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"I heard something in your voice when you first came in here, something honest and true, something that put me at ease, that gave me hope. It was almost as if . . . as if I could see you," he said. "I know you're beautiful."

"Oh no, I'm not. I'm . , ."

"Yes you are. I can tell from the way

Grandmother speaks to you. My mother was beautiful," he added quickly. I held my breath. My heartbeat started to quicken. Was he going to tell me the tragic tale? "Would you mind if I touched your face, your hair?"

"No," I said, and he brought his fingers up to my temples and slowly, gently, traced the lines of my face, running the tips of his fingers over my lips and down to my chin.

"Beautiful," he whispered. The tip of his tongue swept over his lower lip as he continued down my neck and found my collarbone. "Your skin is so soft. Can I go on?"

My throat felt tight. My heart began to pound. I was confused but afraid to deny him. He seemed so desperate.

"Yes," I said. His fingers moved down to the border of my collar and followed it to my cleavage. I saw his breathing quicken. He ran his hands over my breasts, turning and pressing his fingers as if he were a sculptor shaping them. His hands moved down my ribs to my waist and then back up again so that his palms flowed over my breasts.

Then, suddenly, he pulled them away as if he had touched an uncovered electrical wire. He lowered his head.

"It's all right," I said. Instead of replying, he brought his fingers to the keys again and began to play, only this time his music was loud and hard. A line of sweat broke out along his temple. His breathing quickened. He seemed determined to exhaust himself. Finally he concluded, this time slapping his palms over the keys.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have had Grandmother ask you here."

"Why not?"

He turned his head slowly.

"It's a torment, that's why," he said. "I'm nearly thirty-one years old, and you are the first woman I've touched. My grandmother and my cousin have kept me in mothballs," he added bitterly. "If I hadn't thrown a temper tantrum, Grandmother wouldn't have called you today."

"That's terrible. You shouldn't be kept prisoner in your own house."

"Yes, I am a prisoner of sorts, but my prison isn't the house. It's my own thoughts that lock me up!" he cried, bringing his hands to his face. He groaned deeply. I put my hand on his shoulder. He lifted his hands from his face and asked, "You're not afraid of me? I don't disgust you?"

"Oh no."

"You feel sorry for me, is that it?" he asked bitterly.

"Yes, somewhat, but I also appreciate your talent," I added.

He softened his expression and took a deep breath. "I want to see again," he said. "My doctors tell me I'm afraid to see again. You think that's possible?"

"I guess so."

"Have you ever run away from anything you couldn't face?"

"Oh yes," I said.

"Will you tell me about it sometime? Will you return?"

"If you'd like me to, yes."

He smiled. "I made up a melody for you," he said. "Want to hear it?"

"You did? Yes, please."

He started to play. It was a wonderfully flowing piece that, remarkably, made me think of the bayou, of water and of beautiful birds and flowers.

"It's very beautiful," I said when he had finished. "I love it."

"I call it 'Ruby.' I'll have my teacher write out the notes, and the next time you come I'll give you a copy, if you like."