KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

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PART 12

The sun knew it was August and took full advantage of the excuse to shine hot and yellow
in a cloudless sky. Still, the faint breeze off the lake softened the effect, ruffling the water and teasing the long, fine grass on the verge where she sat with Nancy, watching an erratic game of frisbee.

"No, not in the lake!" Nancy's words came too late, if they carried at all in the warm, muffled air. The disc of shocking pink sketched a short, graceful arc and glided to rest several feet from shore. The children giggled as their father trudged out into the water with exaggerated splashes, bellowing in simulated rage to turn and chase them shrieking back across the grass.

"Now, they'll never stop doing it," Nancy predicted.

Catherine laughed, "Paul doesn't seem to mind."

"Oh, he doesn't. He's probably having more fun than they are, but you see what we're up against."

Catherine noticed the same tone of exasperated pride she often heard from her friends who were mothers. "But you wouldn't have it any other way?

"No," her friend admitted with a smile. "I wouldn't. But what about you, Cath? What's going on with you? I can see that whatever it is, it's good."

"Can you?"

Nancy nodded. "You seem….I don't know… just happy, I guess."

"I am. Happier than I can remember being -- ever,"

"Does that mean things are going well . . . with Vincent?"  The words were a little cautious, and Catherine guessed why. When The she'd first spoken of Vincent to Nancy, she'd been emotionally overwrought, felt she was losing her grip on everything, and the little bit she had told her about him -- about their relationship -- had spilled out in a desperate need to share the problem. Nance understood that, and ever since had been circumspect in her questions, guessing that to probe too deeply would only make her friend uncomfortable.

"Very well, Nance. We've cleared up some things -- not problems really -- just things that kind of stood in the way, because we never talked about them openly."

"Which was it, Cathy -- sex or money?"

"What?"

"Don't look so shocked. I was only kidding. It just seems like most of the problems in relationships come from one or the other."

Catherine tossed her hair free around her coloring cheeks. "Well, it wasn't money." Please spare me, she thought from one more well-meaning friend wanting a fiscal report on Vincent.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to pry. I'm glad your life is working, Cath. That's all."

"Thanks, Nance. So am I. You were so smart to point out to me that whatever we had might be enough. I just couldn't see that at the time. I was so confused about what I thought I should do, what I really wanted."

"Well, from the look of you it's more than enough."

"It is," she grinned and sat for a moment watching the sunlight on the furrows of the lake. "When I'm with Vincent, I feel a completeness, like nothing I've ever known in my life. Even when we're apart now, I'm conscious that he's with me, and I know whatever happens that we'll be together again, because it's the most important thing. I'm satisfied, content in a way i never thought I could be."

"Why do I sense a 'but' coming up here?" Nancy coaxed gently. Catherine shook her head. "I wish I knew why. It's just that with all that, I can't help feeling this longing for more. A part of me says that's only human nature, but a part of me wonders if it isn't Cathy Chandler, stomping her foot and demanding to have everything. Do you know what I mean?"

Nancy's warm eyes reflected sympathetic concern. "There's nothing wrong with wanting more of a good thing. Maybe you need to ask yourself whether the things you want would be the right choices for Vincent too -- or just you. Then you'll know whether they're selfish or not."

Catherine nodded, frowning slightly in the bright sunlight. "You're right, but sometimes it's hard to know what's truly best for him. He's so protective of me, Nance, so . . . well, stubborn about doing what's right for me that I don't think he even allows himself to think about what he truly wants -- deep down."

"He sounds wonderful, Cath. He must love you a lot."

"Yes," she said softly, feeling a warmth beyond that of the August sun. "He doesn't do anything halfway. I know we just need to take it slowly, and eventually things will work out."

"Does that mean you've found a way to be together? Some way he can be part of your world?"

Catherine's emphatic denial was quick in coming. "No, Nance, that will never be possible. It just won't."

"Well, then, have you ever considered becoming a part of his?"

Catherine looked out across the lake a moment before she spoke. "Actually, I have. I even asked him if I could -- twice."

"What did he say?"
"The first time he said 'no'."

"And the second?"
"He said," she breathed a heavy sigh at the memory. "He said he wanted me to be there too."

"Well, then -- what happened?"

