Page 22

Part 11

“Remember When it Rained”

July

I stood in the middle of Main Street U.S.A. staring at Cinderella’s Castle. I shook my head wondering what I’m doing at Disney World. Crowds of people walked all around me—the usual hustle and bustle of the theme park. It was a beautiful day. Blue sky, a nice breeze and soft music played from somewhere near the castle. The music gradually faded out and a brief moment of silence preceded a trumpet blast. I thought maybe it was time for the parade to start, so I moved over to the sidewalk to get out of the way, and saw others following.

As I walked closer to the castle, I could see a small crowd gathering behind The Partners Statue. I heard some music playing, so I continued walking closer. Eventually I saw there was a man standing on the ramp in front of the castle holding a microphone. I figured there must be some sort of concert going on and thought about turning around, but something drove me forward still. The man began to sing, and I realized it was my favorite song, “Possession,” though I couldn’t actually hear it in the dream. Looking closer, I realized it was him, the faceless man, and he was singing to me. People around me noticed I was the one he was singing to, and they ushered me up onto the ramp.

Listening to him sing, I realized I had no idea he had such an amazing voice, so strong and deep. I felt tingles up and down my spine, and goose bumps ran up and down my arms. It was a little embarrassing standing in front of all these people at Disney World, of all places, having someone serenade me. All too soon, though, the song was finished. He placed the microphone back onto the stand and looked into my eyes.

“Clare, you are the most wonderful woman in the world and I would do anything to make you happy.” He got down on one knee. “Would you make me the happiest man alive and be my wife?”

“Yes!” I heard myself say.

He swept me up into his arms and kissed me. When we pulled apart, he placed a ring on my finger. I tried and tried to see it, but it was just as blurry as his face.

* * *

“Well, the score was great, I’ll give it that,” Roddy says as we leave the movie theater, hand in hand. “That’s about all I’ll give it.”

“Really? I mean, I didn’t think it was the best movie ever, but I thought there were some redeeming qualities,” I reply.

“Yeah, and I think I know what those ‘redeeming qualities’ are: Rachel McAdams and Oscar Isaac.”

I grin up at him. “Well, you should have known better than to let me pick the movie when either of them have a movie out.”

“I think I’ve learned my lesson.” He kisses my hand and smiles.

We get into his car and drive the short distance to my favorite Mexican restaurant, picking apart the subtleties of the movie as we traverse the streets of Cary. This being the first movie we’ve gone to see together, it’s very interesting to see what Roddy likes and doesn’t like. He listens almost exclusively for the soundtrack, and not the pop songs sprinkled here and there, but the score. I’m sure it comes from him playing in an orchestra for so long, but it’s intriguing to me that he seems to listen for that while sacrificing understanding of the dialogue and plot. Whereas I am all in it for the dialogue and plot. And the super-hot actors.

We arrive at the restaurant and are escorted to a booth on the side. We sit under a mural of Cancun, which is just one of the many places I’d love to see someday. I pick up my menu on the pretense I need to figure out what I want, when I almost always get the same thing: two cheese enchiladas with rice and guacamole salad.

“Ah, senor,” our server, Miguel, says as he sees Roddy. Then he notices me and smiles even wider. “And senorita. I did not know that you knew each other.”

“I come here a lot,” Roddy says, at the same time I say, “I’ve been here just a couple times.” All three of us laugh.

“And you are dating. How wonderful, my friends!” Miguel replies. He takes our orders and hurries off to the kitchen.

“Strange that we’ve never run into each other, since we both frequent this place,” Roddy says.

I nod. “Yeah. Strange.” Of course, I know it is strange. Everything to do with our meeting and not meeting is more than strange. I’ve been at North Carolina Symphony donor functions with him, I’ve been to innumerable concerts that he’s played in, we both apparently love Fiesta Mexicana, and who knows what else. I mean, I’ve had dreams about him for years, then meet him in real life, and find we’ve crossed paths many times before.

“Clare?” I hear Roddy say above the screaming inside my head.

I shake the thoughts from my head. “Sorry, did you ask me something?”

“No, you just looked pretty far away there for a minute. Just making sure everything’s okay.”

“Yep, everything’s fine.”

