To Hope Anew

Chapter Nine

The heavy water pitcher hit the end of the small bedside tablehard, and smashed to pieces, pouring water over everything withinreach. Diana cursed her stubborness with an expletive^¿nconsciously absorbed from years of working in amale-dominated environment, then blushed at the thought that someonein this quiet, civilized world might have heard her. But, she wasangry with herself. Here she had hoped to save Mary some work andinstead she'd created more chaos for the gentle woman to attempt tohandle.

It was Thursday morning, early, and Diana had at last feltsomewhat back to her own strengths and resources again. The IV hadbeen replaced days ago by William's delicious home cooking. The dearman had insisted on tempting her reluctant apetite daily with soupsand breads and teas in a generous showing of attentive care that hadhelped her regain her strength. And Father hadn't even had to leaveher any pain medication for the night. Yes, she felt finally that shehad turned the corner in her recovery.

There had been a steady stream of community members coming throughthe entryway to the hospital chamber, each person willing to help herpass the time in pleasant, if confined, company, from Samantha toJamie to even Mouse and Pascal. And when it was deemed necessary,Father himself shooed everyone away to check on her progress andminister to her needs.

Diana was overwhelmed by the sensation of peace and rebirth shefound herself blanketed by with such welcome. The most wondrous partof it all was the very real knowledge that the care everyone wasshowering her with was a genuine outgrowth of the community's normalspirit. This was no show for a stranger unexpectedly dropped intotheir midst. Diana at once felt a beloved part of an extended,attentive family doing their utmost with their meager means to carefor her rather overwhelming needs at present.

She could not imagine having lived so long under any othercircumstances.

She felt more at home, loved and valued in this mysterious worldof rock walls and candlelight than she ever did since leaving behindher family to set out on her own. No wonder Samantha's dreamsreturned her always here, home.

Feeling the slightest bit more renewed and confidant of herabilities, Diana had, this morning, decided to try and do a fewthings for herself, if only to give poor Mary a break in heroverwhelming duties for her care. The dear woman had come to seatherself beside Diana soon after she opened her eyes first thing inthe morning, to help her change positions in bed, to bring her freshclothes and allow her to struggle into them, even to offer her achance to refresh herself with a basin bath each day. Diana couldn'timagine when the poor woman took time for a bite of breakfast.

So, today, the patient decided she could at least wash her ownface! Unfortunately, her damnably restricting injuries had otherideas. She may have gotten past the fearful helplessness of herpainful injuries, but she was nowhere near able to return to beingher usual fiercely independent self.

Still, she'd give it a try, if only to nudge herself back into thereal world she'd have to soon return to, one that didn't give a damnabout her needs these days.

Trying, however, was going to entail a bit of constructivethinking, she'd found out: The bed table with the pitcher and basinon it was on the right side of her cot. Her right arm was in a cast,though her fingertips were free. She could hardly turn her right legwhen she was lying in bed as the cast on it was heavy and unwieldy,so swinging her feet to the stone floor below was out of thequestion.

The only possible solution was to reach, left-handed, across herbody and attempt to stretch to within reach of the pitcher with justher upper body able to follow in the movements. She had finallymanaged to close her fingers around the handle when her contortedposition forced her hand to give it up.

Then came the crash of ceramics and the water splashing over thetable, against the bed, and down to the floor. Diana returned,defeated, to her original place in bed, eyes closed, the unladylikeepitaph ringing about the small room.

After a moment she heard the unexpected sound of a voice, a velvetvoice, that did nothing to soothe her. Instead, she felt her heartleap into her throat: "Diana, are you hurt?"

Vincent came into the room, balancing a breakfast tray in one handas he pushed aside the doorway curtain with the other. Quicklysurveying the damage, he set his tray down on a nearby storagecabinet and came over to the side of her bed.

It took more than a moment before the young woman could find hervoice. The steady stream of visitors to her room these past threedays had included pretty much everyone in the community, except thearresting figure before her. Since Sunday morning, Vincent had onlyappeared to check up on her state twice, the first with Samantha intow and the second, yesterday morning, when he had brought Mary penand paper to help her write a note to Joe.

