The Butterfly Code (25 page)

T
he dim hands
of dusk press down upon the earth while flares of manmade light struggle to keep darkness at bay. Cars rush through the twilight gloom. Fast-food signs promise temporary solace. Most people appear homeward-bound, to the safety of locked doors and blaring televisions. Driving alongside them, I feel as if I’ve been cast out and may never find my way home.

An approaching sign reads
Welcome To New Haven
. More signs point to Yale University and various landmarks. Parallel to the highway, a freight train approaches, whizzing and clacking.

"This is our turnoff," Hunter says, taking an exit that curves over the tracks.

The railway cars continue on below us, a giant, segmented, high-speed snake, so long I can’t see its tail.

Then we’re winding through a residential neighborhood. Houses grow larger and grander the deeper we go. Lawns spread themselves wider, homes farther apart.

"What’s your relative’s name?" I ask, realizing he hasn’t said if it’s a man or a woman.

"Charlie. Charlie Quinn."

"What does he do?" I ask, surveying the lavish mansions.

"Art dealer. And collector. A successful one."

"Looks like it," I say as we pull into a wide driveway.

"Does he know about you? Me?"

"Yes."

The central focus of the front lawn is a fountain lit with twinkly lights. In the middle stands a sculpture of Venus from Botticelli’s
The Birth of Venus
, one hand covering her naked breasts, the other barely covering her thighs with her long, flowing hair. Hunter cuts the engine, and the sound of dancing water fills the humid night.

"He should be expecting us," Hunter says.

At that moment, the front door opens and a man steps out. In the porch light, I catch sight of his face and a shock of washed-out reddish hair, and guess him to be in his late-sixties. He has an upturned nose and a wide mouth, and as he approaches, his lean face wrinkles into a broad smile. With his rangy arms and legs, I’m reminded of a life-size marionette I once saw in a theater.

"Hunter!" he cries. "And who’s this beauty you’ve brought me?"

"Charlie," Hunter warns.

"What’s this? Do I hear a note of jealousy? Don’t tell me you’ve found love at last."

"What I’ve found is your driveway, and I was hoping you’d let us in."

Charlie looks amused. "No, you can’t come in. You still haven’t introduced me."

"I’m Aeris," I say, stepping forward.

"There you go, very civilized." He offers me his hand. It’s warm and bony. His eyes crinkle, and he says, "I’m Charlie. You’ll have to excuse my cousin’s churlish manners."

"You’re cousins?"

"Yes," they say in unison.

I’m slightly surprised, given their age difference.

"As you can see," Charlie adds, "I’m the more attractive one. No bags? Well, come inside. No point donating blood to a bunch of thirsty mosquitoes." He heads back toward his front door.

"I just have one thing." I go to the car for my satchel and lift it from the foot well. It’s grown a lot lighter now that the pill supplies are dwindling.

"I’ll get that." Hunter drapes it over one shoulder. "Charlie can be a bit much, but he really is a good friend."

"He seems nice. I like him."

"Good," Hunter replies, sounding relieved.

"What are you two whispering about?" Charlie calls. "Better be about me."

"It is," Hunter tells him, and laughs. Then he opens the back door and grabs a black duffel. "Clothes for you and me. Speaking of which, we’ll have to get you something else for your interview."

"You don’t think these will do?" I say, and make a little twirl on the lawn, holding out his shirt.

"Oh, they do just fine for me."

T
he front hall
is surprisingly narrow given the expansiveness outside. A suit of armor stands guard in a niche at the foot of a steep set of stairs. Oil paintings ascend upward, disappearing out of view. A small table near the door holds a brass bowl with a ring of keys. Next to it is a statuette of a water nymph.

Charlie is already halfway down the hall. "Come to the kitchen. I’ll pour you a drink; you must be thirsty."

"Don’t suppose you’ve got anything edible?" Hunter asks.

"You’re in luck. There’s beef bourguignon bubbling on the stove and a couple of frozen baguettes waiting to be thrown into the oven."

"I was wondering what smelled so delicious," I say.

Charlie glances at Hunter. "I see you haven’t exactly been forthcoming with my accomplishments."

