STEPPING  UP

PART FIVE:

(NOTE: This scene came about because I have danced in this exact spot to a Strauss waltz, quite

publicly, only in daylight and with my granddaughter, Kimberly, and not with Steve.)

Steve and Holli lingered long over coffee and cheesecake with fresh

strawberries. Finally, though, he could sit on his wounded backside

no longer.

"Let's walk," he suggested.

Leaving the Grand Concourse, they wandered through some of the

little shops in Station Square then followed the sound of music across

the street to a courtyard beside the river where a long, rectangular area

of fountains was spraying water in patterns to match the notes of the tune.

It was dark now, and the city just across the river was lit with thousands

of lights, a great backdrop to the colored lights that played on the giant

length of fountains.

Just as they entered the courtyard, the music and the fountains paused

a moment, then changed gear into a series of Strauss waltzes. Not many

people were about as it was a weekday night, just a few couples walking

beside the river, an older man and his wife on a bench to one side, four

young males heading for a nearby bar.

"May I?" Steve grinned, holding out his hand.

"You dance?"

"I do," he smiled.

"Here? Now?"

"Here. Now," he replied, taking her hand and walking into a more open

section away from the benches.

"What about your...."

"Some things are more important than...wounds."

"Like dancing in a public square?"

"Like that."

She turned her head, looking at the older couple who smiled benignly at

them. The four young men disappeared through a doorway. What did it

matter anyway, who might watch them? She just wasn't used to such

spontaneous behavior from a man. "All right," she nodded, letting him

lead her into the smooth movement of the waltz, a dance she'd learned as

a girl but hadn't tried in some years.

He was surprisingly light on his feet and quite graceful despite the discomfort

she knew the movement must be causing him. The blues, greens, lavenders of

the fountain lights reflected on his face, masking the scratches at the outer

edges of his cheeks and along his neck. His lips were closed, but curved in

a smile and she thought she'd never seen any man so handsome as he was

in that moment.

He was so good at what he was doing that he took her right along with him

in the swirling turns. So absorbed was she that she didn't notice that small

groups had gathered on the edges of the courtyard to watch. All she was

aware of was his face, his hand in the small of her back, the flow of the

music they danced through. Only later did she have words for it. They had

not danced 'to' the music, but somehow 'in' the music. It was something she

had never experienced before, something she had not known was possible.

When the music stopped, the watchers clapped. She blushed slightly, but

Steve simply inclined his head as though in a small bow. Then together

they walked out of the courtyard and crossed to where they could catch

the incline to ride back up the steep slope to the top of Mount Washington.

Even though there were seats in the red car that rose slowly up the tracks,

Steve stood, still holding her hand, looking out the large windows toward

the sparkling city. She saw a small grimace quickly cross his features.

"You in pain?" she asked softly.

"Sweat," he replied, "from the dance. It's getting into my scratches. Stings

like the devil."

"You probably could use another shower, then," she whispered.

"Probably could," he agreed, his eyes flickering down to her face.

At the top, they walked slowly down Grandview Avenue back to the bed

and breakfast, pausing from time to time to look at the city, now below

them. "I must bring my camera here at night," he said. "The city's really

beautiful like this."

"Pittsburgh?" she replied, her voice holding a chuckle.

"Yeah, even Pittsburgh," he said. "It's starting to get to me, I guess."

"I thought you felt it'd already gotten you pretty good."

His hand went involuntarily to his left ear. "You're right about that," he

smiled. "But it's not the place, not really, that's gotten to me. It's the people.

It's...one...person."

"And who might that...be?" she asked, cocking her head and pursing her lips.

He didn't answer, just slid his hands around her neck and set his lips atop

hers.

Finally he pulled slightly back, the fingers of his right hand wandering through

her curls. "Did you say something earlier about a shower check?"

"Oh, Steve," she whispered, "are you sure? You're still...."

"Some things are more important than wounds," he smiled down at her.

The next morning he awoke to the smell of coffee and eggs. Was it really only

his third day in Pittsburgh? It seemed like several month's worth of events had

happened since his arrival.

He'd slept naked, not wanting even light pajamas atop his scratches, and now

stretched as he prepared to get up. "Ahhhh!" he cried. His entire body seemed

to have stiffened as he slept. Every muscle protested at being moved. "Oh, damn,"

he muttered, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. He stood, then sat immediately

back down. His left knee hurt like blazes and he leaned to the side to examine it.