Diana guessed, painfully, that he had distanced himself from herpurposely. After that heart-stopping exchange between the two of themSunday morning, she was not surprised. Their reactions to one anotherwere so unexpectedly overwhelming. And dangerously welcome.

Tears came up into Diana's eyes, of anger, of pain, of joy thatwould not be denied at his nearness again at last. She was nevergoing to survive the next two and one half weeks here Below in hisworld, seeing him day to day. She was never going to survive notseeing him, not feeling him close. What had they gotten themselvesinto? What undeserved turmoil had Fate served them up this time?

"I didn't want Mary to have to cater to my unimportant needs everymorning. I'm doing nothing but imposing on her generosity andpatience."

Vincent stooped down to the floor and began to pick up the piecesof shattered pottery in his hand. He guessed that the vehemence ofDiana's words were caused not only by the frustration of hertemporary handicaps. She was deeply in distress, something he couldsense she was hiding from him; he prayed his presence wasn't thereason for her pain.

For, something had propelled him to her room this morning thatwould not be reasoned away or ignored. He had spent a total of tenminutes in her company since Sunday morning, a forced banishment onhis own part, as a result of the undisguised emotions they had beenhelpless to contain during their last encounter. Vincent had quit thehospital chamber then in confused anguish, berating his errant heartfor what he deemed a shameful display of disloyalty to Catherine'smemory. And even more frightening . . . the very real evidence thathis feelings for Diana, beyond the tenderness and gratitude shedeserved, harbored the unfamiliar, forbidden fruits of recklessphysical attraction he'd long denied could co-exist with hisquestionable humanity.

Yet, keeping away from Diana had not been the answer either. Hehad occupied himself fully with the repair work on the tunnels to thepoint of sheer physical exhaustion, but his mind was never so weariedthat it did not find itself back in the sweet, bewitching glow of hereyes. And, he had been tormented by the dream again, relivingCatherine's last moments and finding, incredibly, that it was Diana'slifeless body in his arms instead, her apparent loss to him assearing a wound as Catherine's had left him with.

Coming back to his full height, Vincent calmly walked over to asmall waste basket near a battered desk in the room and dropped thepieces of shattered pottery into it. He forced his voice to remaineven, when he turned again to Diana.

"Mary loves to help anyone in need. You are not imposing, Diana.It is her joy to care for you at this moment. There is no shame inneeding help, in asking for help."

Retrieving a small towel from a pile of cleaning cloths in acardboard box, Vincent bent down once again to sop up the water onthe bed table and floor. He kept his attention on his chore, but hewas very aware that the young woman in bed was fighting her ownlosing battle with her emotions.

Diana swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the deliberate movementsof the man near her. For all the peace her unexpected plunge into thetunnel world had offered her till now, she was in control-shatteringpain the moment she found herself in the presence of the mythicalfigure. She had hoped, despite her good sense railing against itspossibility, that these moments together, forced by an act of God,would have given Vincent a glimpse of promise and belief in thepossibility of a new life beyond his grief. Instead, she toldherself, her selfish impatience was likely to force his still sofragile spirit into a dark storm of denial he would never survive.She would drive him away yet, to live his life in painful memory andregret.

For one incredibly able to observe others, discerning theirthinking, feeling, and motivation with startling clarity, she was ata total loss, now, in reading the state of her own heart, and theheart of the man she'd love till her dying day. God, Cathy, sheprotested in silent torment, why did you bring us together if it wasonly to tear our hearts apart? He's never going to love anyone butyou.

Vincent hung the wet rag across the back of a nearby chair, awarethat Diana had pulled her gaze from him and settled it onto acarefully mended spot of the blanket covering her. Yet, he could feelher reaching tenderness in the quiet ache she left in his heart.Every reasonable fiber of his being counseled him to settle thebreakfast try within her reach and walk out of the chamber door, now.Because he knew that if he wasn't capable of returning theirrelationship to the relatively benign stability of caring friendship,he would cause the battered young woman before him nothing butpain.

