― Faye Hall
My flirtation with Sylvia has been discovered and Victor Has suitably admonished me.
Tess has fled to god knows where and probably will never talk to me again. I wouldn't blame her.
I feel a total villain, as well I should. I had a treasure and I let her go—I'll never find her equal and probably live and die alone.
But, driven by guilt, I still have to go looking for her and try to make amends.
I find her sitting alone on a deck chair staring up at stars.
It’s absurd. I’ve never made any commitment—never even kissed her—but there’s always been an unspoken bond between us—definitely on her part, though I was at best unfaithfully hers.
The music from the house drifts out into the yard, but no moonlight sleeps upon this bank.
My heart feels blackened with guilt, typical for a man fit only for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.
I’m almost afraid to speak, to break the stillness.
“I‘m sorry, Tess.”
She nods in acknowledgment, but her chin is quivering.
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Gray,” she whispers.
“I do,” I say bleakly.
“Why?”
“Because you deserve the best.”
A shadow falls between us.
She turns her gaze away from me, but her shoulders are heaving and I can see she's stifling tears.
I begin again trying to sum up in words the thousand times I felt touches and was drawn to her particular beauty.
“Look, I admit it, so many nights I lay awake awake and dreamt of kissing Sylvia —but something happened to me one day last year—when we were leaving for Christmas vacation. You came over and wished me a merry Christmas—and put your arms around me.”
She looks up at me curiously, eyes glistening.
“It changed me somehow. I don’t know how to say it, but you give the best hugs, Tess.”
Her face is still tilted upward. She shuts her eyes. And a tear now trills down her cheek. I feel helpless and weak.
“I’ve hurt you,” I say, cupping her face and gently using my thumb to smudge away a tear.
“No—it’s me, not you,” she protests. “It’s silly, but I'm sentimental—I always feel sad when I hear sweet music.”
The orchestra is playing a Thirties oldie, a Rodgers and Hart tune and the melody fills the void between us. On impulse, I kneel down and whisper in her ear.
Isn't it romantic, on a moonlight night
She'll cook me onion soup...
I know, the lyrics are lame, but I'm desperate to lighten the mood...and unbelievably, it works.
She's smiling and weeping at the same time and looks breathtakingly beautiful.
I continue my 'serenade'...
Kiddies are romantic and if we don't fight
We're sure to have a troop.
She grabs my hand, squeezes it and begins to laugh.
We'll help the population,
It's a duty we should owe
To dear old friends…
Isn't it romantic?
Six months later, we find ourselves back at Victor’s Muskoka retreat, not for a party, but a wedding.
Sylvia is Tess’s Maid of Honor with Victor grudgingly agreeing to give Tess away.
“You don’t deserve her—you lucky bastard,” he whispers in my ear.
He's right—he's always been right about Tess and now I see it too.
Tom Barron’s my best man—appropriate, since he’s my only real friend.
Tess and I dance to our special song while I sing again in her ear:
Isn't it romantic, music in the night
A dream that can be heard,
Isn't it romantic, moving shadows write
The oldest magic word.
Her face is beatific this time, still a mixture of sun and rain, but happier than either of us has ever been.
I hear the breezes playing
In the trees above,
While all the world is saying
You were meant for love
By the side of the dance floor, I see Victor, moody and staring into his scotch. Is he scrying a future with Sylvia, holding up the glass and its murky contents to the light?
Is he still jaded?
I want to take him aside and tell him…
It is romantic, Victor…silly, pointless and totally impractical, but at the same time, deeply fulfilling.
With age comes wisdom, it's true, but also through suffering...
And Tess and I have paid our dues.