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SIX By Joan Stephens
Third Meeting
Or was the third meeting the magic charm: that sweet June night that she fell in love with him? Her thoughts were interrupted as she sensed he had arrived. As always, Vincent’s arrival was soundless, and how she knew that he was there was a mystery. Maybe it was a change in the air currents, a subliminal reaction to the slight odor of candle smoke and damp stone, or simply the sense she had of him. Where that had come from was another mystery. Since that night in the park, whenever he was near, there was a small sense of him in her heart. As she turned to greet him, the memory of their third meeting flashed through her mind . . . She had finally succeeded in meeting him face to face. Continuing his furtive visits to her balcony to reassure himself that she was well, he dropped lightly onto the terrace just as she was turning to enter her apartment. As he did, a gust of wind blew back the hood of his cloak revealing his face. She froze, watching him straighten to his full, impressive height. His eyes widened in shock as he felt the pain and fear of rejection rise like bile in his throat. Oh god, no. I haven’t prepared her. I will wither and die if she screams in horror. Seeing her staring at him, he watched helplessly as her eyes widened and she gulped. Dropping his eyes, he turned away from her, retreating into the shadows, waiting for her scream of revulsion. What happened next sealed his fate. She continued to stare at him in amazement. He was magnificent. She had expected scars, burns, disfigurement, anything but this: hair the color of amber shining in the sunlight, upswept brows, a wide forehead, high cheek bones, amber colored bristles that covered his lower cheeks and chin, deep-set intelligent blue eyes, a catlike muzzle, and a split upper lip. All in all, there was beauty and dignity in that strange face. Then there was a deep sigh of sorrow followed by words he had never expected to hear. Although he rejected their meaning, they were soothing words, healing words, spoken sadly, “Have you no idea, Vincent, how beautiful you are?” His head snapped up. Had he heard correctly? Beautiful? Compared to what? He had never been told that he was beautiful. Unique, different, ugly, scary, a freak but never beautiful. To think that someone as lovely as she should find him beautiful was more than his beleaguered soul could accept. So, he searched for a reason behind her feelings and found gratitude. Ah, that explained it. Visibly relaxing, he shook his head. “I appreciate what you have said, but you are seeing me through the eyes of gratitude. Not beautiful, Catherine. Never beautiful.” Wondering, she gazed at him sorrowfully and answered, “No, I’m not. I see you clearly, as you are. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you are?” “They’ve called me many things but never that.” “How blind people can be: blinded by their fear and ignorance. Do you have a family, Vincent?” “Yes, a large and loving family.” “And they’ve never told you that you are beautiful?” “No, I imagine they never felt the need. They are used to me; they love me.” “Used to you,” she mused. “That’s no excuse. Your father?” Vincent shook his head slowly. He knew that Father accepted and loved him as he was. Oh, he also knew that he wished it could be different for him, but only so he could be spared the taunts and screams when people met him unexpectedly. “He loves me, Catherine,” he said defensively. “I’m sure he does, but sometimes the people that are closest to us fail to see us as we really are. What about your mother?” “I never knew my mother.” Her heart went out to him, and she thought to ease his mind by reminding him that she had lost her mother when she was ten. Vincent had always felt another’s pain, even as a small child. Catherine’s pain felt much like his own. “It must have been a terrible blow.” “It was. I still miss her. I miss the mother and daughter talks we never had. All the other girls had their mothers come to their graduations. She wasn’t there for my coming-out party. My father did his best, but there are certain things that only a mother can do. I missed out on all of them.” “I miss knowing what my mother looked like, what kind of person she was, and if she wanted me.” “Surely she did,” Catherine assured him. “I don’t know; I will never know.” “Surely . . .” Cutting into her words, he stated harshly, “I was abandoned: thrown away like a piece of trash.” For once he let his bitterness and sadness leach into his words. “Oh Vincent, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.” She reached out and touched him softly on the arm. The tenderness of that gesture nearly shattered his heart as he felt her unreserved compassion and concern. Already he was becoming accustomed to standing barefaced before her. There was no pity, no condescension, no revulsion, and no fear in her eyes when she looked at him; only friendship and acceptance. His heart swelled with love for this uncommon woman who was only now learning just how extraordinary she was. “No, Catherine, we needed to talk about this. I have learned so much about you tonight.” “And I’ve learned a lot about you too.” She decided that they had been serious long enough and asked, “Do you drink wine, Vincent?” “On occasion.” “Well, why don’t I get a glass of wine for us and a book. We can spend the rest of the evening reading to each other.” Suddenly afraid that he would leave, she asked, “You don’t have to leave yet, do you?” Again she touched his arm and the warmth of it stayed with him. “No, not yet,” he replied. With an incandescent smile, she entered her apartment and returned in a few minutes with two glasses of ruby red wine and a book under her arm. “How does Conrad’s ‘Victory’ sound?” “Fine. It’s been a long time since I read it.” He spread his cloak for them to sit on. Leaning against the balustrade, they sipped their wine and spent the remaining portion of the night immersed in the story of Axel Heyst and his doomed love.
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