Seventh Wonder (7 page)

John’s eyes held liquid warmth as he leaned forward, fascinated. “What is it right now?”

Meg pressed her lips together. “Um. Rilke, I think? It’s called ‘Lament.’ Have you heard it?”

He shook his head, and she squinted her eyes, summoning the words. Her voice gained strength gradually as she spoke.

“Everything is far

and long gone by.

I think that the star

glittering above me

has been dead for a million years.

I think there were tears

in the car I heard pass

and something terrible was said.

A clock stopped striking in the house

across the road...

When did it start?...

I would like to step out of my heart

and go walking beneath the enormous sky.

I would like to pray.

And surely of all the stars that perished

long ago,

one still exists.

I think I know

which one it is—

which one, at the end of its beam in the sky,

stands like a white city...”

When she finished, John was staring at her, transfixed. His eyes held wonderment, but something else, too - sadness, perhaps? For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Finally he asked, “Why is that your favorite?”

Her right shoulder lifted and fell in a gesture of ambivalence. “I don’t know. There’s just something...hopeful about it. Like we’re confronted with this big, menacing world, filled with so much pain and sorrow, and yet, in the end, it’s sort of impossible to quell the urge to look heavenward anyway.”

His eyes never strayed from her face as he contemplated her words. A moment later, his smile, though slow to form, provided all the affirmation she needed. “You—” He cleared his throat. “You’re just...something.” He dropped his gaze, chuckling a little to himself as he shook his head and rubbed a hand across his mouth.

Meg felt dazed by his reaction. Was that admiration in his voice, or was he making fun of her? She focused on paring away the last of the grapefruit peel, determined not to slip into another introspective stupor. “Do you have a favorite poem?” she asked without looking up, affecting a tone of detached interest.

“You know Yeats?” he asked. “‘Cloths of Heaven’?”

Her lips twitched in a grin, but knowing his eyes were still upon her, she resisted the impulse to look up. “I do.”

“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths...” John’s voice trailed off. “I have trouble remembering the rest of it. I’ve never been good at committing these things to memory.”

Meg broke the grapefruit in half and handed one hemisphere of ripe, pink fruit to John.

“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths,

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor—”

Here John chimed in, his memory refreshed.

“—Have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

He smiled at Meg, and she blushed in return. Turning her head to gaze out at the quiet canyon, she slid a slice of fruit into her mouth and swiped away the juice that spurted from her lips.

“So now that you’ve graduated,” John said after a moment, “what will you do next?”

Meg’s slumped posture bespoke her disappointment at having to relay the truth. “I’m not sure yet,” she replied. “Find a job hopefully - something that will pay me to read all day, if such a thing exists.” She chuckled without humor. “It seems to be the only thing I have any real talent for.” Pursing her lips, she sighed. “Until then, I guess my only option is to go home to my parents’.” Again she bristled at the implications of her statement. She was growing weary of feeling childish.

John’s eyebrows knit together. “Don’t do that.”

She looked up, startled by the rebuke in his voice. “Do what? Go to my parents’?”

He shook his head. “Talk about yourself that way. I may have only met you a few days ago, but I can already tell you’re good at more than reading. You have this...magnetism.” He shook his head. “I’m still trying to figure out what it is exactly. I’d bet everyone you meet falls a little bit in love with you.” He didn’t look as if he was trying to flatter her. Instead, he looked at her as if she were a puzzle he’d yet to solve.

Meg breathed an incredulous laugh. “Hardly—”

She started to protest, but he interrupted her. “Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t so.” His smile was warm but slight. “Trust me on this one, Meg.”

Her jaw slackened as she beheld him in disbelief. She didn’t argue, however. Doing so, she felt, would be futile - at least until he grasped that she wasn’t without flaws, some of which she felt were fairly momentous. It was only a matter of time, after all.

A cool wind fell unexpected from the sky, tossing the pine boughs above them. The susurrant clicking of wax-tipped needles was nearly stamped out by the faint roll of distant thunder. In a matter of seconds, the sky had darkened by several shades, from faded denim to muted pearl-gray, to a mercurial hue that rested, for the moment, between heather and black.

