Beauty: an Everland Ever After Tale (3 page)

“Most of Everland knows,
Signore
. I don’t think it’s fair to pretend to be something I’m not, when lives are at stake. It hasn’t stopped them from coming to me for treatment, or calling me ‘Doc’. I’ve patched up everyone here at some point or another.”

“They must consider you competent.”

Another creak of the leather. “I like to think I am. I’ve saved more people than I’ve killed, definitely.”

Can I say the same?
Vincenzo felt for the glass of brandy, and took another burning sip. His unexpected visitor was becoming unexpectedly interesting. ”I think, Doctor—“ he would join the rest of his new neighbors in giving the other man the title until proven otherwise, “that you must have some fascinating stories. I know that we’ve just agreed to leave each other’s past alone, but if you ever feel the need to unburden yourself, I’d be very much interested in hearing how you ended up here.”

There was a snort from the other chair, and Vincenzo heard the smile in the man’s voice when he spoke. “Likewise, I hope you’ll consider me a friend one day, and unburden your own past. My wife and daughter have been clamoring non-stop to know more about you, and to hear you play.”

He’d kept his past a secret for a decade, but was there any real need for it? Now that he’d given up touring, now that he had more money than Midas, now that he just wanted some peace and solitude? He shrugged and toasted the other man. “It’s unlikely Doctor, but I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

“You can call me Jack, you know.”

Can I?
Vincenzo thought about it. Calling the man by his given name would imply they had a bond, a connection. It would mean he was a friend.

He was saved from trying to answer by the door from the hall opening again. This time he didn’t hear Gordy’s heavy tread, but the fleet four-footed patter he knew so well. He whistled between his teeth, hoping that for once Rajah would come when called.

The big cat’s steps skirted the doctor’s chair, and Vincenzo braced himself as he heard his pet leap. Rajah’s weight landed in his lap at the same time he heard his guest suck in a startled breath. Grinning slightly, Vincenzo stroked the large cat as if being sat on by a giant feline was an everyday occurrence in his life. Which it was.

Rajah made a noise deep in his throat which sounded a bit like a clicking growl, but which Vincenzo knew to be a purr. He moved his left hand—he was still holding his brandy in the other, after all—up to the sensitive spot behind the cat’s pronounced ears, and the purr became a rumble.

“Good God, man.” The doctor’s voice was strained, barely above a whisper. “Is that a leopard? You’ve got a
leopard
sitting on your lap?”

Rajah seemed to know when he was being mentioned, because his head whipped towards their guest. Vincenzo scratched under the long chin, and the cat made a pleased noise. “This is Rajah, Doctor. Rajah, meet Doc Carpenter. He’s not a real doctor, but I think we can forgive him that, can’t we?”

The cat, bless his soul, chose that moment to let out a
meow
that didn’t sound anything like a house cat. “Rajah is a serval, Doctor, from Africa. He was given to me by the Tomasi family, the Princes of Lampedusa in Italy. The serval is on their crest, and rather important to them. Rajah was hardly a kitten when I received him, and would only answer to the ridiculous name they’d already pinned on him.”

“He’s not a leopard?” The other man’s voice was still strained.

“No. A leopard wouldn’t be able to sit on my lap, nor would I want him to.” There was a slow, controlled exhale from the other chair, as if the doctor was relaxing again.

“
Why
do you have a…a serval?”

“I told you; he was a gift. He’s been my only companion, haven’t you, boy?” He scratched harder and was rewarded with a
meow
that made him grin. 

“Except Gordon?”

“Well, Gordy hardly counts, does he?” It was an ongoing joke between the two of them, but the doctor didn’t need to know that. “Doctor Carpenter, Rajah is my pet, and is quite used to me. I assure you that however fierce he may look, whatever stories you may have heard about wild beasts, Rajah is quite gentle. He knows he’s a bit of an oddity, and I think he likes it.”

It wasn’t until the silence stretched for a little too long that Vincenzo reviewed what he’d just said, and realized the implications.
Oh, damn
. The other man wasn’t going to ignore them, either. “Rather like yourself, I think,
Signore
.”

Vincenzo didn’t reply, focusing only on the short fur under his callused fingertips and the steady rumble from the animal on his lap.

“You know, there are some people in this town who are here for the same reason you and I are. People who want to leave their pasts behind them. Everland is a good place for that.”

“I’m glad I picked it, then.” He hadn’t; his agent had, but there was no need to tell the doctor that.

“And with a few notable exceptions, the people of Everland are good as well. We’re a community,
Signore
. There are people here who will gladly welcome you, who look forward to the chance to become your friend.”

“I’m not looking for friends, Doctor.”

