The Splendor
The long dance between Charlotte and Christopher reaches its conclusion
This chapter is part of the serialized novel Between Corners. If you’re new, start here.
Charlotte started to think he wasn’t coming. It was 6:30 – a half hour late. She was standing in the mudroom, looking out the window. It was a cool evening, but she could see dark clouds blooming to the west. Thunderstorms were in the forecast.
Then she saw it – a red Mazda SUV. Hoping he hadn’t spotted her waiting anxiously at the door, she walked back to the living room and sat as if she had been there all along. The car door slammed, and ten seconds later he knocked firmly on the door. Charlotte stood, ran her hands over her blouse to smooth it, and stepped to the door. Her head felt light.
She opened the door. “Hello,” she said. “You…you made it. I’m so glad.”
Christopher smiled at her. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Something came up. I should have texted you.”
“It’s okay. Please come in.”
Charlotte had texted him the previous afternoon. “He’s gone. Come for dinner. I’ll play the violin. 6.” There was a hint of more.
He tried to hurry to his hotel to change but traffic caught him. A shower, a close shave, a blue striped Oxford shirt that he had done his best to iron in his hotel room. Black slacks, and black penny loafers.
Charlotte opened the door wider and made a gesture. She saw Christopher’s eyes slide over her. It gave her a brief shiver. Or maybe it was the cool air – the white cotton blouse she had chosen was thin. To that she had added faded denims and a touch of makeup. Not much. Charlotte had looked at herself in the mirror and wondered what she wanted. Her choice of clothes seemed to hint at something.
Christopher walked in, paused, and put a hand lightly on her shoulder. She shivered again. “Thanks for the invite,” he said. “I appreciate it.” Charlotte closed the door and led him to the kitchen. She had set up a music stand in the corner of the living room, and placed her violin case on the sofa. “So. You’re really going to play for me?” he asked.
She looked away. “Yes – if you can stand it. I don’t do justice to the work you put in.”
He made a small, amused sound. “I’m sure you’ll be great.”
“Can I make you a drink?” she asked, brushing back some hair with her hand. “I have some brie warming in the oven – and toasted some baguette rounds for them. For a starter.”
“Got a cold beer?”
“Of course. A Shiner?”
“Perfect.”
She retrieved a bottle from the refrigerator, popped it open, and handed it to him. His finger caught hers for an instant.
“Would you like a glass?”
“No thanks.”
While Christopher sipped his beer and learned against the counter, Charlotte put on oven mitts and pulled out a ramekin filled with bubbling cheese. She tried to set it on a trivet next to the toasted bread but missed. The ramekin tipped to one side, the cheese lapping over its edge. With a gloved hand she nudged it to the middle of the trivet. “Careful,” she said. “It’s very hot.”
Christopher picked up a knife, scooped some cheese, and spread it on a toasted bread round. He took a bite. “Delicious,” he said, watching her carefully, the way the white blouse draped.
She spread some cheese for herself.
“So, you’ve been practicing?” he asked.
“Yes, but I am rusty,” she said. “The Strad sounds good, though. The new bridge really helped, I think.”
“Good. Well, when do I get to listen?”
She put an apron on and tied a knot in back.
“Do you want to do that before or after we eat?” she asked. “We’ll have more time with the violin if we eat first.”
Christopher nodded. “Let’s do that.”
Now Charlotte was bustling around the kitchen. “I’m making breaded chicken cutlets with Parmesan cream sauce.”
“Sounds scrumptious.”
She laughed a little.
“We’ll see. I don’t cook for company very often.”
From the refrigerator she retrieved a sheet pan with two breaded cutlets. Then she rummaged around a cabinet near the stove and produced one of Douglas’s cast-iron skillets
Christopher laughed. “That thing is a monster. What does it weigh?”
“I dunno – lots,” she said, using two hands to maneuver the skillet. “It’s a vintage Griswold. Douglas…Doug collects them.”
“Does he?”
Charlotte needed both hands to lift the skillet onto a burner. She started the flame, and when it was hot she swirled in some olive oil and butter. When it began to shimmer, she added the cutlets with a tong.
“You’re good at this.”
“I’m not bad. Not as good as…”
She stopped.
“Sorry.”
“It’s OK,” he said. “I know what you mean.”
