Chapter 10

"You know, John, I'm going to let Bertrand and Rupert go back to the woods soon. If you hadn't been gone all day on one of those photo shoots of yours, I would have asked you to take their pictures for me," said Cassie one night about a week later as she spread corn kernels in Gran's wire popcorn popper.

John hesitated. Cassie had always been casually incurious about his photographic work, probably because she was always so absorbed in her garden and with the steady stream of visitors seeking remedies, and besides, Cassie tended to blot out everything that took place off the mountain. He'd been taking pictures, sure, but it was amateur stuff. Now seemed like as good a time as any to tell her his true profession. But he couldn't tell her, not until the flying issue was resolved.

"My errands took longer than I expected" was all he said. He wished fervently that he could stop pretending.

Bertrand hobbled past and twitched his nose in the direction of the popcorn.

"Don't worry, Bertie, you'll get your share," Cassie said soothingly.

"Bertrand likes popcorn?"

"Loves it."

"Save some for me," was all John said. He turned on the radio he'd bought in town. He'd introduced it a few days ago to accustom Cassie to the idea that there was a real world out there. At first he'd switched on an easy-listening station when they were making love, and then he'd progressed to leaving the radio on during the hourly newscasts. Cassie had accepted it, and it had become natural for them to talk about current events and other topics.

Having a radio was a small step but a necessary one. Now, with his help, Cassie was beginning to perceive the world as a nonthreatening place. He had to get her down off this mountain somehow. That would be his next campaign.

"What radio station would you like?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter. Anything you want." Cassie, kneeling on the hearth, shook the wire popper. The radio played classic rock, something by Pink Floyd. He adjusted the volume low.

"Bring me that big earthenware bowl from the kitchen, will you, John?" Cassie spared a smile in his direction.

John found the bowl and brought it to her, admiring the way her hair gleamed so brightly in the fire's glow. These peaceful moments were, for him, equal in joy to the passion they shared in their lovemaking. Aside from the physical, however, there were dimensions to his love for her that he had never found with anyone else: their morning walks, when it was just the two of them in the wilderness, when communication came so easily and seemed so right; mealtimes, when her adoring face across from his seemed the closest thing to heaven; lying together in bed after the lights were out when they talked and talked, learning and loving more about each other every time.

Cassie heaped the popcorn in the bowl and set aside an unsalted pile of it on the hearthstones for Bertrand. Lazily she fell back on a stack of floor cushions, edging to one side so that John could join her.

"Delicious popcorn," he said, munching on a mouthful.

"Mmm," she replied, settling into the golden glow of another pleasant evening with John. The radio announcer came on with the news. The President was planning a trip to Asia, and an earthquake had been reported in Mexico. The next news would be in an hour on the hour. Then, a complete surprise: The sweet opening strains of one of Cassie's own songs began to play, and Cassie bolted upright at the high unmistakable soprano of her voice.

It was a love song she'd written for Kevin. It was sweet and tender and full of meaning. A gem of a love song, Kevin had told her.

It had been so long since she'd heard the words or even thought about them. Forever since she'd sung them, but in a flash of remembrance she recalled as if it were yesterday standing before the microphone in the glass booth at the recording studio. She'd sung the song to Kevin that day, meaning every word from the depths of her heart. She'd written it on their third wedding anniversary, and her emotional rendering had helped propel the song to the top of the charts for weeks.

She clapped her hands over her ears. "Turn it off!"

"Is something wrong?"

"I can't bear hearing that song."

Clearly shaken, John flicked the radio switch.

"Cassie, I'm sorry," he said. He'd known she'd eventually hear her own music, but he wished that the radio had played some other song she'd written, such as the one about children romping in the pinewoods or that funny little ditty, "Watermelon Smiles."

"I haven't heard a recording of myself since I came here," Cassie said, looking stricken.

"You and Sharon play the dulcimer together. You've sung with her." He knew he had to keep her talking or she might run into her bedroom and slam the door. Cassie, always running, always retreating to the innermost chamber of herself. But not anymore. He wasn't going to let her.

"That's different," she said. "The old songs Sharon and I sing hold no memories for me except happy ones. They're not the ones I wrote myself when I was—when I was—" She stopped and swallowed. She couldn't go on.