“Everyone needs someone, Vincenzo.” He hadn’t given the other man permission to use his name, but he couldn’t bring himself to fight it. The creaking of the leather told him that the doctor had shifted forward in his seat. “There’s got to be something—someone—in this town, among your neighbors, who you’d like to have in your life.”

Vincenzo resisted the urge to deny it outright.
Was
there something missing from his life? There was plenty missing; but was there something that this town could provide that none of the Eurasian capitals of the arts could?

After a long, silent minute, he knew. “Does this town have a bookstore? A library?”

“Mrs. Mayor’s store serves both purposes.” He could hear the confusion in the other man’s voice.

“Does Mrs. Mayor have a nice voice?”

“I hadn’t thought of it, but I suppose it’s unobjectionable.”

“Good.” He nodded, and put down the glass of brandy. “I used to read, before I lost my eyes. Gordy has been a poor substitute, not least of which because I had to teach him to read in the first place, and he was a stubborn learner. The damn brogue of his is annoying, and a man can’t enjoy the paper or the book with him dropping his ‘Gs’ and rolling his ‘Rs’ all the time.”

“You want Mrs. Mayor to
read
to you?”

“Perhaps. You asked if there was anything that this town could offer me, besides the solitude I’m obviously not getting. Well, I suppose that I wouldn’t be adverse to meeting Mrs. Mayor, and working out some sort of arrangement.”

“Meredith did tell me that she thought Mrs. Mayor—she’s a widow with a rambunctious son—could use another income…” The doctor sounded as if he didn’t like gossiping. Excellent; Vincenzo didn’t want to hear any more about Everland’s denizens than he had to.

“Then I’m sure we’ll work something out. Shall I have Gordy arrange a meeting?”

“Has he met her?”

“How should I know what he does while I’m playing? I assume he’s wandering the streets of his new home, wailing and gnashing his teeth because I’m not available to be waited upon.”

A chuckle from the other chair. “I’ll arrange for Mrs. Mayor to meet with you, Vincenzo. And I’ll take Gordy around to meet your other neighbors.”

“You’re bound and determined to involve me in this blasted town, aren’t you?”

“I’m a doctor. I heal people. And I think that becoming part of our community would heal you.”

“You’re wrong.” Vincenzo’s voice had gone flat, and Rajah hissed in response. “I’m beyond healing, and I’ve made my peace with that. I’d appreciate it if you’d respect my wishes.”

The other man stood, and Vincenzo heard the sounds of him picking up his bag and moving towards the door. “I can’t say that it’s been a pleasure,
Signore
Bellini, but it certainly has been an experience. I look forward to my next visit.”

“Assuming I’ll allow it.”

“I think you’ll find Wyoming to be a bit…
wilder
than London or Paris or wherever you’ve been touring. Here, people are nosier, and there’s not a hell of a lot you can do about it. Good afternoon.”

Long after the door shut behind the other man—the man who Vincenzo was flatly refusing to consider a friend—he sat and petted Rajah, thinking about what the doctor had said. Why was he
here
? Why had he decided to stop touring, to leave it all behind him? To settle down? Did he really want solitude, or was settling here a subconscious way of desiring a place in a community? Did he know what he really wanted, now that he was putting that other life behind him? Had he thought about it before, thought about his future?

He thought about it now, sitting with only the large cat’s company. In the darkness.

Dear Mr. Bellini
, she’d written last week, after Jack had returned from their mysterious new neighbor’s home.
I have heard from Dr. and Mrs. Carpenter that you are searching for a reliable source of news and books. I flatter myself to believe that I might provide you with those things, and might even read for you, as the doctor mentioned. However, it is hardly proper for a widow in good standing to appear unchaperoned at a gentleman’s home, so therefore I will wait for you to call upon my store during business hours. Very sincerely your neighbor, A. Mayor

She’d read the letter over three times before she was satisfied with its propriety. Surely there was nothing objectionable in it, but still kind enough to keep
Signore
Bellini interested in hiring her.

When his manservant told Jack that she was expected to present herself at a single man’s residence, she couldn’t believe it. Milton would’ve had one of his fits over such a proposition. Visiting a man’s home, alone, was definitely breaking Rule Number Two:
be proper
.

Of course, there’d been a time when she’d have thought nothing of being alone with a single man, whether in his house or hers or some lovely garden somewhere. She and Edward had always been popping in and out of each other’s lives, and their families were used to seeing them together in—

That was when she’d creased the folds of the letter a bit more forcefully than necessary and thrust it at Eddie to deliver on his way to school.
Edward is dead
. As if she needed reminding.

To her chagrin, though, she’d received a note back in response, that very day. It was a full sheet of paper, turned on its side, and a single sentence was scrawled heavily across it diagonally, as if the writer couldn’t see the logical line for the text to follow:

I do not make house calls.