Holli had rebandaged it after their second shower, but deep purple bruising

covered fair-sized areas all around that from where he'd come down so hard on

the gravel when his bike toppled. Scratches from the brambles made little patterns

through the bruises. His torn pants had offered no protection from the raspberries.

Gingerly, he tried standing again. The leg would bear his weight, but he'd have

to favor it.  The joint itself protested with a deep ache as he crossed the room.

What a sight he'd make today at Tara's funeral. Damn! It wasn't how he'd wanted

to meet the rest of Holli's family. 

He dressed carefully, wearing a pair of drapy, more full-cut slacks and an almost

filmy silk shirt in a Pacific blue. It was the only silk one he'd brought with him and

it had short sleeves, but he just couldn't bear the thought of cloth rubbing against

his lower arms. He'd flailed them as he fell into the bramble and they clearly bore

the marks of that.

Going down the long flight of stairs was a bit of a trial, especially for his knee and

he stood at the bottom, holding onto the newel post a moment, just breathing in

and out, before pasting a bright smile on his face and making his way toward the

kitchen.

"Ah, good!" Holli said as he entered. "You're up. Was just going to come wake you."

He'd tossed and turned a lot in the night as though he couldn't get comfortable, so

she wasn't surprised he'd slept in later this morning. "How you doin' today?"

"Pretty good," he lied, as she handed him a cup of coffee. He leaned against a counter,

taking the weight off his left leg. "What time did you say the funeral was?"

"Eleven," she replied, eyeing him, trying to determine how he really was. "You can

stop smiling, Steve," she said. "I know you're hurting."

He blew out a long breath. "It's mostly my damn knee," he explained, "from when

the bike fell. Can hardly bend it this morning."

"Aunt Tara had a cane. You want to use that?"

He shook his head. Showing up looking like he did was bad enough but he'd be

damned if he'd wobble in on Tara's cane.  "Thanks, but I'll be fine."

She watched as he crossed to the small table to sit. He walked with a pronounced

limp and she shook her head. There would be a lot of standing around at the

funeral home and she wondered how he'd manage. Funeral home. She'd been so

focused on Steve she'd not really thought much of how today was her farewell

to Aunt Tara. Tears stung her eyes and she turned back to the omelet, sliding

it out of the pan onto a large platter. Tara was gone. Really, really gone.

"Oh, Tara, how can you not be here any more?"

She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until she felt Steve's hands on her shoulders.

He turned her gently toward him, wrapping his arms around her back.

"No," she protested, "it'll hurt...."

"Some things are more impor...."

Despite the tightness in her throat, she smiled. "It seems there are a lot of things

that are more important than wounds."

"You," he said, moving his hand to wipe away a tear that trembled on her lower

lid. "You are more important than anything."

She lifted her chin, studying his face. "I think you mean that." She was in awe

that he did.

He himself was surprised.  "It's you," he murmured. "Since Bethie died, I've

never let anybody be that important. I just...couldn't. But you...you...." He had

no further words, so kissed her softly, amazed at just how important she'd

become in so short a time.  "Since Bethie," he continued, "I never let anybody

be more important to me than...me. Worked better that way, you know. Safer."

He carried the omelet platter to the table and as they ate, he tried to explore

his feelings aloud for her, for himself. "I never, not once, really let myself give

myself. The most important thing was always that I was all right, that I always

had this sense of myself, that my space, my things, my...identity...were still

there, that no one had gotten so close I might lose them. It's why I drove

Monica away. I kept telling myself that I wanted her, that I needed to be with

her, but I didn't. Not really. I needed me more than I needed her. So I tried

to make it be her fault it didn't work. But it was me. All along I knew that.

I lost me when I was with her."

He reached his left hand across the table, cupping it over her right. "So this

is all really new for me, Holli.  That I can love you and still not lose me. I'm

not sure how to handle it. I'll probably fuck it up pretty good."

"Some things," she smiled, "are more important than a fuck up."

"You think you can hang in there with me? While I get myself straightened out?"

"I think I can."

"God, Holli. Where did you come from?"

"Pittsburgh," she replied. "I come from Pittsburgh."

He chuckled. "So you do. My, God, who would ever have thought it?"

ON TO PART 6

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