"When you were Kevin's wife," said John gently.

She raised her eyes to his. "Yes," she said.

John stood and paced the floor, running a hand through his hair. Suddenly he knelt before her. He took her hands in his and spoke with fiery determination. "Cassandra, I wish it hadn't happened this way. I knew that someday we'd hear your music, but I didn't expect you to react so strongly. I love your music, Cassie. So do a lot of other people."

"My show business career is over," Cassie murmured. She knew he hadn't meant to hurt her. John would never hurt her.

"You're acting as if your whole life is over." He raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it. "Cassie, isn't it time for you to pick up and go on? You should face the fact that you lived, you didn't die with Kevin and Rory and you don't have to give up the rest of your life out of guilt."

Cassie withdrew her hand. "Don't say these things."

"I've watched you doing backbreaking work in your garden day after day. I've stood by while you mix balms and ointments and essences and give them away to any and all who find their way up this mountain. How long are you going to atone for their deaths?"

The words assaulted her like a physical blow. "That's my business," she said.

"Mine too," he shot back. "It's my business because I love you. You've said you love me."

"I do," she said helplessly, hopelessly. "I do."

"We're in this together," he reminded her gently.

Then he was gathering her into his arms, and sudden tears flooded her eyes. He was so good to her, and she didn't deserve it.

He kissed her tears away. "Let's not give up when we're beginning to make progress. And anyway, if you don't get that skunk away from the popcorn bowl, there won't be any left for us."

Cassie pulled away from him with a watery smile and shooed Bertrand away. Thank goodness John could keep his sense of humor. If she didn't lighten up, she'd lose him long before he had to leave.

"Well," she said shakily, "how about turning on the radio again? Let's start the evening over. This time maybe we'll get it right."

John eased himself down beside her.

"You've got a lot of spunk, Cassandra," he said, kissing her on the temple. Bertrand sneaked around the pile of cushions and nibbled tentatively at Cassie's hand where it was curved around the bowl.

"A lot of skunk, too," she said wryly, pushing Bertrand away.

And so they went on from there.

* * *

"The manager at the Juniper Inn offered me a salary. And I'm going to work every night but Sunday!" Sharon exclaimed over biscuits laden with Cassie's fresh strawberry jam.

It was the day after Sharon's interview. The three of them sat on a blanket outside under the black oak tree, John having declared it the perfect day for a picnic brunch. Sharon had arrived earlier with her sister, and they'd gathered vegetables for the roadside stand. Bonnie declined food, but Sharon had lingered to discuss this exciting new development in her life.

"When do you start?" asked Cassie, delighted with Sharon's success.

"Tonight. And tomorrow's my birthday. A job—what a wonderful eighteenth birthday present! Will you come to my opening? I'm not telling them at home. I don't want Pa to come, and Ma won't. Bonnie said she'll cover for me and tell them something that gets me out of the house." Sharon's glance flashed expectantly from Cassie to John and back to Cassie again.

"Oh, I—" began Cassie in a negative tone. She didn't want to go out in public, and she had reservations about Sharon's reluctance to tell her family.

"Of course we'll be there," John said.

"Wonderful," said Sharon, hopping up. "I've got to get home. Now that I have a job, I'll be able to buy new clothes." Her words bubbled over with excitement. "You have good taste, Cassie. I wish you'd come with me to shop."

"I—I'll think about it," Cassie said faintly, aware of John's eyes upon her.

"Okay. See you tonight. I'm so glad you'll both be there." And with a happy wave back at them, Sharon took off at a run.

John stood up and tossed a green caterpillar off the picnic blanket.

"You don't mind going, do you?" he asked.

Cassie hesitated. "I guess not. For Sharon's sake."

"What about for Cassie's sake?"

"I haven't been out to dinner for years," she reminded him.

"But things are different now," he told her as they walked back to the house.

She sent him a sideways glance and tucked her arm through his. "I've noticed," she said, and a smile teased the corners of her mouth.

"Today maybe you could take those pictures of Bertrand and Rupert," suggested Cassie as she stashed the picnic blanket in the chifforobe. One of the corners of the blanket swept a piece of paper to the floor. John bent to retrieve it, mostly as a stall. He still hadn't mastered the Nikon, and as for photographing Bertrand, he'd rather pass.