Hunter’s mouth tips up in a grin. "No need to swell your head. You do a much better job of it than me."

"Well put, well put. What he’s trying to say is that I dabble in gourmet cooking, and I’m damn good at it."

The corridor gives way to a spacious, well-equipped kitchen. Gleaming pots hang from a rack on the ceiling. The gas stove is huge with six burners, and the stainless-steel fridge is enormous. I don’t know how he stays so thin with a fridge so large. He practically scampers to the stove, his bony arms working as he lifts the lid from a pot and gives it a stir.

I pad across the rustic tile floor to the counter. Even in here there’s art. Pottery urns that appear to be Greek or Roman line the tops of the cabinets.

Charlie gestures at my baggy outfit. "Tell me about this. Is it all the rage? I’ll never understand modern fashion."

I let out a laugh. "No! These are Hunter’s. I didn’t have anything else."

"Oh my. Were you naked and shoeless when he found you?"

Hunter clears his throat. "Where are those baguettes you were talking about?"

"All right, all right, I’ve got them." Charlie digs in the freezer and pulls out two long loaves.

"I can unwrap those for you," I say.

"Excellent. Drinks, that’s what I was going to get."

The clink of ice into three tumblers is followed by the fizz of sparkling San Pellegrino.

"I’m sure I’ve got a few limes in here somewhere."

As he digs around, I feel Hunter’s eyes on me, and when I turn to look at him, he smiles. His smile sends a warm glow all the way to my toes. In this enclosed space, Hunter looks huge and muscular, his windblown black hair tumbling over his forehead.

Charlie says, "We’ll eat at the kitchen table if you don’t mind. The dining room is temporarily housing a collection of Etruscan artifacts."

It’s amazing how easily we chat away. Hunter and Charlie are clearly the oldest of friends, and without the least bit of effort, they make me fit right in. I notice, however, that Charlie is careful to avoid the topic of what we’re doing here and Hunter avoids mentioning it.

Despite our troubles, Hunter almost seems content.

For a while, the two of them talk while I listen. As they do, I think back to Charlie’s earlier teasing—
Don’t tell me you’ve found love at last.
It was just a silly jest, of course.

Charlie’s looking at me expectantly, and I realize he’s said something I didn’t hear.

"What’s that?" I ask.

"I thought you might be interested in seeing my antique piano. I understand you play."

He has a piano? Trepidation trickles down my spine, my arms, all the way to my fingers. To sit at the keys would be wonderful. But this isn’t like when I had my casts on. Then I could push aside my worries. Now my hands are free and this is the real test. Can I still play? Will the accident have changed me? My hands? Or is it my old fear?

"I’d like to see it," I say, tamping down my emotions.

Charlie brews up some espresso, and I load plates into the dishwasher. We carry our espresso into the living room. There it is. An upright piano carved all over with sinuous leaves and vines, flowering ribbons, and birds darting here and there among them. It’s not from this century, maybe not even from the last. It’s known players’ hands for longer than I’ve existed. Had it come from a private home or a grand theater? Maybe it livened up some western saloon with girls in satin dresses and crowds of brawling drunk men.

I touch a carved swallow. "It’s beautiful."

"1862, rosewood with ivory keys."

"Is it tuned?"

"It is."

"You play, then?"

"Oh no. Not at all. Have a go. Let’s get a professional opinion on whether this thing is worth all the fuss made over it."

I slide onto the seat and run my fingers across the keys. I pick out a few notes, and the instrument whispers to life. It speaks to me, telling me I haven’t lost it. I shut my eyes in relief, running one scale and then another. It responds under my hands as if it’s been waiting for a person to find it and revive it.

"More!" Charlie cries from the settee. "A song!"

I’d forgotten my audience. I glance at him, and my nerves flutter back.

"‘Sweet Chariot,’" Charlie says.

"I’ll play it. But only if you two sing with me."

"Me?" Hunter barks out a laugh. "Not on your life."

Charlie shoots him a beetling challenge. "Don’t tell me you’re scared."

Hunter pulls a face and grins.