That was it. He didn’t make house calls, meaning he was
still
expecting her to come to him, even though he was the one asking a favor. Deciding to make him wait, she let her irritation simmer for another two days. On the third day, she’d had a major argument with Eddie over the china he’d unpacked; she was furious with him for undoing all of her hard work, and he was in tears because he didn’t want to move out of his home in the first place. She thoroughly lost her temper, and then so did he, until they were both screaming.

It had felt…
good
. When was the last time she’d let herself get that emotional? Or screamed loudly enough for a passing stranger to hear her? Or so completely disregard Rule Number Three? Eddie had broken into tears at the exact same moment she had, and they both knelt on the floor of their apartment—soon to be the Cutters’ apartment—and bawled their eyes out all over each other.

After, she sat rocking him on the living room rug, just like she had for years when he’d cry at night over Milton’s strict rules. And for a moment, she felt like she had her baby back.

Leaning over to kiss his forehead that night, knowing that he wasn’t as grown up as he wanted to pretend, and that maybe she wasn’t either, she’d had a realization. If
Signore
Bellini was as hideous as Jack claimed, then perhaps he was keeping his own Rule Number One by not going out in public. Perhaps he was hiding away as best he could, as sometimes she wanted to, since her beauty had faded.

So, feeling charitable, she accepted his invitation. His dictate, really. She’d dressed in her most austere gown, tucked every wayward strand of her hair into the strict bun, and pinched her cheeks for color. Critiquing her reflection in her hand mirror—a gift from Milton on their first anniversary, so she’d always look perfect—she nodded primly. While she might not be beautiful anymore, at least she was proper.

And now, standing on the porch of the newest Everland resident, she was glad she’d taken the extra minutes with her appearance. While Misters Cole and King had built many of Everland’s buildings—including her bookstore—and thus most of the town showed their distinctive “Swiss chalet” style, this one was special. All one level, its wings stretched away from Perrault Street, sweeping towards the mountains in the distance. It was obvious that the owner was wealthy, and Mr. Cole’s choice of woods and Mr. King’s elaborate scrollwork reflected the fact. Self-consciously, Arabella smoothed her palm down the front of the dress and adjusted the basket of books hooked over one elbow. Taking a deep breath, she knocked again.

When the door opened, though, she let out an embarrassing little squeak and stepped back. The man was tall enough that his head almost brushed the door jamb, with his sleeves rolled up and a long cleaver gripped tightly in one hand. “What?”

Her heart beating loudly enough that he surely heard, Arabella took a step backwards. “I’m… I’m Mrs. Mayor?” She railed inside at how hesitant she sounded, but he really was intimidating. His hair was as long as hers, pulled back in a sloppy queue at the base of his neck, and he wore a bloody apron above completely out-of-fashion tall boots.

But as soon as she introduced herself, his scowl eased into a smile, and she realized that this must be the manservant. “Well now, missus, we weren’t expecting ye, but m’lord’ll be pleased ta meet ye, I’m sure.”

M’lord
. Maybe some of the rumors about
Signore
Bellini were true, after all? But she just nodded, perhaps a little more stiffly than necessary.

He stepped out of the way, inviting her inside with a gesture. “I’m Gordon McKinnon, an’ I’m elbow-deep in cubin’ beef fer dinner t’night.” When she stepped into the foyer, he kicked the door shut behind her and jerked his head down the hall. “But I’ll show ye ta the study first.”

His smile was kind, and Arabella felt herself slowly relax as she followed him. Perhaps he’d just been abrupt at first because she’d interrupted his chore, or because they were used to nosy neighbors? Whatever the reason, he’d recognized her name—he’d been part of the chain that got her here, after all—and seemed welcoming now.

For all of the home’s grandeur on the exterior, the inside was…plain. There was no decoration, no wall hangings, no pretty paint. The lamps were few and far between, so the hall was dim, and there wasn’t even a bench or tables for knickknacks. Then she remembered that the home’s owner was blind. He’d obviously spent money on the outside of the house to keep up appearances—maybe he knew about Rule Number One?—but didn’t bother inside, since it would all be wasted on him. And the lack of furniture just meant there were fewer things for him to navigate around in his daily routine. Perhaps—

When the music started, she stopped thinking. In fact, she stopped in her tracks, and thought that her heart might have stopped too. Meredith had said that
Signore
Bellini was a world-renowned violinist, but Arabella hadn’t realized…hadn’t realized what that would mean. Hadn’t realized that with that first graceful pull of the bow across the strings, the note would leap down her chest and into her stomach and then her tears would climb up her throat and run down her cheeks and she’d be reminded, in that one horrible, glorious moment, of a life she’d lost long ago. A love she’d lost long ago.