Once the cutlets were brown, Charlotte slid them onto plates, then spooned some white sauce she had made over them, plus some shaved Parmesan. While the Parmesan melted under a broiler. While the cheese was melting, she went to the refrigerator and took out a stainless bowl filled with salad. Soon the plates with the bubbling cutlets were on the table. She took off the apron, smoothed her blouse, and sat.
“I hope you like it.”
He took a bite.
“Wow, this was great,” he said. “Best meal all week.”
Charlotte blushed a little. “That’s sweet of you to say.”
They ate in silence for a minute. A rumble of thunder broke the reverie. Charlotte looked out the living room window and could see fat drops of rain pattering on the Mazda, leaving wet circles in the dust on its hood. A louder crack. Now she could hear rain drumming on the porch roof.
“Are you finished with the work here?” she asked.
“My part of it is,” he said between mouthfuls. “It’s back to Portland for me in the morning.”
She nodded. “I remember you said that.”
Her phone chimed. She looked at it, then set it aside. “It’s him,” she said, looking down at her plate. “He’s still on schedule – home Friday.” Her heart thudded in her chest. When it settled a little she stood and cleared the table. Then vanilla ice cream for dessert.
Charlotte showed Christopher to a chair in the living room, then opened the violin case and took out the walnut-brown instrument. Then the bow. Its hair was slack; she tightened the screw. Added touch of rosin.
With a few plucks of the strings, Charlotte checked the tuning. The violin went to her chin, and she bowed the D string. Just testing. It reverberated softly. Another touch of the bow, this one stronger. She felt the instrument wake up.
Charlotte looked at him with a tight smile.
“It’s Bach,” she said. “Violin Partita No. 2, the Sarabande. I performed it in a school concert when I was a senior.”
“Wonderful,” he replied. “Play.”
She bowed a few notes, then stopped. “I’m sorry. Nerves.”
“Don’t be. Please go on.”
She started again. The sound was thin, and she hesitated between phrases. Christopher relaxed in his seat and looked slightly amused.
Then she reached a long note and committed to it. The bow settled into the string. A warm sound gathered itself, filling the room without strain. Charlotte held the tone, round and steady. The room seemed to contract, its edges pulled in by the sound. She closed her eyes in concentration, moved on, and the music simply followed her. The vibrations from the strings flowed into through chinrest, to her jaw, then seemingly straight to her brain.
After thirty seconds she stopped, unsure what to do next.
He applauded.
“Why, thank you,” Charlotte said, laughing a little and bowing. The room was quiet for a few seconds. She arranged the sheet music on the stand.
“That was pretty damn good,” Christopher said. “I could tell you haven’t played for a while. But that big note you held. Wow.”
She felt a flutter. “Thank you, Christopher,” she said. “That means a lot. And thank you for encouraging me. It felt good to play, even badly.”
“I hope you keep at it.”
“I’ll try.”
She placed the violin back in its case, wiped the bow and loosened the screw, and put that away as well. “Another drink?” she asked. “Scotch on the rocks?”
“Yes please.”
His eyes followed her to the kitchen, where she put some ice in a glass and poured two fingers from the bottle of Scotch Douglas had bought. She never saw him drink Scotch – he wouldn’t miss it. Then more white wine for herself. Charlotte sat on the sofa, put the drinks on coasters, and patted the low sofa invitingly. She sipped some wine. Dinner had gone well, and she had played for him. She felt light, almost buoyant.
Christopher sat on her right. “How’s the therapy business?” he asked.
“It’s going well,” she said. “I’m close to booked up.” She brushed something off her denims.
“That’s impressive.”
More lightning flashed. In a few seconds, the low kettledrums of thunder. Glass rattled. Charlotte looked across the room at the unsettled window. “That was close.”
“It really was,” he said. “Maybe a mile.” The Scotch was sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up and took a drink. The ice clinked in the glass.
“Is that like bourbon?” Charlotte asked.
“Sort of,” he said. “Here – try some.”
She took his glass and tipped it back. A strong medicinal smell, then a burn down her throat. “Wow,” she said. She took a sip of cool wine to clear her mouth. Christopher watched, a small smile on his face. “Sorry – it’s kind of strong stuff. An acquired taste, in fact.”
They sat quietly for a minute.
Charlotte folded a leg under herself, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She felt the weight of Christopher’s eyes on her, looked away, then looked back. This time her eyes stayed on him. She leaned a little toward him, and he mirrored her.
More kettledrums.