"‘Sweet Chariot,’" Charlie says. "Play on, maestro."

"All right. Everyone knows the words to that," I say pointedly at Hunter.

"Fine," he says with a laugh, and sits down beside me.

His warmth reassures me as my hands find the notes and strike their way across the keys. I don’t know what Hunter was worried about. His deep voice is wonderful, and soon the three of us are roaring out the song together.

Once the two of them get going, there’s no stopping them. We play and sing until our throats are hoarse and Charlie is digging into a box of vintage music scores for more songs.

There’s a bond between these two, so strong that my heart swells. Unconditional—that’s what family love is. It holds us safe through the ups and downs of life. It’s there for us when all else has fallen away. It’s there, no matter what.

Like Dad. And Mom. I realize that’s my fear: Music is the magic line that anchors me to Mom. She loved to sing. She was good at it. Really good. We always sang together. Sometimes we even made up silly songs. She actually wrote them down as sheet music—
because you’ll want them when you grow up, Ari
.

She couldn’t have been more right. I still have them, my envelope of faded, dog-eared treasures. Is that why I chose to make music my life? Because when I play, she’s there in every note? Her comforting voice, her fierce devotion, her passion for life. It comes alive, and I feel her hold me close.

It’s late when we finally run out of steam and head for bed.

"I’ll let you manage your own arrangements," Charlie says. "I have some work to do down here."

"Good night. Thank you for a delicious dinner."

"Thank you, my dear, for making it the most lovely evening I can ever recall."

I beam at him, and as he bends to kiss my cheek, I see a sudden sadness in his eyes.

"Good night," he says as we head off.

His unexpected melancholy sends my thoughts toward Dad and Sammy and Gage. As I head away from the warm candlelight, my stress and fear roll back over me. At the stairs, Hunter puts a hand on my arm, steadying me as I ascend the steep, narrow steps.

Even though I can’t feel his emotions, even though he’s kept a wall carefully between us all through dinner, I can sense his heat at my back. He’s so close, his body almost presses against mine. My pulse begins to thrum in my throat.

Then we’re at the top of the stairs. We make our way along another narrow corridor. Hunter stops at a doorway, turns the filigreed knob, and pushes the door inward.

"Will you be all right in here?"

The four-poster bed appears to have been torn straight from a Transylvanian castle. With the shutters drawn outside the windows, I can’t help a shiver of trepidation.

"I’m not sure whether to feel safe or terrified."

Hunter grins. "It does look rather medieval, doesn’t it?"

"You’re sure this isn’t Dracula’s New Haven abode?"

"Quite. I’ll be down the hall. Scream if you need me."

But he makes no move to leave. He smells faintly of the lemon soap from his shower back at the hangar. A frisson of energy passes between us.

"Aeris."

"Yes?"

He puts a hand on my shoulder and brushes his thumb along my collarbone. His emotional guard slips, and I feel him through the veil. It’s fierce, passionate, overarching, and all-encompassing. "If something happened to you because of me, it would kill me."

"It won’t. I’m fine," I say.

His eyes are two veiled storms. He stares toward the shuttered window as if seeing something far off. I stand on tiptoes and lean into him, feeling the roughness of his jaw against mine. It’s so good here when I press my cheek to this tiny space.

His lips brush softly across my skin, and then his firm mouth presses into mine. Even after this morning, it’s still a shock to be this close. Heat surges from my toes to the top of my head. Our blurred selves roll into each other in waves. As we kiss, we press against each other so tight it’s as if our contact could fuse us into a single being. Just by the mere touch of our lips and our arms that are wrapped tight around one another, we’re mirroring and merging until our edges meet and disappear. I don’t know where I end and he begins. It’s all mixed up and painfully good, and yet I stop myself before we can go any further.

What am I thinking? How can I allow myself enjoyment when other people are in danger?

I’m out of breath as I pull away.

Hunter steps backward, dark and huge in the shadowed, narrow hall.

“I should let you get some sleep,” he says.

I nod.

I see then that I’m not the only one with worries on my mind. His brow is clouded. I watch him go, my hands clutching the doorframe.