"When he said it, Nance, he was only being truthful -- speaking what was in his own heart, but at the same time, I think he knew quite well it wasn't going to happen -- not then anyway. He understood what I couldn't see at that moment -- that my coming there would have been for the wrong reasons."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"It was when my father died. It was horrible, Nance, feeling suddenly that there was nothing left of my family, no one to love or love me. All the things I'd always done -- even going into law -- I'd done that because of my dad, and now he wasn't there anymore. Everything seemed so meaningless. All of a sudden I was left living a life that I'm not sure I would have even chosen for myself. Without his approval it didn't seem to have much point. It was like I didn't belong anywhere. "

"So you went to Vincent."

She nodded. "I can't tell you what he did for me. Nancy. It was as if he was there to absorb all my pain and grief, and what was left was the realization that I had to face the world again, that I couldn't just walk away from that life I'd chosen. It would have been the coward's way out. Vincent understood that I was running from the emptiness, rather than making a positive decision to share his life. He was being truthful when he said he'd like me to stay, but he wasn't surprised when I decided to go. Now I realize how hard on him it must have been. I never once considered what I was doing to him by being there, playing with his emotions. Sometimes, Nance, I feel like such a jerk."

"Cath, come on." Her friend put a comforting arm around her shoulders, "I've never known you to hurt anyone intentionally -- even in our more frivolous days."

Catherine smiled ruefully. "Some of us were more frivolous than others."

"'Were.' But you made a whole new life. More than anyone I know, you're giving of yourself, working hard and taking risks, caring for people you don't even know. It's hardly the time to start being so self-critical."

"I just don't want to hurt him, Nance -- ever again."

"He sounds like an incredibly strong person -- and patient. Do you think there'll ever be a time when you could share his life, when you'd both believe it was right?"

"I honestly don't know. It's complicated. There are things we're still trying to come to terms with, things that could make a life together unbearable or even impossible. At least he's afraid of that, but there's more. It was because of him that I found the courage to make a new life, one that has some meaning. He's only known me since that time. He respects what I do. if I gave that up . . . to be with him, I don't know if he'd still see me in the same way. Where he lives, the kind of things I'm trained for would be irrelevant."

Nancy looked at her with a helpless shrug. "I'm out of my depth here, Cathy. It's hard for me to relate to something so extraordinary. I can only be awed by it and glad that you're so lucky. To see the obstacles and not be discouraged, to be as happy as you obviously are in spite of them -- it's beautiful, and no one deserves it more."

"It's okay, Nance," she smiled, returning her hug. "You've already given me the only advice that really counts, and that's what I intend to follow. Do you suppose we should get the food out before your poor husband drops from exhaustion?"

Nancy followed her gaze far across the meadow where Paul was charging into the trees to retrieve the errant frisbee. "I think he'd be eternally grateful," she laughed.

It was Monday evening when Catherine went to the Central Park threshold and felt an uncanny flood of emotions, exhilarating and exquisitely sweet, to find him waiting for her.

He tilted his head, studying her. "Your nose."

"My nose?" For a moment she thought he was continuing the soliloquy on her face that he'd begun the last time they met.

"It's sunburned." |

"Oh," she laughed, touching it self-consciously. "I went on a picnic with Nancy and her family. Does it look awful?"

"No." His hand enveloped hers, leading her away from the entrance. "It looks . . . cute."

"Vincent!" She stopped, laughter trembling in her voice. "You said the 'C' word!"

"It won't happen again, Catherine." She saw the glint of irony in his expressive eyes, even as the words were spoken with finality, and he turned away, drawing her with him down the passageway. "Did you enjoy your picnic?"

She described the day for him, as they made their way deeper into the earth. Some of the children had asked him to check on their musical progress, not a formal concert, but a practice session to be held in Father's study, and they arrived to find a few adults sitting casually around the chamber.

Father greeted them with an invitation to take the two heavy chairs nearest his desk, a gesture that made her feel both flattered and a little awkward. It reminded her of times in her younger days. when she'd sat with a nervous date on the couch in the old Fifth Avenue apartment, while her dad made jovial conversation. Why she should think of that now, she wasn't sure. Vincent wasn't nervous, and. after all, Jacob wasn't her father. Still she folded her hands demurely in her lap, feeling like a teenager.

"It's good of you to sit in on this, Catherine," Father whispered, leaning across the well worn desk. "I must warn you, it can be a bit painful -- when the work is in its rudimentary stages, but the children were thrilled to hear you might join us."

"I think it's wonderful that they're willing to share what they've learned with adults. They must be doing pretty well, or they wouldn't be willing to play in front of anybody.'