As their foreheads almost touched, Charlotte looked down. Noticed the light bouncing off the silver band of his watch. She reached out and touched it, ran her finger along it. He was so close now that his warmth washed over her, and his smell. Wood smoke and maybe cologne. Her stomach lurched and she felt her face growing hot. The Scotch, she thought.
Christopher shifted, his hips coming an inch or two closer to her, and his left arm slipped over her shoulders. She felt her skin quiver. His right hand moved to her knee, and she traced a pattern on it with her forefinger. “Christopher…” she said gently. “What…what are we doing?”
His hand squeezed her knee. “We’re having a nice moment. That’s all.”
“Are we?” she asked, hoping that was true. “Because I do like this. Being close. It’s just that I don’t want things to…things to get away from us. You know?”
“Yes,” he said. “I know. This is just a nice moment. And I like it too.”
Charlotte lifted a hand and put her fingers to his shirt collar, rubbing its fabric between her thumb and forefinger. Then she moved her hand to his lips, ran her fingers across them. He opened his mouth and took her fingers in his tongue moving against them. She felt his teeth, then pulled her hand back.
She was thinking that the rain had started to come down even harder when he closed the sliver of space still between them and kissed her, his lips barely touching hers. Charlotte put her hand to his chest as if to push him away but instead let it rest flat against him. A warm flush swept over her like a wave. Then their noses bumped. A nervous laugh. “That was ridiculous,” she said. Christopher made a low chuckling sound.
Something now made her bolder. Charlotte put both her hands to his face, pulled him toward her, and kissed him. He leaned into her more firmly, and she felt his body stiffen in a way that implied something. She pulled back. “Oh…” she said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Let’s take it easy.” She tried to sound firm, but the words came out almost meekly.
“Of course,” he said, breathing into her ear. “Let’s take it easy.” Christopher shifted and Charlotte noticed him tug at the fabric around his crotch. She felt a lift in her chest.
Then she kissed him again.
This went on for a while. A long kiss, then a release. A hand to an arm or shoulder. A soft laugh and then a pillow adjusted. Quiet murmurs, arms around each other. Putting a hand here, or there, and pretending it hadn’t happened.
Charlotte uncoiled the leg that had been under her, smoothed her blouse with a hand, then put that hand to his thigh. He put his lips to hers again, and now she melted into him in a way she had not before.
After a freighted moment, she broke the kiss and sat up. “Coming up for air,” Charlotte said, trying to smile. She picked up her glass of wine and took a slow sip. “Can I get you another drink?” she asked. Christopher shook his head. “I think I’m fine.” She took another drink and studied him. “Want to watch a movie?” she asked, reaching for the remote.
“Not really,” he said. He took the glass from her hand and set it back on the table. Then the arm around her shoulder tightened and he pulled her back against him and to his firm mouth. His right hand ran down the side of her soft blouse, along her ribs. She sucked in a breath.
Christopher pulled back a few inches and his eyes locked on hers. “I’ve been thinking about this moment for weeks,” he said in a low register. “You are so damn beautiful.”
She felt another ripple of heat. “Th…thank you,” she stammered. “You’re not so bad yourself.” It felt good to be seen. Like this. He kissed her again, and she responded, deep and firm. Christopher ‘s breathing had become faster. His right hand continued to run up and down her side, every inch of its travel making goosebumps rise.
Then the hand slowly left her side, moved higher, and settled over the curve of her breast. His thumb ran across the fabric that covered her nipple. Charlotte’s heart flipped as she sensed her nipple harden and knew he would feel that. She put her hand on his forearm. “Christopher, don’t spoil this,” she said in what she hoped was a firm tone.
“Sorry.” His arm went back to her waist.
“Just kiss,” Charlotte said. “This is nice.” But that touch stayed with her – she could still feel where his thumb had been. She looked at him carefully, brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead, and pulled him again to her face. “Now, just kiss me,” she said. Instead, his lips and tongue ran down her neck and to her collarbone. Charlotte involuntarily put her head back and said, “Oh.”
Christopher’s mouth moved back to hers and he said something she didn’t catch. His hand seemed to become hungry for her skin. It slid under the untucked hem of her blouse, over her belly, up her side, finally to her lower back. It hesitated there and she knew what came next. There it was – the hand glided up her spine, fingers running over the vertebrae. Charlotte trembled, tried to collect herself, and again pulled back. “This is enough,” she said. “I mean it.” But her words smeared together a little. The room seemed to tilt, and she tried to recall how many glasses of wine she’d had. Two? Three? And the Scotch.
