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Cymbeline
That November evening in 1925 the wind brought the scent of change. I stood on the porch of my family’s home and drew in the smell of woodsmoke and dirt under the layer of newly fallen leaves, but there was something else too. Something unfamiliar. A fragrance I couldn’t quite place. One that brought the promise of redemption and transformation. I shivered and drew my coat closer around my slim waist.
Something was coming. What, though? Adventure? Or simply a storm? One which my family would yet again have to weather?
An autumnal setting sun cast an orange gossamer light over the yard. Only a few days ago, the first frost had turned the leaves on the aspens and birches into blazing reds and yellows. Then a howling wind had shaken many of them loose from their beloved branches. They now covered the ground in a patchwork quilt.
This morning when I’d first gone to look out the window of my bedroom, a frost had dulled their dramatic colors. Not for long, however. Like me, their flame couldn’t be muted. They’d returned to their vibrant hues to compete with the azure sky.
The sound of a motorcar coming down our driveway drew my attention. My twin brothers and my eldest sister, Josephine, were already inside for Sunday dinner. Did we have a visitor? Strange for a Sunday. Most stayed home with their families.
Squinting into the last of the sun, I waited to see who appeared. I didn’t recognize the gleaming black car. But the driver? Him, I knew.
Viktor Olofsson. My nemesis. My competitor. My secret longing.
The man who made my stomach flutter like a silly girl. The object of my admiration.
I hated him.
But I loved him too. How this was possible, I did not know.
His car came to a stop near the horse meadow. What was he doing here? Had one of my interfering sisters invited him to Sunday dinner? My entire family was convinced Viktor was the answer to my restlessness. They should have known I wasn’t made that way. Instead, I was an eagle without wings. No man could give me wings. I could only grow them myself.
Recently, I’d discovered I could fly. Not with wings, but with skis attached to my boots that took me soaring off the side of our mountain. After my brothers had built the ski jump for their own amusement, I’d insisted on trying it as well. I’d fallen in love almost immediately. With my strength and lightweight physique, I was able to go longer and farther than even Flynn. Ski jumping had become as much of an obsession and passion as ice-skating and skiing had been. Now I wanted only to fly as long and as far as humanly possible. Farther than the boys who had competed in the Winter Games in France. Faster and higher and longer than any of them. I’d liked to have said I wouldn’t care if anyone knew, but that would be a lie. I may be overly competitive by nature, but a liar I was not.
Viktor unfolded from the car like the jack-in-the-box game we had played with as children. He patted the top of his car with the palms of his large hands and grinned at me. “Good evening, fair Cymbeline.”
I rolled my eyes but went out to greet him just the same, crossing the driveway in my long, purposeful strides. My sister Josephine had once told me I walked as if I were trying to escape the devil. I’d retorted that I wasn’t trying to escape him, simply outrun him.
“Hello, Viktor.” I wanted to smack myself for the way my stomach fluttered at the sight of him. Viktor Olofsson was as beautiful a creature as had ever graced the earth, tall and wide-shouldered, with hair the color of sunshine and a smile that weakened knees all over town. Wickedly smart too, which galled me almost as much as his athletic abilities. No matter what I did, I couldn’t beat him on the ice or in the classroom. Obviously, I was not immune to his charms. No one with a pulse would be. Unfortunately. “What brings you by?”
“Flynn invited me at church this morning. Said he had something big to announce at dinner that I’d be interested in.”
“Really?” Whatever could that be? Why would he want Viktor to know about it?
“I’m curious as a cat, so I couldn’t resist coming by.” The squared nature of his shoulders and his long graceful neck made it seem as if he were trying to touch the hand of God with his superbly shaped head.
Here I was, running from the devil, whereas he seemed to be reaching for God.
“What are you doing out here in the cold? Waiting for me?” Those darned eyes of his, the color of the creek on a late-summer afternoon, twinkled at me.
“Hardly,” I said. “I didn’t even know you were coming by, so how could I be waiting?”
“But you’re delighted to see me?” His dark jacket and trousers draped perfectly over his slender hips and long legs. Viktor’s father was Emerson Pass’s one and only tailor. A talented one, given how good Viktor looked in that stupid suit, I thought. He’d always been clean and tidy with impeccable manners. His mother was a fine lady and made sure her boys were honorable and heroic. Isak Olofsson, along with my brothers, had fought valiantly in the Great War. Now he owned the bakery and spent his days making delicious things to eat instead of carrying a gun.
“You may choose to wish it so,” I said.
“Then I will.” He rose slightly on the balls of his feet, a movement I’d often seen from him. I wasn’t sure why or what it conveyed of his inner thoughts, but I liked it anyway. There was something so enthusiastic about him. One couldn’t help but feel the world was as sunshiny as his hair in those moments. His shoes shone so brightly I almost expected to see my reflection in the tips.
“You’re always welcome here. As Mama’s former student, I mean. Not as my guest.”
“Right, of course.” He smirked, as if I were lying to him. Was I? Could I admit to myself how cheered I was to see him?
“Where did you get this old thing?” I brushed the top of the car with the tip of my index finger, just as Jasper did to check if the maids had properly dusted.
“I bought her today. Right off the floor of the shop.”
“Can you afford this?” I pressed my gloved fingers to my mouth. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”
He brushed aside my apology with a quick and forgiving smile. “You may ask me anything you wish.”
“Not about money,” I said. “That’s not anything to speak of with anyone but your family.”
A muscle near his mouth twitched, as if he wanted to contradict me, but instead he said, “I’m a successful banker now. Not the schoolboy you were always trying to beat on the ice.”
“Yes, well, I’m happy for you.”
“Isn’t she a beauty?”
“The car?” I asked.
“Yes, the car. You’ve made it clear you wish me to remain silent on the subject of your beauty, so I have turned my affections to this shining piece of metal.” He draped his arms over the top of the car. His limbs were so long that I had only to stretch a few inches to cover his hands with my own. I didn’t, of course.
“I have to admit, she is.”
“You can drive her sometime if you’d like,” Viktor said.
“I have my own car.”
