THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART THIRTEEN:

She leaned her head against the high back of the couch, closing her eyes.  She hadn't talked so much about what she was thinking for a long, long time. His hand was still cupped over both of hers and she slid one out, putting it atop his, rather sandwiching it gently.  He left it there.

How strange the last few days had been. For a month he'd quietly been here at the inn, mostly keeping to himself, working on his book, enjoying casual chats with other guests over breakfasts. In the evenings Martha almost always played the piano a while and when she discovered he could sing, had made them into sort of a regular duo. From time to time another guest would join in, singing or playing a duet with Martha. It was all very genial but not something that really grabbed a hold of some deep part of your being. Then the very morning Eden had checked in, he'd almost died. That, in itself, was odd enough to catch one's attention, but the fact that it was she who had clambered down into the gully and gotten him out added vast new dimension

to it. If she had not come to the inn, if she had not decided to gather leaves, then he would be dead. It was no more nor less complicated than that. That was the bottom line of the whole thing.

But, then, layers were added to it, the effect of her hands, the scent of roses, on him when he'd been barely conscious. The sense of her presence as she stood beside him on the dock. What she'd done just now, holding herself so quietly against his chest. He liked her presence. There was no getting around it. He simply liked it when she was near. He was getting used to the sound of her voice now, could tell it was her just by her footsteps. And his hand at this very moment? He was content completely to let it rest there between hers.  She must be thinking quietly. He could hear the even sound of her breathing and had no need to break her meditation.

He let his own mind drift back over the things he'd come to know about her. Auburn and green. He liked the combination. And she loved to write, even yearned to write. That he knew. That he understood perfectly. Absently, she began to run the fingertips of her top hand over his knuckles, tracing down his fingers. Something stirred within him, down in his very core.

On her part, she wasn't even really aware what she was doing. It just felt so natural to move

her hand on his that the thought they'd just met was not even present. Then Wadsworth shifted and gave a long doggy sigh. She opened her eyes and looked down at her lap.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she whispered, moving her right hand to lie on the couch beside her.

He didn't say anything, merely began doing the same thing with his fingers to her single hand remaining under his. He had a way of saying things were all right without actually saying them.  She watched, fascinated, as his sensitive fingers explored her hand, moving around, between each finger so lightly, yet somehow so...thoroughly. Then he guided her hand to turn so her

palm was up and he continued, tracing down its lines, sliding over the ball of her thumb.  It

was such a simple thing and yet the most marvelous that had ever happened to her body. It

was her hand, only her hand, yet she felt as though she had been touched by him, been known

by him...everywhere. She'd never experienced anything even close to it before and everything that was female in her responded to it. How could he do that with nothing more than her hand?  It was one of those moments after which you know you are utterly changed, that nothing will ever be the same, ever again. She knew completely that no one could ever touch her again in quite this way, that nothing could ever be so...good.

Then he stopped, his palm lying crossways over hers, and cupped his fingertips around the

edges of her hand, leaving it there. A tremble of response went through her, head to toe, and

he squeezed his fingers just slightly tighter, completely aware of what he'd said to her in his silent touching.

She waited. What would he say? What could he possibly say...in words? The corners of his mouth curved slightly and he opened his lips, speaking very softly, very seriously and clearly.
 

"Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,

 

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen,

 

Round many western islands have I been,

 

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold,

 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told,

 

That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne,

 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene,

 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold,

 

Then I felt like some watcher of the skies,

 

When a new planet swims into his ken,

 

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes,

 

He star’d at the Pacific-and all his men,

 

Looked at each other with a wild surmise,

 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien."

"John Keats' 'On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer'." he explained. "Cortez is standing

on a mountain in Panama and has just seen the Pacific Ocean for the first time. It's my favorite piece, this old sonnet, about a sudden discovery of something that was already there."

He lifted her hand then, and placed one soft, warm kiss on the back of it, repeating, "Silent, upon a peak in Darien."

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