She blinked her eyes a few times and looked at the violin in its case. She remembered playing for him. Remembered his attention – all for her. Charlotte sat up again. “Please,” she said. “I think I drank too much. Can we watch something on TV? Just for a little while.” She picked up the remote, but its buttons blurred together.
He took it from her. “I’d rather not,” he said. Charlotte watched him take the remote and put it somewhere away from her. Christopher pulled her in again, and she yielded a little and nuzzled his cheek. The slightest touch of stubble. Like Tom…
Before that thought could fully form, Christopher withdrew the hand from her back, grasped her left hand firmly, and guided it to his trouser fly. He pressed her hand against himself and made a small, rough sound. She hesitated, a choice hovering. Then she clutched the swelling.
Charlotte was surprised by her own action and pulled her hand from him. “No…no.” she stammered, her composure gone. “Just hold me.” Christopher did, making his arms comforting. She tried to say something else, but nothing came out of her mouth. A second later she had forgotten what she had wanted to say. He made a low, impatient sound.
“We don’t need the light, do we?” he asked. He reached up and turned the table lamp off.
She opened her eyes as the room suddenly went dark. “Turn it back on?” she asked.
“I like it like this,” he said. “Just you and me.”
The darkness worried Charlotte but she told herself she still could make out shapes in the room – the television on the wall, the metal music stand. It was okay. She rested her head on Christopher’s chest and felt his heart pulsating. The air in the room felt heavy. Then another grumble of thunder.
She felt like she was dreaming, and lost track of how long it lasted. It ended when Christopher’s right hand traveled to the small of Charlotte’s back and again moved up her spine. She held her breath and tried to wish the hand still. But then his fingers reached the clasp of her brassiere and caressed it. The bra was yellow and new, and she had bought it knowing the hooks easily came undone. They did, and she regretted her decision. At the time she had imagined something innocuous.
Christopher shifted, sat up, and with his arms eased her further back into the sofa. Charlotte relented, then felt his hands smoothly undo the buttons of her blouse even as her hand tried to slow him. The blouse fell open. He pushed aside the loose cups of her bra, and his face fell onto her breasts. Charlotte tried to shove at him, but his lips were on her and instead she arched up against him. “Christopher,” she said, almost gasping.
She put her hands to the back of his head and blinked rapidly, wanting to somehow turn back this moment – go where things had been a little while ago. But then Christopher abruptly rolled off the sofa and onto the floor. He grabbed a pillow from the sofa, placed it under his knees, then wedged himself between her thighs. She heard a muted click and a soft scraping sound at his waist; the snick of a zipper. Then a flash of lightning illuminated the pale skin of his thighs – his trousers pooled at his knees. The sight sent a hot, bewildering pulse through her.
Don’t, she thought. Not like this. Maybe another time.
His hands went to her waist, worked at the button, then the zipper. His hands went to each side of her pants and he pulled. “Wait a second,” Charlotte said. “This is enough. Enough.” Her voice faded. “Wait.”
“Okay,” Christopher said. His mouth went back to hers with palpable urgency. With one hand she tried to rearrange her top and her bra, but it was hopeless. His breathing was fast. So was hers. After a moment he moved a hand over the rise of her denims and firmly pushed on it. Charlotte closed her eyes, felt the heat build, and pressed up. “Do you like that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He exhaled. “Then let me give you more.”
Christopher again pulled at her denims. Charlotte tried to brace herself with her feet to avoid sliding off the sofa. But that made his task easier, and her pants were quickly off even though one pants leg caught on her foot. He jerked it free. Charlotte’s white cotton panties were still on, but she felt him push them aside and a finger enter her. A breath caught and she made a small sound. She tentatively reached down and wrapped her thumb and forefinger around his erection. It was hot in her hand. Then she ran her fingers up and down its length and felt him shudder.
“Oh God,” he said, his breathing ragged. “I have to.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Go on.”
His hands again went to her waist. “Lift,” he said tersely, and she did – raising her bottom a little. With a swift yank her panties off and he tossed them aside. Now the floor seemed to fall away, and her heart pounded. Charlotte looked at Christopher, his face vague in the darkened room. His touch changed; the fingers became more deliberate, more probing than anything meant for her. She realized they were gauging her.
