Larry closed the door quietly behind him and had to lean on it because he wanted to go back to her, wanted to hold her, wanted her. He could still hear the music, knew she would still be dancing, perhaps. Even knew she didn’t really care if he stayed or left.
“I think he’s quite attractive,” said Charlotte to Lola, who was now spread out on the sofa, eyes closed.
Lola’s voice was husky, hardly audible. “I miss him, Charlie, miss him so much, it’s like a pain inside me. I miss him.”
Charlotte turned off the stereo, looked at Lola. “You’re drunk.”
“Yes, and” — Lola giggled — “you know he is quite attractive... in a straight way.”
Charlotte cocked her head to one side. “Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you...?”
Lola walked into the bedroom, leaving Charlotte to turn off the lights and stereo.
Charlotte picked up the Caruso tape, held it in the palm of her hand. Lola was childlike, her emotions swung like a pendulum, but Charlotte really did miss Philip. He occupied her thoughts every minute of the day and night, and just feeling the tape of the music he loved to listen to made him feel close. She remembered the first time he had asked her about music, what she liked to listen to... He was so attenitive as she shyly said she had never really thought about that kind of music, mostly it was rock and roll. The classics had never even interested her. He smiled, asked softly what she meant by classics, and Charlotte listed a few of the ones she could remember the names of. She was embarrassed, wondered if he would think her stupid, desperately trying to think of something she had heard that would make her seem intelligent, wanting him to be interested in her. He gently touched her lips with his forefinger. “You’ve heard nothing. I will open your ears, and your mind, free you to listen...”
She stood blushing, head bowed as he threw cushions onto the floor. He turned all the lights out and lit row upon row of candles. Then, taking her by the hand, he had whispered to her to lie down and to breathe deep breaths... until she felt as if she were floating, dizzy almost. She was afraid to open her eyes, not hearing him, not knowing where he was in the room. Then she knew he had lain down beside her, no more than six or seven inches away. She could feel the heat of his body, hear that he, too, was breathing deeply, and she began to time her own breaths with his, as first Beethoven, Bruch, Chausson, Saint-Saens, Sibelius, and lastly Tchaikovsky violin concertos wafted through the warm night air. The music played softly, at times hardly audible, and she felt her body begin to open to the sounds, her mind full with a strange exhilaration. She felt a strange uplifting sensation, she didn’t want it to end, ever. It was so peaceful, so all-embracing that when the room was filled only with silence she wanted to weep.
He had gone. The candles were burned low. She could not believe he had not touched her, fondled her, made love to her. She did not even hear him leave, and it was not until she had crept to her room that she understood that he had, or it had, begun. He was drawing her to him, into his world, and all she knew was that she wanted more. Had it been the same for Lola? Charlotte never asked, but noticed that Lola often played the same music to fall asleep to at night. For a while at the beginning Charlotte was the one he centered his whole attention upon, and she had, like the proverbial butterfly, stepped from a cocoon that she had not even understood had been wrapped around her. Von Joel made her feel free, and an important part of his life. She ached for him, on one of those candlelit musical nights, to take her in his arms, to kiss her. But Von Joel did not touch her, was it for weeks or for months? It felt like years of longing. Was he fucking Lola? Lola lived in the villa, had been there before Charlotte, but had never shown any jealousy following Charlotte’s arrival. In fact, Lola had welcomed her with such warmth, accepted her like a sister.
The ache inside Charlotte grew to such intensity that one night she waited, watching where Lola went — to her own room or to his? She was almost weeping with sexual frustration, wanting him, not knowing how to reach over and touch him. They could sit opposite at a table and eat, laugh, work alongside each other at the gallery, but that moment of reaching him, embracing him seemed almost impossible to attain. She did not know if he wanted her sexually, or if he even cared. She saw him go into Lola’s bedroom, and he did not leave until dawn. Charlotte sat on the stairs crying; she wanted to be in there with him, wanted to be with him.
The following night, Lola was in bed. She was feeling sick, and Charlotte had taken her some hot milk to her bedroom. Von Joel had been gone all day, and Charlotte heard him running up the stairs two at a time as Maria called out Lola was ill.
“I think she has a temperature...” Charlotte placed the milk down, leaning over the bed, and Lola sat up smiling, reaching out for him like a child. “I’m fine, just hot... very hot, it must have been something I ate.”
Von Joel gently dipped a cloth into some iced water and patted Lola’s face. Charlotte stood back as he washed Lola like a father might wash a daughter. Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips. “Sleep, sweetheart, you’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll get Maria to look in on you in the night.”
Maria, Von Joel’s housekeeper, respected him, his privacy, and asked no questions. It was not her business how many houseguests he chose to have, male or female, young or old.
Charlotte listened as he gave Maria careful instructions to look in on Lola in the night. If her temperature went up, Maria was to call him and the doctor.
Charlotte was standing at the top of the wide spiral staircase in the villa. Von Joel looked up, saying, “You must be hungry. I’m going to make some pasta...”
He was very adept in the kitchen, neat and methodical, and an excellent cook. Charlotte sat at the table, watching as he placed out the knives and the forks, talking to Maria, who was flustered because she felt she should be cooking. Charlotte watched him tease Maria, saw how she became coy and girlish, and then excused herself to go to her own small apartment in the far wing of the villa. Her husband, Juan, was Von Joel’s driver and general handyman. He was as discreet as his wife, and as deeply attached to Von Joel. The villa with its sprawling gardens and pool was, like everything in each room, tasteful, and kept in immaculate order. The kitchen was spotless, and Charlotte noticed how clean Von Joel was, as he carefully washed everything after he had used it before stacking the dishwasher and wiping down the marble surfaces where he had been chopping the tomatoes. She noticed everything about this man, his long beautiful hands, his lean body, and the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck. How in the morning the faint dark shadow on his chin accentuated his cheeks, making his face sharper, more dangerous in some way. She had, when alone in the villa, spent hours in his bedroom, which was devoid of a single photograph. The bedroom consisted of a stripped pine floor, a futon bed, and a vast array of polished old Spanish wardrobes. Each garment in the wardrobes was covered. Every shirt was neatly, meticulously folded.
Hand-stitched shoes, made for him in London, were placed on racks beside his worn rope sandals. There were silks and fine pure cottons, cashmere sweaters in soft fawns and pale creams, black and navy silks in separate drawers. Von Joel rarely wore any brightly colored garment. As soon as he returned from work he always bathed and changed into his pure white dressing gown and his long handmade cotton shifts. He was usually barefoot, his body deeply tanned... and Charlotte lost count of the laps he did in the pool every morning. She loved to watch him with his dogs, Sasha and Bruno. It was as if every day were carefully regimented: up at five, swimming, and then he would walk his dogs for an hour, always feeding them himself. He made it clear he preferred, at these times, to be alone. He discouraged her from using the phone and hated anyone else answering it when he was at home. There was no answering service but there were phones in every room. Often he let them ring, choosing not even to answer them himself, and often there were calls during the night. These were answered.