Yet, with the knowledge of the harm he was certain his lapse inemotional detachment could cause her, he was still so uncertain ofwhat it was he truly felt for Diana, still so uncertain of what herheart was calling him to, still so very . . . afraid . . . he alreadyknew the answers.

He couldn't be falling in love with her.

That was what her pleading eyes had been yearning for him toaccept of the reality between them. Catherine had been dead less thana year. Her child, their child, wasn't even walking yet. Still, theterror of the truth held his heart every moment he spent vulnerableto the aching hope in those honest green eyes: His heart, socompletely enraptured by Catherine's love first, and her memory now,was threatening to allow another, solace, and comfort, in herplace.

That was his greatest fear, the source of Vincent's greatest pain,where Diana was concerned -- Not that he could even comprehend lovingsomeone else, ever -- but the brutal injustice of loving someone elsein Catherine's place.

Diana deserved better.

She needed to be loved for herself, for the incredible,confounding, bewitching, angelic reality that she herself was. Notbecause of the cherished possibilities she could bring him thatCatherine had been robbed of. Not because her struggling heart was sowilling to deny barriers that he and Catherine would never in theirwildest dreams have crossed.

Determined to make things right between them, salvage arelationship he knew had literally drawn him from the brink, Vincentturned back to offer the needful soul before him some semblance ofpeace. He knew he needed to deny her his love, the sort of love thathe could never give, no matter how compelling and enticing it couldbecome, to bring her that peace, in the end. But, he would neverwithhold from her his friendship and trust. He would find the courageto distinguish between them.

"Shall we begin again? You wished to help yourself a bit more,today, I believe," he spoke evenly.

Diana nodded in agreement, far from certain that she could bearanother minute of Vincent's presence in detached observation. But,she had watched him struggle with himself, moments before, knowingthe cause, and she would endure any pain if she could keep it fromtouching him.

Vincent reached over to the tea kettle on the breakfast tray hehad brought in and poured some of its steaming water into the basinleft intact on the bed table. Then he picked up another pitcher ofwater from a table near the entryway and poured more of it intoDiana's basin. "It isn't easy to keep water warm down here. You mightfind it more comfortable now."

Pulling a larger towel from a wicker basket set on a chair againstthe wall, he gently swung it over the covers on Diana's lap. Droppinga washcloth and a bar of soap into the basin from a store of them onan old dresser, he carefully set the water onto the towel within herreach.

Diana automatically thanked him and slipped her left hand into thebasin gratefully. The water was warm and soothing, its comfortenveloping her slowly, easing her from the anxious uncertainty thathad filled her heart till then.

She had been a fool to let frustration and hopelessness overcomeher, threatening the precariously balanced essence of theirrelationship. Was an indistinct hope of future acknowledged sweetnessbetween them worth the certain risk of losing, now, what little carethey'd been able to wrest out of their fate-tested paths?

She'd thrown herself headlong into his pain a year ago, desperateto hold on to the wonder that he was, touching his life with only themost fearfully bridled expectations because she knew that he couldvery well vanish from her life in an instant, becoming only ahalf-remembered dream of tenderest promise in her spirit-ravagingexistence. Now she was ready to throw that caution to the winds? Shedid need to begin again, she acknowledged in her usual candor withherself, in more ways than one. She would try to hold to his limits,if only to save him pain.

Taking hold of the washcloth in her single free hand, Diana soughtto wring it out, letting only the sensations of the warm water fillher unsteady spirit, determined to pull her heart back into thesensible control of her formidable force of will. But not even thewashcloth would respond to her directives, it seemed. It was actuallya recycled section of a heavier bath towel, much bulkier when wetthan a regular washcloth. One-handed as she was, it became a strugglefor her to wring it out as much as was necessary.

Vincent had taken a small hand towel from the pile of clean linensand was ready to give it to Diana when he became aware of herconflict with the washcloth. But he made no movement to assist her,recognizing her need to gain some small foothold in her quest for areturn to independence. She had said she wanted to do things forherself.

And he had said there was no shame in asking for help.