“That was quick,” said John, turning away from Meg in time to glimpse a blaze of lightning as it prized apart the sky. He looked from the cottage to Meg. “We’d better make a run for it - the rain’ll be here any second.”

She scrambled to her feet and scooped up her shoes, then grabbed John’s extended hand. They darted from beneath the trees just as the front swept in and assaulted them with torrents of bone-chilling water. The cottage, not a hundred yards away, suddenly seemed much farther.

Meg’s fingers were tingling and her feet were numb by the time they reached the scant cover of the porch. John flung the door open and pushed her through. He kept one arm bent around her waist to protect her from slipping as she stumbled forward.

When he let her go to check that the door was firmly shut, Meg dropped her sodden shoes and gathered her wet hair in one hand. Her jaw was clenched to keep her teeth from chattering.

“Now that,” said John, spinning around to face her, “was a flash flood.”

Her thoughts were momentarily diverted as he took a step towards her: his cheeks ruddy, his hair in dripping tendrils, his soaked shirt molded to the slabs of muscle that he wore like a suit of animate stone. If the predatory glimmer in his eyes was any indication, her appearance was having a similar effect on him, though she couldn’t fathom why. She was well aware of how she must look: hair matted, face blotchy and red. She offered a sheepish smile anyway as she pulled in a breath that whistled between her teeth.

John wrapped her in his arms, fitting her head beneath his chin. Rather than circle his waist with her arms, she kept them tucked inward for warmth, like folded up bird’s wings pressed between them.

“Meg,” he murmured, like a subtle reproof. “You’re frozen.” He nestled her closer while sliding his big hands up and down her bare arms, and she burrowed against his chest, relaxing into the humid comfort of his body heat. Meanwhile, rain crashed and clattered against the metal sheeting of the roof.

John pulled back, stooping to meet her eyes. “Your lips are blue.” He held the side of her face and smudged his thumb across her bottom lip while fingering the hem of her soaked shirt. “I’ll get you something dry to wear.”

Meg struggled to get a handle on her shivering as he walked away. Her trembling seemed absurd given that, all told, they’d only been in the rain for half a minute. She supposed there was more to it than simply being cold.

“Put this on,” said John, proffering a neatly folded shirt. He was frowning. “I don’t...I haven’t got any pants that will fit you.”

“That’s all right,” she answered quickly. “I can leave my shorts on underneath.”

He didn’t disagree, though he appeared unconvinced.

“Where shall I...?”

He nodded to a door behind her. “There’s the bathroom.” His voice was gruff. “Take a shower, too, if you want - the water is good and hot. There are towels in the cupboard.”

“Thank you,” she replied quietly, wresting the shirt from his fingers.

The bathroom, like the rest of the cottage, was tiny but serviceable: on the left, a pedestal sink and commode; on the right, a clawfoot tub with a white curtain. The tiled floor was covered in a threadbare blue rug, while above the sink hung a mirror flecked with age. A narrow shelf held a safety razor and a shaving brush and bowl, along with a toothbrush and half-squeezed tube of paste.

Meg laid John’s shirt on the sink and peeled off her wet clothes. For a moment she paused, still shivering, examining the reflection of her naked torso in the mirror. It was strangely invigorating, being nude, knowing he continued to move about just beyond the flimsy barrier of the door.

She bent over the tub and twisted one of the knobs, then waited as water gushed from the spigot. A moment later, a thin veil of steam obfuscated the mirror and breathed warmth into the confined space. Meg stepped into the tub and tugged the curtain closed, then switched the lever to redirect water through the showerhead.

She rinsed off quickly despite how wonderful it felt, using a little of John’s pine scented soap and a small amount of his shampoo. After toweling off, she lifted the soft flannel shirt he’d given her. She slid her arms through the too-long sleeves and shoved them up to her elbows, then buttoned the front. The shirt fit her like a dress, falling just above her knees. She stepped back into her underwear but was loath to don her sodden shorts, which were sure to cause chafing.