* * *

My enchiladas were wonderful, as usual, and Miguel even brought us some celebratory queso on the house. After we devoured our meals, Roddy paid the check and now we’re on the way out to his car.

“Do you have to get home right away?” he asks, holding the door open for me.

“No. What did you have in mind?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to come back to my place. Camille baked me this chocolate cherry cheesecake and I thought you might want some dessert.”

“Sure. I love cheesecake,” I reply, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. I want to go to his house so badly, but I’m not sure if I’m ready yet because of the expectations that implies. Or at least I don’t think I am. I have no idea. It feels strange that I’ve been to his parents’ house, but I haven’t seen his place. But with the fact that he’s been coming to my place to take care of me all the time during my testing and after surgery, I guess it makes sense.

So, it’s not like I’m a prude or a virgin or anything, but Suz and I didn’t do much intimate stuff when we were together, and I haven’t actually been with a man before, even though I’m bi. But I really like Roddy a lot and after seeing his tattoo and the kiss afterward, it’s all I can do to not think about sex with him. Plus, everything is going to change for me once I start chemo. I could be thrust into premature menopause, even temporarily. I may be too tired or not have a sex drive at all during that time. This could be the perfect opportunity to have sex before my treatment. God, that sounds romantic: “Yes, let’s get it on now before I start chemo and don’t have any interest anymore.” What is wrong with me?

Roddy’s townhouse is about ten minutes away, so I have plenty of time to work myself into a frenzy before we get there. He lives in a really nice development off Tryon Road. Each unit is three stories, and the first floor is brick, while the rest is white siding. There are brick stairs that lead to the front door, but Roddy parks inside the garage, so we enter the house that way. He leads me into the kitchen and asks me to sit at the little bistro table in the corner while he slices the cheesecake. I do and take a look around. He has beautiful cherry wood cabinets with granite countertops. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of clutter on his counter, whereas Abby and I have several small appliances scattered about in our kitchen.

There’s a small window next to the table where I sit that overlooks the backyard, and he has some fairly non-descript cream-colored curtains on it. I look further, past the kitchen, and can see what I assume to be his living room, but there’s barely any furniture in it. Just a couple of chairs and a piano. I guess if you’re a bachelor, you don’t need a ton of furniture, unless you have people over.

“Here we go,” Roddy says as he puts a plate in front of me. “Camille is an excellent baker, and this is one of her specialties. It’s actually a recipe from Bake Off.”

The cheesecake looks amazing, and I can’t wait to dive in. I sink my fork into the thick slice of cake, making sure to get a whole cherry and some of the crust. I take a bite and the flavors of the chocolate and cherry blend so deliciously with the cream cheese and graham crackers. I even taste a hint of cinnamon, most likely from the crust. Before I can stop myself, I’ve taken three more bites and I’m sure my eyes are rolling back in my head with pleasure.

“Good, huh?”

“Scrumptious,” I reply. “Do you think Camille would make me one of these every week?”

“Probably. She adores baking, especially for other people.” Roddy takes a particularly large bite, and I can tell he is as blown away by the dessert as I am, even though it sounds like he’s had it before.

“Of course,” I add, “I’d be as big as a house if I ate one of these every week, so maybe I should just settle for one for my birthday.”

Roddy smiles. “I’m sure she’d be happy to. And when, may I ask, is your birthday? You know, so I can get it on Camille’s calendar.”

“It’s March tenth.”

“I will let her know. And I’m sure she’ll be happy to bake you whatever you like while you’re going through treatment. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.” He places his fork on the side of his clean plate and wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“That would be very sweet of her. I’ll let her know.” I take another bite of the delicious dessert and realize my plate is clean too.

“Speaking of Camille, does she know the sex of the baby yet?”

Roddy shakes his head. “She wants to be surprised. She won’t even let Dilip find out either.”

I laugh. “And I’m guessing he wants to know?”

“Desperately,” he answers. “Everyone except Camille is dying to know, but she won’t let the doctor tell anyone. Our mother even tried to call the doctor’s office to get them to tell her—and she can be pretty persuasive—but they wouldn’t budge. HIPPA practices and all that.”

