Julia smiled and caught her husband’s hand in hers. “We are experimenting with the grapes. You just tasted our first unfortified red. The Douro has more to offer than port.”
Pedro had known Julia since he was a boy, spending summers in the Douro. In more ways than one, she was the single happy memory he had of his youth. For ten lonely years, he had fought to make her his wife. When Maxwell had stolen her from him, Pedro had cursed fate. Hardly did he know that fate was giving him a present. If it weren't for Maxwell's interference, he might never have met Anne. While Pedro was not proud of his failed attempts to marry Julia, he was grateful for her friendship. She was also the best winemaker in Portugal, and Pedro would support her innovations.
Henrique lifted his glass. “To heirs and safe deliveries.”
Anne’s smile faltered, and she looked at her plate. Her eyes sought him for a second, and then she tried to conceal her reaction by sipping her champagne.
Still, Pedro was attuned to Anne enough to notice the strain on her shoulders and how her smile turned too bright. When you lived in darkness for sufficient time, you learned when the candlelight was flickering. He reached out, but before he could cover her hand with his, she hid it under the table.
A vise gripped his chest. Withholding this from her did to him what a protracted siege did to a tiring, hungry brigade. Pedro couldn’t give her the baby she hoped for, but he could provide her with the holiday she dreamed of.
When dinner ended, he steered her to the drawing room. He had ordered the lights to be dimmed before their arrival. Instead of leading the couples to the seating arrangements, he took the procession to the center of the room. He nodded to the maestro and the first notes of Brahms’ Waltz in A-flat major, Op. 39, No. 15, filled the silence.
Anne gripped his arm, her warmth reaching deep into his chest. “What is happening?”
“A surprise.”
Pedro glanced over at the quartet of musicians he had arranged for the evening. The violinist drew his bow, leading the ensemble, while the pianist’s fingers danced lightly over the keys. The cellist added depth and resonance to the violin and piano.
Footmen, strategically placed, approached the ceiling-high Christmas tree.
Movements rehearsed to perfection, they lit the candles, their choreography matching the ebb and flow of the waltz.
The evergreen came alive from bottom to up, a slow, magnetic movement that resembled dawn. Flames danced upon the glass baubles, making them twinkle like distant stars, and the golden glow forced the shadows into a retreat.
After a collective gasp, the guests clapped their hands, awed by the play of light and shadow.
Throughout, Pedro’s gaze was fixed on Anne. The corners of her mouth lifted into a soft smile, and her eyes sparkled with surprise and wonder. He had orchestrated this moment for her, and seeing her enchantment made every meticulous detail worth it. The room was awash with music and candlelight, but to Pedro, Anne was the true spectacle, radiant in her joy.
Anne kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
He guided her to the couch and sat by her side, and when she leaned closer to him, he massaged her shoulders, and she dissolved into him. Pedro basked in Anne’s presence, enjoying her warmth. His heart beat as one with hers, and his mind quieted, her smell, her smiles, the glowing candles pushing away everything that was not the now.
Pedro leaned back, softly caressing the exposed skin on Anne’s forearm.
The first notes of the Cantique de Noël struck a dissonant chord inside of him. His heart sped up, and his spine stiffened. The memory besieged him.
Not now.
He tried to push the memory back into the recesses of his mind. But it was too intense, too vivid. The music had acted like a key, releasing a floodgate of images.
Pedro was four, back in the Douro. The house was unlit. He waited before the window as the village came to take alms from his father. He stood by the duke’s side way past the midnight mass, his legs tired, his eyes gritty. His father would not allow him to retire. His mother had died. And his father’s chest convulsed with sobs.
Pedro clenched his hands, and, to his horror, his eyes got humid.
When the music ended and the musicians withdrew, Anne stood and lifted his guitar.
“Would you join me?”
Pedro stared at his fingers. They shook. His breathing turned shallow, each inhalation more labored than the last. He couldn’t break. Not here, not now.
Ignore the shadows, focus on the present.
She lowered the instrument, and before she could return to Pedro’s side, Faial rose and took it from her limp hand.
Pedro watched as his wife sang to another man’s tune.
Anne held Pedro’s arm, enraptured by the lights he lit for her. She had fretted about his demeanor for nothing. His turmoil since the night before must be something from work. He wouldn’t take the time to envision all this if he were unhappy. The sight before her was breathtaking. The decorations, the harmonious music, the subtle fragrances from fresh pine and pastries… it was like stepping into a Christmas tale.