Gordon turned to her, and his expression softened when he saw hers. She was standing in a strange house—a strange, dark house—weeping in the hall, because of music. No, not just
any
music. Powerful, humbling, heart-wrenchingly beautiful music that flowed from behind the last door on the left. Music that touched a part of her soul she hadn’t remembered existed.

With a little smile, the manservant pushed the door open just enough for a small body to slip through, and gestured for her to do so. She hesitated, wiping her palms across her cheeks and wondering if
Signore
Bellini would be able to tell she’d been crying. It certainly wasn’t proper, but she discovered that Rule Number Two didn’t seem to matter at that moment.

When Gordon jerked his chin and smiled, she squared her shoulders, took a firmer grip on her basket of books, and slipped through the partially opened door. He’d called this a study, but it was really a room for music. High ceilings, tall windows to let in the spring light, and everywhere testaments to a master’s talent. She counted three violins on stands, a cello in a case beside the hearth, and tools and accoutrements galore. All of this, though, paled in comparison to the room’s occupant.

Signore
Bellini stood with his back to her, in the center of the room. His brown hair was long and shaggy, even though he was dressed in a fine suit. He’d removed the jacket—there it was, thrown over that chair—and rolled up his sleeves. She could see highly improper glimpses of his skin, covered in little hairs, as his elbow sawed in and out, creating the most…the most incredible music.

He hadn’t noticed her presence. He was engrossed in his music, and she couldn’t blame him. Even after ten years, she couldn’t forget the stance of a man completely absorbed in the magic he could make with a violin;
Signore
Bellini stood on the balls on his feet, as if he’d take flight any moment, his entire body moving with the stroke of the bow across his strings. He was throwing his entire
being
into playing, like Edward used to.

But this music…this was greater, more beautiful, than anything her first husband could’ve aspired to. This was what the violin had been created for. This was pure magic.

Arabella realized that she was crying again, but couldn’t risk wiping her tears away. Couldn’t risk moving, couldn’t risk breathing, for fear that he’d know she was there, and stop playing. And at that moment, the absolute last thing that she wanted was for him to stop playing.

His music brought back so many beautiful memories: teasing Edward about the amount of time he spent transcribing the songs in his head; lying tangle-limbed beside him while he stroked her skin and told her about the music school he’d one day start; him carefully packing away his first violin for their future child.

Eddie
! More than once, she’d wished that her son could learn to play the instrument, even a quarter as well as his father. And maybe he could have, if they were still living in Boston, where there were teachers. But here, in Everland, there was no one to teach him how to use his father’s violin.

Until now.

Vincenzo Bellini hinted to Jack that he wanted to hire her to read to him. And she would’ve happily accepted that arrangement, because she and Eddie needed the money. But it wouldn’t be enough to keep them from having to rent out their apartment; they’d still need more. No,
Signore
Bellini’s payment wouldn’t be grand enough for that. But maybe, just maybe, she could talk him into a different kind of payment. A barter, perhaps?

He’d reached a particularly difficult point in the piece—one that she recognized, but couldn’t identify—and the music became solid; a living, breathing entity that wrapped itself around them both and
squeezed
. His hair swished back and forth, and when he dropped one shoulder she saw that his beard was as thick and unkempt and dripping in sweat as the rest of him. But at that moment, that glorious moment, he
was
music.

Did she whimper? Was that a sound, deep from her stomach and low in her throat? Was she crying, or keening, or yearning for what was lost and what might’ve been?

And while she was trying to swallow down her passions, the music stopped, abruptly, cut off when he lifted the bow from the strings. That one truncated note froze around them, a moment of perfect stillness so real that she could
taste
it… and then he tilted his head to one side, and said “Honeysuckle” so low that she almost couldn’t hear it over the ringing silence the absence of the music created.

And then, just when she thought that she’d need to breathe again, or faint, he said it again. He dropped his right hand to his side, straightened slightly, and said, “Honeysuckle. Gordy, you’ve brought me a woman.”

She sucked in a breath at his rudeness, and decided this feeling of light-headedness was just the air hitting her lungs. But when he turned towards her, and she almost took a step backwards, she wasn’t so sure.

Jack hadn’t been exaggerating.
Signore
Bellini was terrifying. From where she stood across the room, Arabella could see the mass of scar tissue that ran up his right cheekbone from under his thick beard, across where both eyes had once been—mercifully sparing most of his nose—and continued up under his hairline. He wore his hair long, falling in front of the melted-looking scars that now covered his eye sockets, and she supposed that she should be thankful for that little blessing. Even knowing that he couldn’t see her reaction, it was hard not to turn away in disgust at his deformity.