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“Will you be okay on your own?” Stefan asked before he left to collect his father.
I pecked his cheek. “Sure.”
“Have a swim.”
“Mmm, maybe.” I pictured me alone in the pool and naked. An unusual way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
I watched from the front door as Stefan reversed the car out of the garage. He waved through the windshield and I gave him one back, then he was gone.
With little else to do, the pool house became my destination. Armed with a towel, a book I’d found—an English translation of Grimm’s Fairy Tales—I traipsed across the lawn into the annex. The warm air hit me, almost tropical in intensity. The combination of blue skies and an efficient heating system had transformed the space into a mini paradise.
I stripped off, peering over my shoulder as if a secret audience lurked in the corners, then I slid into the pool. My skin prickled with goosebumps, an initial reaction to the tepid water, which quickly dissipated once I began my lengths of breaststroke.
My confidence grew and I held my breath before dipping my head in the water. I managed several strokes before coming up for air. My eyes stung and my hair curled around my face. Otherwise, I was pleased with my progress. When my arms ached, I climbed out and quickly wrapped a towel about my body, hiding my nudity from imaginary spectators.
I lounged on a sunbed reading my chosen book. I selected a few familiar tales to start, then some lesser ones I’d never heard of, including The Strange Musician. A story about a musician who, when walking through the woods, attracted the attention of various animals—a wolf, a fox and a hare—whom he ensnared with trickery. Continuing on his way, the musician met a woodcutter. When the animals escaped and came for revenge, the woodcutter used his axe to scare them away and the musician wrote him a song in gratitude.
I pictured Stefan as the musician trapping the animals, playing tricks on them. He had captured me earlier in the boathouse. I could have run out, but I didn’t. Or was it the other way around? Had I ensnared him, my fox? An enchantress, who held his heart hostage? Were we both guilty of trickery, hiding our true natures and desires to ensure that we stayed together? My desire for a meaningful relationship and his craving for control and sexual excitement—would those traits sustain us?
Who would be our woodcutter? The person to scare away the doubts and fears, because I truly liked the idea of the song at the end, written in gratitude. I wanted that commitment from him, and the companionship.
I closed the book, scowling at my ability to take a simple fairy tale and weave my own life into it. I suspected that Stefan’s approach to things was more pragmatic and less analytical.
Sleep crept over me as I basked in the waning light of the afternoon until I woke with a jerk. The spring sun was close to touching the horizon and the pool house had gone dim. I shivered and quickly dressed, collected my things and left the rather delightful swimming pool to its solitary state. Such a shame it was rarely used.
Returning to the house, I entered the darkening kitchen. Still no sign of Stefan or his father. I changed into the only decent set of clothes I’d brought with me—a dress with a gypsy-style skirt. I wanted to look smart for Stefan’s father. As I combed out the knots in my hair, my mobile bleeped from the bedside table. I dashed over, wondering if it was Stefan. It wasn’t. It was my mother.
I perched on the bed, my finger hovering over the screen. The temptation to ignore it was strong. I told myself I was being silly. She couldn’t demand that I return. The message turned out to be a lengthy description of my nephew’s latest exploits. At the end, she had added a sentence, almost like an afterthought.
I assume you’ll be back on Monday. We can chat then and you can tell me all about him.
I flopped back on the bed, stared up at the ceiling, and thumped a hand on the mattress. Why did she make me feel like a delinquent sixteen-year-old who hid naughty secrets from Mummy? I decided to dismiss the impending inquisition from my thoughts and not let it spoil my remaining time with Stefan. Whatever guesswork my mother was formulating, no doubt with my conniving sister, at least she
’d kept it to herself—for the time being, at least.
I sprang off the bed and went in search of some form of occupation. One room beckoned to me.
In the music room, spread about the grand piano, I found manuscript paper. On each sheet were scrawled a few notes. I assumed it to be Stefan’s handiwork. I couldn’t see a clef or determine for what instrument he’d written the piece. He’d penned a few themes, scribbled out others and added words in German. Something for his father, perhaps.
A car pulled up outside the house and I went to open the front door.
Stefan held the passenger door as his father slowly rose out of the car. A tall figure, like his son, but slightly hunched. His gray hair had thinned to the point where he had a pronounced bald patch on top. He shrugged away Stefan’s helping hand and walked into his house unaided.
“Callie, a pleasure to meet you.” He shook my hand with a strength I’d not expected. “Please call me Franz.”
The lack of formality came as a relief. “Welcome home.” I stood to one side and watched as he looked about the hallway, as if to check that everything was correct.
Stefan came in carrying a suitcase. “I’ll put this in your bedroom, Papi.”
Franz nodded and headed into the kitchen. I followed, trying to avoid the sensation that I was a useless appendage. He opened a cupboard door and his hand trembled as he reached in for a glass. I stepped in with a smile and took it from him, filling it with water.
“Thank you,” he said. “You must excuse me. It has been many years since I spoke English.”
“It is very good English,” I complimented.
He perched on a stool and I sat opposite. I saw Stefan in him—the same cheekbones and bright eyes—although his appearance was a little more gaunt and paler than his son’s. He sipped on his drink, his lips visibly dry. He’d cut himself shaving, a tiny scab on his chin. The man was clearly unwell and had much healing to do.
Stefan bounded into the room and immediately took charge. He rustled up one of his father’s soups from the freezer, defrosted it in the microwave, and heated it in a pan. I made a pretense of helping him, but he shooed me back to my seat. Franz tried to engage me in conversation using his hesitant English. I told him about my job in the florist. He smiled without enthusiasm and relied on Stefan to translate from time to time. The subject of my parents arose and he sympathetically consoled me for my father’s demise. When I spoke of my clarinet, his face lit up and he asked about my favorite pieces. He was far better informed about classical music than I’d imagined, since I’d assumed Stefan’s mother had been the sole source of her son’s talents.