"Oh, yes, I'm sure they've made admirable progress. It's only that the sound of a violin screeching off these old stone walls can be absolutely appalling." His face twisted into an anticipatory grimace that made her laugh.

"Are you feeling better, Father?"

"Yes. actually I am, thank you, Catherine. The weather has finally been behaving as it should, but I see you're well aware of that."

"What? Oh, you mean my nose. Actually, Vincent and I were just discussing that. He said it looked . . ." She turned to meet his eyes, letting the mischievous words hang in the air. He'd been listening quietly to the conversation, and the look he gave her was mild -- suspiciously so, she suspected. "He said it looked . sunburned."

"So it does. You know, I haven't been living in the shadows for so long as to forget the dangers of overexposure. The long term effects can be very harmful. It would be wise to use an ointment, Catherine, to avoid any risks."

Really, she thought, it was hard to imagine how these two men had managed to deal with the ravaged horror her face had been when they first found her, when such a slight affliction could create so much interest.

Father apparently took her silence for embarrassment. "I'm speaking as a physician, you understand. You needn't worry that it looks unsightly -- one can scarcely notice it -- merely a bit pink --rather charming really."

She was at a loss to respond, but within there was a warmth, an awareness that the concern surrounding her was that of people who noticed and cared -- about small things -- like family. Perhaps she had begun to take on a daughter's role, as well as the oddly ambiguous one she had always played in relation to Father, an improbable mixture of affection and respect and the fear that she might someday spell disaster for his son.

Of course, if he was to be regarded as a parent to her, as well as to Vincent, it added yet another startling shade to what was already a colorful palate of complications. That's all we need, she thought wryly -- a little touch of incest.

"You're very quiet," Vincent observed in a whisper.

"I was just thinking. I seem to have so many new feelings lately, and every one is followed by thoughts. Some of them make sense and some of them don't, but it's hard to sort them out. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, Catherine. I know what you mean."

Of course. Whatever the yet unfocused areas in her own mind, they were nothing to what must be churning in his, and she felt suddenly ashamed for her self-absorption. Perhaps he noticed the recrimination that simmered within her. His look was gently reassuring, and he shifted slightly to put his arm on the back of her chair, his fingers barely touching her shoulder. It was enough. However casual the gesture might appear, he was enveloping her in an aura of safety and unassailable love, reminding her that they were part of each other, and she gloried in the feeling.

Five of the children had chosen this night to demonstrate a fledgling relationship with their instruments. That the relationship was still tentative was apparent as they began to play. There were stops and starts. Moments of admirable synchronization were abruptly marred by odd bleats from a clarinet or the protest of a flute pushed past its ability to compensate for an unskilled touch with its own sweet voice. At times the melody would settle into familiarity, only to veer off on a surprising and jarring detour. Still, their earnestness and persistence was utterly beguiling, and she cherished, too, the knowledge that in this place it was safe to try new things, to share the first uncertain steps without fear of ridicule.

A shriek from the clarinet disturbed this benevolent perspective and an ungodly screech from the violin nearly threatened to destroy it. With an involuntary flinch she chalked up another point for the wisdom that had raised Father to a position of leadership. What must that have sounded like to Vincent? She stole a look at him, but he appeared unperturbed, engrossed in the children's efforts. Nothing in his demeanor acknowledged her glance, yet a gentle stirring within convinced her he was acutely aware of her presence close beside him.

She clasped her hands a little tighter in an effort to prevent one from straying to the inviting closeness of his knee. Clad in a dark blue fabric, stretched tight across the muscled thighs, strengthened by a rough sewn patch of grey leather, it suddenly seemed an irresistible place to rest that hand -- possessively. With the iron will usually reserved to wear down some particularly intractable witness, she forced her attention back to the five small figures still filling the chamber with a strange blend of melody and discord.

The brief recital ended with a smattering of applause from the few spectators. Chairs were scooted back, and the adults stopped to offer words of encouragement and praise before filing out of the study.

"I played a wrong note," announced the youngest performer, a chubby redheaded boy, as she and Vincent approached. He turned to glare at the first -- and only -- violinist. "Kenny said it woulda made Haydn mad."

"No, he didn't." Samantha chimed in from her perch on a wooden stool, the clarinet she clutched finally silenced into submission. "What he said was it would have made Haydn barf."

Vincent laid a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Perhaps, Haydn played that note himself, when he was deciding which one to use in his song."

The round face brightened. "Yeah, maybe he even kinda liked it. He just chose a different one."