"Could you, please, Vincent? I can't get hold of enough ofit."

The words were steady, even if she hated to admit she wasn't as incontrol as she would have liked. Knowing how hard it was for her tovoice that admission, what poignant, and vulnerable humility it hadtaken for her, Vincent eased his powerful body to the small bed andsat beside her, mindful an instant, of her plastered leg beneath thecovers. He drew the sleeves of his sweater up a bit on his arms andreached into the basin, easily wringing out the cloth for heruse.

Diana's attention was locked onto his hands. They seemed anythingbut deadly at the moment, her heart stumbling at the thought of histouch. When he held the warm, wrung cloth out to her, she couldn'thelp but pull her gaze up from it, to his eyes, those crystalsapphire eyes that always took her breath away with their mysteriousdepths. She could never have helped herself then, not in a millionyears, not for the sake of her life or her soul . . . She let everybreath of longing in her heart touch him, pour from her heart to theragged breath she drew into her lungs, to the luminescent honesty ofher own green eyes.

Vincent's hand remained suspended between them, holding the clothout to her, as he read the sweet agony of love she'd revealed intrusting, beguiling, innocence. There was more than the promise of arefreshed countenance hanging, suddenly, in the balance. Diana longedto accept that promise from him. He ached to offer it to her then,despite his fierce strength of will that ruthlessly attempted to buryit once again deep within his heart.

But, it was no use.

With anguishing tenderness, Vincent brought the warm, wet cloth toDiana's face, to those ethereal features that only mirrored the graceof her soul. He gently rubbed the cloth over her cheeks, then herforehead. She could not bear to hold his own gaze, the startled,treasured outpouring of . . . love . . . from his eyes, the tremblingof those deadly, beautiful, hands moving over her face withbreathtaking devotion.

Diana closed her eyes, letting the wet, fragrant warmth envelopeher, soothe her, cherish her, as Vincent pulled the cloth softlyacross her lips an instant and down onto her chin. She knew thetruth, now, the heart-wrenching truth: That simple act of humankindness had become the tenderest of lover's caresses, hidingfearfully behind a recycled washcloth. It set every fiber of herbeing to trembling expectation.

Returning the now cooled cloth to the basin, Vincent wrung it outonce again, seeming to gain a miraculous conviction of the rightnessof his actions, where a heartbeat ago he would have thought himselfcompletely lost of all his senses. He unbelievably then slipped thecloth gently over Diana's throat. Neither one of them was capable ofbreathing at that instant, the blood racing through Diana's veinspalpable beneath his hand. Her skin was fragile with an opalradiance. It begged to be touched. Pulling the cloth over thesensitive area below her ear, Vincent lifted aside her braid with onegraceful motion, and slowly wiped the loving warmth up the back ofher neck, under her hair. Diana felt as though she could die from thesweetness filling her pounding heart.

Setting the wet cloth onto the dry towel on the covers, finally,Vincent sought out Diana's uninjured hand. She let herself be ledlike a little child. He carefully slipped the long sleeve of her gownup her arm part way, revealing the slender, porcelain limb. Then heeased her hand completely into the basin, rubbing it slowly with thelavender soap bar, running the length of each finger between his.After an eternal moment, he lifted the dry towel to her hand, pattingit gently to wipe it.

Diana could not believe her senses, the flooding sensuality histender ministration had driven straight to her heart. She was certainshe could not trust her instincts, either. Just five minutes ago shewas ready to accept the fact that her uncurtailed lapses of emotionalcontrol were going to cost her what little closeness she had managedto wrest from Vincent. She was certain that if she did not rein inher heart she would suffer the loss of any bit of friendship they hadforged, she would shatter any particle of solace she might have beenable to bring him.

Instead, he had confounded her perceptions, inexplicably acceptedthe unintentional revelation of her heart. And far from driving himdeeper into his desperate grief, Vincent had given her a moment ofsoul-baring revelation of his own, a glimpse of the wondrous depth oflove he was capable of gifting her with, for the most minute instant,unashamed, and, unafraid.

