world. She smiled at the thought and at where it led: he would be moving among them, quietly, gently, a miraculous figure whose aura of restrained power would draw them to him, even as he wore it so lightly that they would simply think of him as their friend.
"Vincent," she breathed aloud, loving the sound of his name, the feel of it on her lips. Would he sense she was coming?
They had said good-bye two nights ago on this very spot. Lately, these separations, however brief, had become harder to bear for both of them. She knew he worried when physical distance prevented the possibility of his reaching her Ii she needed him, but it was more than that. Often days would pass when they didn't see each other, but she knew he was nearby. She carried the knowledge like a talisman to soothe her when the work got nasty or, more often, simply frustrating. She knew he took comfort in the same knowledge - that she was somewhere just above, safe, because he would feel it If she weren't. But going away, even as far as New Haven, made her feel anxious and scattered, as if part of herself was slipping away. That he felt it too, she had no doubt. It was there in the way he held her when they said good-bye and in the way he reached out to her when she returned. They would cling to each other like survivors of some perilous voyage. Only then would she feel that she had truly come home, not to the city or to her apartment, but to him, to herself, to what they were together, which was so much more than either of them could understand.
It had been warm Thursday night. The noise of the city seemed magnified by the waves of heat that rose from the pavement far below. She had sensed that he was there, even before she moved out onto the terrace, but she didn't turn around. She savored this moment when something that seemed too wonderful to be true, that must surely be a fantasy, would suddenly materialize out of the shadows behind her, warm and solid and more real than anything else she had ever known.
She walked to the edge of the balcony without looking back, knowing what would inevitably follow. Every nerve in her body was tuned in anticipation of what she longed to hear, and she heard it now, a single word that resonated through the darkness, caressed by that voice that seemed to flow through every inch of her to her heart.
“Catherine”
She turned, smiling, as he stepped out of the darkness. His cloak was thrown back, his hair sparking gold in the moonlight.
“Vincent.” She moved into his embrace, struck anew by the strange combination of excitement and utter peace she found there. She delighted in the rough contours of his vest against her cheek, the hard strength of him surrounding her, yet cradling her with infinite gentleness. The city sounds retreated. Neither of them spoke. She was aware of his heart beneath her ear, his soft breath on her face. A strand of silky hair lay under her hand, and she dared to stroke it, cautiously twirling it around her fingers. She longed to do more, to reach up and run her hands through the whole tumbled mass of it, to trace the curves and hollows of that remarkable face, the sweeping brows, the downy fur of the nose, the smooth expanse of cheekbone, and the roughness of his chin. She would map the intriguing pattern of his upper lip, letting her fingers linger on the lower one....
Suddenly, she was aware of the dangerous territory into which her thoughts had taken her, the feelings within that were rising so insistently. With a swiftness born of self-preservation and a great deal of practice, she focused on their approaching separation, hoping that he would interpret her agitation as anxiety. She pulled back to look at him, and his clear, blue
gaze anchored her, held her in that dimension where nothing mattered but the miraculous bond between them.“You're worried, Catherine. What is it?”
“I have to go away for a couple of days,” she sighed. “We probably won't be able to see each other till Monday night.” He didn't speak. His mild gaze didn't alter, but she knew he was feeling the same disquieting sensation of coming apart that troubled her. She could almost feel the familiar battle he fought between fear for her safety and respect for the choices she made that so often involved a risk. “It isn't dangerous, Vincent. Honestly. I have to drive up to Connecticut and try to find a man who might have information about a case. He's a peripheral player; I'm not a threat to him. It's strictly routine, but the only time we can meet with Moreno is tomorrow night and I know we'll be at it till all hours. Then I'll leave Saturday morning and probably won't be back till Sunday night.” She could see that outwardly at any rate he had won the battle against urging her not to go.
"Take great care, Catherine,” he said simply, and she knew what it cost him.
“I will.”
“You have more work to do tonight.” He was looking at the chaos of files and transcripts that covered the desk just inside the terrace doors.
“I know, but don't go yet. Please. Just hold me a little longer.”