I could almost see Sabine trying to use her charms to get the doctor to tell her the sex of her daughter’s baby and being sorely disappointed when they didn’t. “I think it’s cool that she wants to be surprised. I mean, it wasn’t too long ago really when you couldn’t find out even if you wanted to. Of course, people resorted to all kinds of tricks and listened to old wives’ tales to predict the sex of the baby. And ultrasounds aren’t always one hundred percent accurate. I was supposed to be a boy.”

Roddy tilts his head to one side and smiles. “I’m so glad they were wrong.” He leans forward and kisses me warmly. We part and he sits back in his chair and just looks at me for a long moment. “Well, let me clear these dishes and then I can give you the grand tour.”

“Great,” I say, wondering if the finale is going to be his bedroom. My palms are getting sweaty.

* * *

Turns out, what I thought was his living room is actually his music studio because it has better acoustics than the family room downstairs.

“Do you play the piano too?” I ask, thinking I couldn’t imagine being able to play one instrument, let alone two.

“Sort of. I can play enough to get by with accompanying my students,” he says, sitting down at the piano and playing my favorite song, “Possession” by Sarah McLachlan . Just like with his cooking skills, he’s undersold himself.

I love this song and can’t help but sing along. He glances at me in surprise because I guess I haven’t sung around him before. It’s fun singing with someone playing live versus just in my room or the shower or the occasional sing-along with Abby in the car.

Somewhere around the second verse, it hits me that this was the song the faceless man sang for me in the latest dream I had. My mind whirls, but I will myself not to falter as I continue singing. Somehow, I make it through.

Roddy relaxes his hands on his lap when he’s finished and looks at me. “I had no idea you could sing. That was amazing.”

I blush. “Thank you. My dad had a beautiful voice too, so I guess I inherited it from him.”

“You could be singing in concert halls,” he says, and my blush deepens.

Wanting to change the subject so I don’t fully combust, I point to the two cello cases next to the piano. “Are those both yours?”

“Yep. The one in the black case is the one I use for the symphony because it has the best sound quality.”

“And the one in the brown case?”

“That one was my grandfather’s. I keep it mostly for sentimental reasons, but it has the best feel of any cello I’ve ever played.” He looks off into the distance for a moment, thoughtful. “Do you have a favorite pair of shoes that are maybe not the best looking anymore, but they’re so comfortable you can’t bear to part with them?”

I nod. “I’ve had a pair of loafers since college that I still wear even though they’re all scuffed. I’ve never been able to find another pair that are as comfy as those.”

“Well, that’s how this cello feels to me. It just fits better than any other cello, probably because it’s been so well broken in by three generations of Vaughn men. But since it’s older, it doesn’t project as well as my newer one, so I can’t use it for performances.”

“Would you play it for me?”

In response, he opens the well-worn brown case and takes out a beautiful cello. I can definitely see the wear in spots, but I can also see the craftsmanship. I hear my father’s voice in my head, “Craftsmanship is the cornerstone to a stringed instrument. If it doesn’t have craftsmanship, it’s just piece of wood with some strings on it.”

Roddy sits down and does a bit of tuning. “Anything in particular you’d like to hear?”

I shake my head and sit down on one of the other chairs. “Surprise me.”

And that he does. I can tell from the opening notes that he’s playing “El Cant del Ocells,” one of my all-time favorite cello solos by Pablo Casals. I close my eyes and just breathe in the music. The sound is mournful, but also hopeful at the same time. I can hear that the tone is not quite what you would hear in a concert hall performance or a recording, but it’s beautiful all the same.

When he finishes, I open my eyes and find that I’ve been crying without noticing. I was so involved in the music I didn’t realize tears were streaming down my cheeks. All the memories of listening to this with my dad and the moving nature of the piece in general just overwhelmed me.

After Roddy puts away the cello, he comes to stand next to me and sees me wiping my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just that that piece reminds me of my dad. He loved this piece as well, and we went to see a performance of that with the symphony about a year before he died.”

“About six years ago?”

“I think so. I know there was an out-of-town soloist playing with the symphony. He was absolutely amazing, and my dad couldn’t stop going on about how wonderful of a performance it was.”

Roddy looks down at his hands, sheepishly. “That was actually…me. I was the visiting performer for that show.”

“You’re kidding.” If I wasn’t sitting down, I would have fallen down.