But, the heart-rending ecstasy of acknowledgment he was lettingher cling to was not yet ended. Carefully, he lifted her broken armup into his hand. Retrieving the washcloth again, he gently wipedeach finger showing out from the cast, lingering over the bruisedknuckles, willing the hurt away. Diana felt her heart snap, for shehad read, in that instant, an aching need in his mystically arrestingface, to reach her battered hand up to his lips. She prayed he couldfind the courage to do so, prayed she'd find the courage to standit.

That was, however, the only tender contact he was willing to denyher. Carefully easing her hand back down to her side, he gathered upthe basin and towels and came to his feet. Diana wasn't certain ifshe was breathing yet, if she had been drawn into a dream too real tobe denied. Gracing her with a look that yet held the gentlest tracesof communion, Vincent said quietly, "I'm certain Mary or Rebeccawould be happy to help you with your hair if you like. I'll tell themyou need a dry gown."

The soft words drew Diana, finally, back to an awareness of hersurroundings. She hadn't even noticed, all this while: When thepitcher had shattered, the long sleeves of her night gown had beensoaked.

The compelling figure opposite her, quietly holding her in a gazethat was once again familiar in its hesitant vulnerability, couldnever have just touched her soul with so much honest emotion andtrust, she concluded. Had it been merely evidence of her impendingemotional collapse, a sweetness she'd conjured as a result of injuryand spiritual confusion?

Settling the breakfast tray back onto her lap, Vincent moved awayfrom her side to exit the room. His face was unreadable, its usualstoic, accepting calm. If the tenderness he had found the courage tooffer her had been real, had been a struggle for him, she could nolonger find proof of it in his demeanor. He was once again the caringand attentive friend helping to make her trying circumstances lessburdensome.

Or was he?

Diana was fully aware, in that moment, of the leap of faith thepast ten minutes had cost the embattled man before her. He couldsimply have turned his back on her, dismissed her heart, despised herintrusion into the recesses of his torn soul.

Instead, he had given her a glimpse of what could be, what depthand honesty of heart he could be capable of sharing, with a loving,like heart, someday.

Knowing it was there, within him, was almost more painful toendure than any outright rejection or denial. But, she could livelifetimes on such pain. If the past year was any indication, she'd bedoing just that, enduring more pain than any lifetime should beforced to acknowledge. It would probably be an entire lifetime beforesuch glimpses of heaven's own mercy could ever truly become realitiesbetween them.

For now, it would have to be enough, knowing there was a breath ofhope within reach. She would make herself believe it was enough, thatglimpse, and would continue to remind her unsteady heart that he wasstill unable to offer her more.

"Thank you, Vincent," she called softly to his retreating figure,"for giving me your help."

He simply nodded, then eased beneath the curtained doorway. But,before he let the heavy fabric fall behind him, he turned an instantback to her. "Thank you for trusting that I could."

Diana released her hold on her journal binder and let it fall downonto her lap. She could feel the warmth surround her, cradle her, thebarest breath of a touch, even now. Without realizing it, she liftedher fingers across her lips in the gentlest caress, placing herselfwithin it, remembering. The lavender essence fragrancing the linensof her bed was a powerful catalyst to her memory, the smell of ittaking her back completely into that moment of hopeful reckoning,into the maddeningly sweet impossibilities of a love, free andunafraid.

She had been right. It was there, profoundly evident, and notsimply a bewitching projection of her aching heart. He had reachedout to her that morning with the most loving of gestures, gifted herwith a glimpse of the wondrous communion their humanity would becapable of reaching, beyond the barriers and limits, the fears andguilt and pain.

He had offered her a promise of tender fulfilllment, physical,human, and astonishing in its honesty, within the most innocent ofcircumstances . . . freed of his terrors, allowing only the love, allof the love, body and soul, to touch her in wondrous possibility,bind her to him in sweet completion.

No ecstasy of physical fulfillment could have been as deep,radiant, or true, as the gentle gift he had offered her that blessedmorning. It had happened, and all it meant gave Diana a reason torejoice and hope for today, to see the promise and reach for it atlast. Despite everything.