He gathered her to him again, and she held him close, dreading the moment when he would be gone. Opening her eyes, she looked past his shoulder to where the summer breeze lifted the curtains through the open doorway, revealing the bed beyond. Suddenly, she was hit by an image so intense that she tightened her arms around him for support, forcing her mind to seize on their parting, “I'll miss you,” she said fiercely, burying her face in the warmth of his neck.
“I'll be with you, Catherine - every moment. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow, and I promised Mouse I would help him with a project.”
“At this time of night?”
“Time is not a concept that Mouse suffers gladly. He doesn't quite believe in it.”
“Sometimes I don't either,” she murmured.
“But this is a secret project as well, something that cannot be done when the others are around.”
“I think Mouse thrives on surprising people.”
“Perhaps, or perhaps he's learned the wisdom of keeping Father uninformed until it's too late.”
She laughed softly. She could picture Father's exasperation at yet another of Mouse's fantastic schemes. Yes, far better to leave him blissfully ignorant until the project had either failed or succeeded, leaving the tunnel people to marvel at such genius.
She loved the gentle irony in Vincent's tone. It was the closest he ever came to criticism. Never had she known anyone so accepting of other people's foibles, so non-judgmental. There was only one person upon whom he was willing to direct a harsh and exacting censure, and that was himself. That's the true irony, she thought, that the best person I've ever known should be so self-critical. If only she could make him see, get him to accept and love every part of himself. It was so easy for her, so difficult for him. Maybe then other worlds would open to them: all the limits would melt away beneath the passion released between them.
He had left her shortly after that, and now in the morning sun she shivered at the memory of how close she'd come to revealing feelings that he wasn't ready to accept. Recently, it had become harder and harder to repress those feelings, but powerful as they were, she had to keep them under control. She'd sensed that early on in their relationship in his own reluctance to touch her in any way that could not be construed as platonic. She had learned to gauge her own emotions to his, but he had had long years of practice at a self-control that others would find impossible. She tried desperately to match it, knowing that if she indulged herself, made the first move, he might flee back into her imagination.
Worse, if he thought she was suffering from a physical need, he was quite capable of sending her, off to the arms of another man. Not that she'd go, but nothing could move him from the path of what he thought was right, and if he once decided that her happiness depended on a normal, intimate relationship, he might withdraw from her completely. Nothing was worth that, risk. What they shared was already so all-encompassing, so much more than she had ever dreamed possible, an exquisite blending of hearts and minds, that she felt almost selfish wanting more. Still, deep down she felt the rightness of it, the natural desire to complete their oneness on every level, and in fairness to herself, her own need was no greater than the longing to give him all the love he deserved, to be the source of the ecstasy he'd never known.
In the past year she had become more aware of the motives behind his resolve. She didn't necessarily agree with them. Nothing could convince her that he was capable of hurting her, no matter what dark instincts churned beneath the surface, but his self-doubts were very real to him. She had to respect that, knowing the epic struggle required to keep his dual nature in balance. She had long ago decided not to push the issue by letting him feel her desire. She would wait for some sign from him, some signal that he'd come to terms with the conflicts inside him.
There had been a night, not so long ago, when for one heart-stopping moment, such a signal had flared briefly between them. She reached out to touch a pure white rose, just budding beside a brilliant red one. It had all started with this little rosebush. She had pricked her finger and reflexively, naturally Vincent had bent to kiss the blood from her hand. As his lips touched the wounded finger, the sensuality of the act had hit her like a lightning bolt. When he looked up, she could see her reaction mirrored in his eyes. He seemed galvanized by the same primal force that was electrifying every fiber in her body. His eyes caressed her face in a way he seldom allowed, and then he had regained control, started to turn away, but she would not let the vulnerable moment pass. She had grabbed his face, turning him towards her, forcing him to see the truth in her eyes; and then, as all too often happened, life had interfered, the complicated life she seemed destined to live, not the simple one she yearned towards. With some difficulty they had both struggled for composure, and by the time they were alone again so much had happened, that all the barriers were once again safely in place, and she could do nothing but wait and hope.
She shook herself from a reverie that could only weaken her resolve to be patient. No sense in wasting a moment in dreams of what could be, when so much waited for her now.