For a long moment, she gripped the sides of the sink basin, her eyes cast downward. What would John think, she wondered, if she walked out of this room wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of panties? Granted, the shirt was long enough that even if she slipped the shorts back on, they’d be invisible underneath...

Meg lifted her gaze to inspect her reflection. Her eyes were half-lidded, drugged from the heat, and her cheeks were florid (whether from the steam or her salacious thoughts she couldn’t be sure). The ends of her hair dripped rapidly cooling water, forming damp spots on her chest.

Just be confident, she told herself. Hold your head high, as if nothing is amiss. Fleetingly she thought of Faye, who would likely think nothing of strutting about perfectly naked.

She snapped her shirt and shorts off the ground and bundled them in a tight rectangle, then threw open the door before she could think further on the subject.

A turntable on the dresser spun Coltrane, languid and smooth. The rain had tapered off to a drizzle that tapped its fingers against the back window. John, meanwhile, stood with his back to her, presiding over the tiny stove. He was freshly dressed in a dry change of clothes, but his damp hair was rumpled, and his feet were bare. It was the least kept Meg had seen him - the effect was quite becoming.

He turned slowly and seemed to do a double take when he saw her. Meg drew in a deep breath. “I feel much better,” she said, dropping her wet clothes on the ground next to her shoulder bag. “Thank you.”

John’s eyes flashed. For a moment she wondered whether he’d been struck mute. Finally, with a curt nod, he cleared this throat and turned back to the stove. “I’m heating water. I know you don’t care for coffee, but I have some loose tea.” He turned back to her and stared resolutely at her face as he brandished a metal canister.

Meg skirted around the table. Rather than taking the canister from him, she curled her hands around his and brought it to her face. Her eyelids fluttered shut as she inhaled the floral fragrance of the tea. When she reopened her eyes a moment later, John stood stock-still before her, his eyes bright and his jaw tense as he watched her face.

“Smells fabulous,” Meg said, releasing his hands and the canister. She smiled complacently before turning away, wondering where on earth she’d mustered this sense of aplomb. She felt his gaze on her as she moved away from him, and she imagined his eyes roaming from the loose draping of his shirt over her feminine curves, to the bare backs of her legs. The thought was a heartening one: it further fueled her newfound courage.

Meg was careful to keep her legs together as she took a seat at the table. She smoothed the shirt as far as she could across her lap and batted her hair behind her ears. John transferred the kettle and two mugs to the table before positioning himself across from her. For a moment, the only sounds were the clinking of silverware and swirling of water as Meg scooped tea into a strainer and John stirred milk and a liberal teaspoonful of instant coffee in his cup. They tasted their drinks in silence.

“You’re doing it again,” Meg observed a minute later.

His eyes creased with implicit knowing, the barest trace of a grin. “Doing what?” He took a sip of his coffee but kept his gaze fixed on her over the rim.

“Looking at me...like that.”

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

She wrapped both hands around her mug and grinned covertly into her tea. “No,” she replied softly. “I don’t mind it.”

“Good,” said John. He sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Because I plan on doing it a lot.” His tone was no different than it would have been if he’d just announced his intention of reading the newspaper or checking the mail. No-nonsense. Matter-of-fact. Meg pursed her lips to one side in an effort to conceal her smile.

She drew her legs up to rest her heels at the chair’s edge, tugging on John’s shirt to cover her knees. “What are these?” she asked, nodding to a stack of oblong, rectangular cartons perched atop another of his sketchbooks.

He picked the topmost box and slid off its lid. “Photographs,” he replied, tipping the box to show her the row of 35 millimeter slides. “I used to draw from memory, but I found I was missing important details, like the angle of the sun or the shapes of certain shadows. These help me remember.”

“Do you mind?” asked Meg, pointing as she reached for the box.

“Not at all.” He slid the box across the table, then crossed the room to fetch a handheld viewer from the writing desk by the window.