“Nope. That was me,” he says. “I was doing a lot of solo touring at the time, but all the travel was wearing on me. Plus, Camille and Dilip were getting married and talking about a family, so I thought it would be good to settle back down here. When I came for that show, I talked with the powers that be at the North Carolina Symphony and they had an opening they were auditioning for. I finished my tour a few months later, moved back to Raleigh and have been playing with them ever since.”

Without thinking, I blurt out, “I’ve been dreaming about you.” My heart races with panic as soon as I realize what I’ve said.

He cocks an eyebrow. “You have?”

You have two choices, Clare: spill the beans, or lie through your teeth. In the end, I choose truth. I motion for him to sit back down, and I tell him everything. Well, maybe not every single dream, and definitely not the proposal ones, but enough. He listens quietly while I go through everything from my parents’ deaths to the dreams in the hospital that I thought were drug-induced to the more recent ones where the faceless, tuxedoed person morphed into a man.

“So, yeah, that’s about it,” I conclude, dropping my hands into my lap.

“That’s…a lot to take in,” he replies.

I bob my head. “I don’t know why I blurted that out. Maybe my shock at knowing my father would have been so closely connected with your guest performance. I mean, he literally talked about that until the day he died.” So many memories are resurfacing. “And I’m now remembering him saying something about being glad ‘that guest cellist’s audition went well so we have him here for good.’”

Roddy laughs. “It’s always nice to hear you’re wanted.”

He gets quiet again, and I know I’ve totally killed any good vibes we had going tonight. “Sorry to ruin the evening. If you point me toward the nearest bus stop, I’ll make my way home.” I stand up to leave.

He grabs my hand kindly but firmly to pull me back to him. “No, Clare, you didn’t ruin anything. I just need a moment to digest everything you told me. It’s a lot to live up to, if I’m the one in these dreams or even if I’m not.”

I shake my head. “No, you don’t have to live up to anything. They’re just dreams, not expectations. I mean some of them are so far-fetched they couldn’t happen in real life. Where would you get a dinosaur to ride?”

We both laugh. “Yeah, I doubt that one’s going to happen.”

“And I’m not checking things off on a list or anything. These dreams aren’t a bucket list of romance for me.” I pause. “But I do feel like my parents might have sent them to me to point me in your direction. Especially with all the ties my father had with you and the symphony.”

When he doesn’t respond, I add, “That’s the real reason I ran after you and kissed you in the street that night. I saw you in your tux and was overcome by a feeling I couldn’t explain and I—”

He closes the short distance between us in a moment and puts his fingers to my lips to quiet me. “I think I understand now,” he says. “And it’s okay. Whatever it was that brought us together is amazing because you are amazing, and I want to keep exploring everything together with you.”

A contented sigh escapes my lips. “I’d like that too.”

Something unspoken passes between us and we both stand up. We’re staring into each other’s eyes, and neither one of us cares about the rest of the house tour. I reach up to run my fingers through his curls, feeling the softness, and pull him toward me for a kiss. Our lips touch gently at first, but the kiss deepens quickly, becoming more insistent. Soon, it feels like our hands are everywhere: my hand around his back, his hand in my hair, my other hand grasping his strong bicep and his other hand tracing a line down my spine.

All my previous worries and trepidations are gone, and when he whispers, “Do you want to go upstairs?” in my ear, I don’t have to think before telling him yes.

* * *

After, while we’re laying in his king-sized bed, I ask him to tell me more about his tattoo. Now that I’ve gotten a chance to see it close up, it’s more than just a cello. It’s a side view of a cello from his left shoulder blade down to his right lower back, at the angle where one would play it, and you can almost imagine the bow is moving across the strings. Coming out from the instrument are lines of music across his upper back and right shoulder blade.

“Well, I wanted the cello, obviously, but not like just a flat cello on my back,” he replies as I trace the lines of the tattoo. “So, I had Camille draw the design of the side view with the bow. Then I had them add some lines of a piece my grandfather composed for cello back in the seventies.”

“Oh, wow,” I say. “That’s lovely. Is your grandfather’s piece anything I would have heard?”

He turns around to face me. “No, he never published it because he wanted it to stay in the family.”

“What’s it called?”

“ Clarus Amor . Bright Love in Latin,” he says. “And it just occurred to me that clarus is the root of Clare.”

I’m too dumbfounded to reply, so I snuggle into his warm chest and hold him tight.