Charlotte tried to delay what she now realized was something that would not be delayed. “Give me a minute,” she implored him. “It’s okay but just give me a minute.” Instead, Christopher put a hand behind her buttocks and pulled her toward him. She felt the top of her thighs tip off the edge of the cushion. “Oh Christ, I want you,” he said. “I’ve never been so hard.” Then he made a quick wet sound as he spit onto himself. Christopher’s knees levered her thighs further apart, and with an abrupt motion he drove into her. “Oh!” she said in surprise. “Wait!” He surged into her again. She placed her hands against his chest and pushed. He shoved hard a third time, deeply, and now she felt all of him. “Oh my God,” Charlotte thought. Then realized she had said that aloud.
Christopher was strong and fast. She wrapped her arms around him; looked into his face. His eyes were shut tightly, his face almost contorted. “Look at me,” she said. “Please.” But he didn’t. So she closed her own eyes, met his fierce rhythm, and started to feel what she wanted to feel, what she had wanted for five minutes. Charlotte’s world shrank to the overwhelming sensation of his warm cock driving into her. Oh. Oh. She shifted slightly. That’s it. There. Oh yes. There. She felt the tingle that promised something. Make it happen. Make it last a few more minutes and we’ll get there together.
Rough manhandling broke the brief spell. To Charlotte’s disbelief Christopher had put his hands under her knees and hoisted her legs into the air. She made a sharp protesting noise. “Nnohhh.” Now she had no leverage and could do nothing as he loomed over her and drove in even more deeply. Her hands scrabbled across the sofa, trying to find anything she could grip to help her find a role in whatever he was doing. Christopher slowed, then stopped. “Fuck,” he said. Charlotte sensed his need to delay himself and knew he was close. “Not in me…” she whispered quickly. “Please.” She tried to twist away but couldn’t shift his weight.
He shoved hurriedly three or four times. Then once very deeply. Then he stopped.
And that was it.
The little hiccupping feeling, a liquid sensation spreading inside her. Christopher groaned into her ear. “Oh…oh…oh.” He paused, then thrust one more time and held it for too long. “Oh fuck,” he said. Now he went still.
For a second it all seemed right – there was nothing between them. Charlotte felt him relaxing even as his breath still was hard and hoarse. He released her legs and her feet again touched the floor. Now she could push herself back onto the sofa, which felt good. Then something wet ran down her thigh and something fractured in her head. Oh no. What had she done?
He kissed her. “I’ve dreamed of this, Charlotte.”
Another kiss. Scotch on his breath. It smelled foul.
“My love,” he said softly.
What did he say?
Then suddenly the room changed. For a second Charlotte thought Christopher had turned the lamp back on. But the light was moving across the wall. And coming from outside. She heard the splashing sound of tires.
“Shit,” Christopher said. He stood up, hurriedly pulled his pants to his waist, and turned on the lamp. “Turn it off,” she snapped. He did. Then Christopher walked to the window, pushed a curtain aside an inch, and looked outside. “It’s him,” he said. His voice shook.
Now everything Charlotte had felt seconds ago turned to something dark and shapeless. “Get dressed,” she said. Christopher fumbled with his shirt.
“What the fuck,” he said. “You told me…”
She tried to focus. “That doesn’t matter now.”
Another flash of lightning. A car door slammed shut. She saw Christopher grabbing his jacket and heading for the mudroom door. Only one shoe was on – the other was in his hand. His belt flapped around his waist. “Don’t,” she tried to yell. “Stay…stay here.” But she somehow knew he wouldn’t. And then he was gone.
A moment passed. She looked around the living room, saw the music stand. She considered hiding it, as if it mattered now. Whatever was here was gone. Vanished. Now she had to face what was outside in the rain. She didn’t want to.
Then – voices outside. Loud.
With sickening awareness Charlotte realized she was naked from the waist down and that her blouse was open and her bra undone. Trying to dress was hopeless. Doug’s black sweatshirt was hanging on a hook in the mudroom, so she stuffed her loose clothes under a sofa cushion, grabbed the sweatshirt, and pulled it on. It smelled like his shop. The zipper caught her neck when Charlotte pulled it up. She tried to pick a slipper off the floor but almost fell. Finally got it on, and the other. Her mouth felt sticky. She tried to smooth her hair with her hands. Again, something wet ran down her thighs. Oh God.
She opened the door.