"Is this anything important?" Then, because he couldn't help noticing that it was a song, complete with notes and scribbled words, he inspected it more closely.

"It's nothing," said Cassie, moving to take it from him.

"Wait," he said, and because of his height he could hold it out of her reach.

"John, hand it over."

"I didn't know you'd been writing music," he said.

Cassie flushed. "Once in a while. When the mood hits me."

"Play it for me?"

"John, I couldn't."

"You don't mind my reading this, do you?"

"Well..." Cassie hesitated. Her feelings were wrapped up in the songs she'd written, and it was hard to share them. She was afraid that he'd compare them to songs she'd written for Kevin and that these would come up lacking. But she and John were so intimate and so open with each other that she hardly wanted to refuse.

"If you don't want me to, I won't." He waited expectantly, and her reservations melted away.

"It's okay," she said in a small voice, and suddenly feeling the need to do something with her hands, she rushed into the bathroom and picked up the scouring powder and sponge. She was surprised to find that her hands were trembling. She turned on the water, listening to it gurgle down the drain. What would he think about her song?

She had written it with the taste of him still on her lips one night when she couldn't sleep after their lovemaking. She'd crept from the bed and scribbled her thoughts, writing quickly as she heard notes in her head. She'd titled it "For Love's Sweet Splendor," and it could have been an old tune, so regional was its flavor. But the words were unmistakably about John and Cassie and the wonder she felt at being loved by him.

Through the door she saw John walk to the window, pensively studying her song.

Let him like it, she thought, because she felt suddenly shy.

"Cassie," he said quietly.

She dropped the sponge and the cleanser and grabbed the cold porcelain sink, her heart beating wildly.

"Come here," he said.

She turned off the water. Slowly she came out of the bathroom, not daring to look full into his face. When her eyes met his, she saw that his brimmed with wonder and shone in admiration.

"How well you put it into words," he said softly.

"It was written for you."

As he folded her in his arms, Cassie closed her eyes and was thankful for him and the changes he'd brought to her life. The moment would have become even more intimate had a car not rounded the curve.

"One of your seekers," said John, pulling away before kissing Cassie lightly beside the ear. He had taken to referring to the people who came up the mountain for herbal remedies as seekers because Cassie didn't approve of calling them patients.

This particular visitor drove a dark blue Lincoln Town Car and parked it under a tree.

"Let me put this music away," said Cassie, taking the crumpled piece of paper from John. She stuffed it in the chifforobe.

"Wait," said John, seeing other papers in the drawer as well. "Do you have more like that?"

Cassie spared him a long, mute look. Since John had entered her life, she'd stopped writing in her journal. She now channeled her thoughts and energies into her music, much as she had done before the accident. Only now there was a more serious, introspective dimension to her songs.

"I'll let you see them if you like."

But there wasn't time to share her music now, not with the car door slamming outside and footsteps crunching on the gravel drive.

Cassie smoothed her hair and straightened her blouse before glancing quickly at her reflection in the oval mirror on the chifforobe. She hurried to open the door. John was in the kitchen, rummaging in the freezer for ice cubes. He preferred to stay as far out of the way as possible when Cassie's seekers were around.

But Bertrand didn't. The skunk refused to make himself scarce when Cassie had company; his curious nature brought him out sniffing and scampering and making mischief. He seemed to delight in people's shock at seeing a real live skunk running loose inside the house.

Cassie stumbled over Bertrand on her way to the door, but the second round of knocks was so loud that she didn't take time to remove the skunk to the spare bedroom. She nudged him aside with her toe as she opened the door.

On the front porch stood a familiar stocky figure wearing the perennially rumpled suit with which she identified him. She stared in amazement while a broad smile lit up his face to reveal gleaming gold caps. Bald, snub-nosed, disheveled and stout, he was a funny-looking man—but what was her former agent doing here?

"Kajurian!" she exclaimed as she held out her arms in a welcoming hug.

At that moment, Bertrand, who had managed to slip past Cassie, hissed and stomped his feet, but Cassie's attention was elsewhere.

And so Bertrand let go.