STEPPING  UP

PART EIGHT:

Reluctantly, Holli had gone to bed on the second floor in Steve's violet

bedroom.  He'd convinced her that if he made it up the long flight of

steps, he'd more than likely be stuck there the next few days. So she'd

settled him on the davenport in the parlor, covered him with a light

afghan, and placed ibuprofen and water within reach. She'd also left

him her cell phone so that he could call upstairs if he needed her.

He did sleep a while, but woke about 4 and lay there looking around

the parlor. Tara had made it a warm and cozy place, furnished perfectly

to complement the Victorian house.  He thought a lot about her as he

lay there and found himself sort of missing someone he'd never even met,

never seen until she lay in her coffin. How strange.

But the quiet force of her personality indwelt the room as it did, indeed,

the entire building. He had only just begun to understand who she was,

what she meant to Holli, how much Holli would miss her. That train of

thought led him, inevitably, back to his own older sister, Bethie, and how

her death had changed the pattern of his entire life, of the man he had

become.

Sighing, he rose and hobbled painfully over to Tara's wingback chair,

sliding one of her ubiquitous shawls off its back and wrapping it about

his own shoulders. He sat there in the darkened room, the only light

being from a single streetlamp that shown in through a window. Folding

his hands together, he rested them on his chin, thinking quietly.

Bethie, so full of life, so absolutely...bright. She'd shone into his life until

he was nine, lighting up all his corners that otherwise might have remained

in shadow.  Then someone turned off the switch and she was gone. He knew

full well that many of the shadows that had filled so much of his mind and

heart were still there.  Holli was beaming her presence into him now, into

every part of him that he opened to her anyway. Monica, well, Monica had

tried in her way, but he'd mostly rolled around in his darkness with her,

bumping into the furniture.

"Tara," he whispered into the dimly-lit room, "I know you know Holli

deserves better than me.  I...."  He faltered, his head still throbbing. "Oh,

damn!"

Leaning his head back into the small corner made by one of the padded

wings, he closed his eyes, letting his hands drop to his lap.

He must have dozed for a while then awakened again when a breeze set

the wind chimes moving on the porch. Rather than being irritated, he

smiled at their sound, remembering the difference from their dull *thunk*

when in the box. He knew he'd been in a box, mostly of his own making,

for more years than he cared to count. How much time had he wasted?

"I'm tired," he said into the room. "Tired of wasting time."

But what could he do...really? Holli's life was here. It was where she

belonged, where her family, her roots were. Where...this place...was.

What did he have? Some walk-up apartment with a fire escape platform

for a yard?  Yeah.  Holli, he could say, I think you should leave this

glorious house with its great view of your city and come with me to my

fire escape.

He laughed wryly. Yeah. That made a hell of a lot of sense. What did he

even think he was doing falling in love with someone who had such roots

not in New York? You are a blasted, stupid fool, Steve. That's what you

are.  It's not like you could leave New York. So what do you think you're

doing letting this whole thing go this far? Stupid, stupid, stupid!!

"So what else is new?" he said aloud.

He moved his legs and his knee protested vehemently so he rubbed it. Darn

thing really should have some sort of an ace bandage or something, but he

didn't want one of those over his big scrape. Deciding he needed some more

ibuprofen, he practically hopped to the table near the couch and balanced

while he downed three of the pills with a large swig of water. On the way

back to the chair, he noticed an 8 X 10 picture in a ceramic frame with roses

painted round.  Picking it up, he settled with a bit of an *oof* into the chair,

peering at the picture as the first light of dawn came through the large window.

It was of Tara with a little girl who had to be Holli. She was about nine he

guessed, and had pale blonde hair that ringed her face in wild curls. "Even

then," he smiled, touching the picture with his forefinger. They were facing

one another, holding both hands, and Holli was leaning back a bit, her chin

up.  She looked like she was either laughing or singing. Tara's white hair

was in a big, loose bun high on her head and she had flowers tucked all

around it as though she and Holli had been playing at some game of pretend.

He wished that he had been the one who had taken this picture, had witnessed

the scene with his own eyes.  Again his fingers moved lovingly over the glass

covering the photograph.  "I love you, Holli," he murmured. "I love everything

you've been, everything you are, everything you will be."  He had never, never

ever loved a woman like that. He didn't think he'd ever even wanted to love

a woman like that...before.  But now he did. And what was he going to do

about it?

An hour later Holli slipped down the stairs in her bare feet, wanting to check

on Steve. Berating herself for how soundly she'd slept, she tip toed into the

parlor, her breath catching when she saw he wasn't on the couch. Her eyes

flicked quickly across the brightening room.  There he was, sound asleep in

Tara's chair, her crocheted shawl loosely about his shoulders as his head

rested against a wing. Coming closer, she saw he had his arms folded around

a picture. She recognized the frame. It was the one her Mom had taken that

day in the back garden when she and Tara had been being fairy princesses.

She crouched, her hand on a chair arm, just watching him sleep. "Oh, Steve,"

she whispered, "do you know, do you have any idea what it means to me, seeing

you here, here in this parlor as though you are a part of it, as though it belongs

to you, you belong to it?"

He had been sleeping so lightly that he heard her words. His eyes opened

slowly, morning light making their green almost transparent.  "Do I, Holli?"

he asked. "Do I belong here?"

She slid her hands over his on the back of the picture frame. "I can't tell you

that, Steve. You are the only one who can decide that for yourself. All I can

do is let you see what you mean to me."

"What, Holli, what do I mean to you?"

"First tell me what you see when you look at this photograph."

He lowered it face-up onto his lap, not really needing to look down at it again,

already knowing every part of it.  "I see a rose in full blossom enjoying the

beauty and the presence of her bud."

His eyes met hers just as Holli's filled with tears. "Steven Moran," she said,

"you mean not less than everything."

ON TO PART 9

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