All of us get stuck by the weather from time to time. Sometimes, it can be a very good thing.
". . .temperatures tonight will be below freezing and remain that way through Friday. That's all for the weather, and now back to music." I switched off the radio; as usual, I caught the tail end of the forecast and had to get the rest of the details elsewhere. Going into the study, I called up the weather page and read the entire forecast: a freak winter storm was descending the British Iles from the Arctic: snow was beginning overnight and the equivalent of 4 inches expected by daybreak, with swirling snow through the next day and a half at least. It was expected to paralyze the entire country, except for the Southwest and Wales. I took a look at the pantry and emergency supplies: all were in order to last several days, and I began soaking some beans so I could prepare a pot of authentic chili against the cold weather. Thank God the roof got fixed in record time. Putting the kettle on, I prepared some jasmine tea and cookies, rather biscuits, and settled into the paper, which I hadn't a chance to read until then.
At 9:00PM Agnes Sterns bustled through the door as she usually did on a Wednesday evening, shivering. "Hiya, Vic. Beastly out there, it is." Giving me a peck on the forehead, she hustled through dump her books in her apartment and throw off her coat, returning to sit and pick up a portion of the paper I wasn't reading. The kettle sang and I poured the boiling water into the teapot to steep. Looking around, she got the milk out of the icebox and put a little in her cup, and after a couple of minutes or so, topped it off with freshly brewed tea, spooning in a teaspoon of sugar. I let it go for a couple more minutes, then poured myself a cup without any additions.
"You're still uncoverted, Vicar," she said. "No self respecting Brit would drink their tea without milk and sugar."
"This is jasmine tea, very delicate. Although, I guess I'm stuck in the habit of drinking tea alone from my early days. In the summer, I still put it over ice."
She shivered. "All right, you Philistine, be like that. This tea is perfectly lovely with milk and sugar, so I'll drink it this way. You can satisfy your heathen tastes as you like."
"Okay," I said, thumbing through the paper.
"By the way," she continued, "any other heathen tastes you'd be interested in satisfying tonight? Tomorrow should be an off day for everybody."
I peeked over the top of the paper and winked. "One or two heathen tastes come to mind. Perhaps a nice roaring fire in the fireplace will a treat on a night like this.'
"The one with the nice, soft rug in front of it?"
"Yes."
"I like the way you're thinking." Returning to our papers, we leisurely sipped our tea and turned pages, although I could almost feel the electricity from her side of the table. My placid domesticity was less than perfect as well, but I kept my discipline and exterior calm as I finished the paper, the biscuits and tea. Agnes was gazing at me with big, puppy dog eyes, entranced. It bothered me a little, but I put on a brave front as I asked: "Care to go upstairs and get the fire lit?"
"Sure, Vic." She jumped to her feet and almost danced up the stairs ahead of me.
Tonight she was wearing a dark brown heavy sweater, a blue blouse beneath, a plaid woolen skirt that went down to her knees, thick, kneehigh socks; the boots she wore were by the back door and she hadn't put on slippers. The bun she wore in her hair as she came in had been released, and her lustrous red hair cascaded down over her shoulders toward the middle of her back. Her stockinged feet slipped a little as she pranced on the wooden floors, but she reveled in the slickness and slid gleefully around, giggling like a child.
I went in my sitting room and laid a fire, building it as I learned in my youth on the Great Plains, and my undiminished skill was validated as it took one match to light it. It built slowly, and I made sure the grate was open and the glass doors shut so my rooms wouldn't fill with smoke. Reclining on a couch directly in front of it, I listened as Agnes continued her impromptu cavorting in the hallway. Occasionally she would fly past the door, sliding on the waxed, wooden floor in her stocking feet, hair flying a little behind her, arms spread wide.
She did a wonderful job keeping the house clean, sticking to her schedule, and impressing her grandmother Mary with her dedication. Studies and practice kept her very busy during the week. We usually spent Friday evenings together: I would take her out someplace away from the parish for dinner and then we'd go dancing. Unlike most young people, she disdained nightclubbing, preferring ballroom dancing. I was learning gradually the different steps and grateful that my youthful days playing the organ made my feet compliant to lithe and graceful motions. Last weekend, we took fourth in an amateur competition.
Our sex life was infrequent, and I was reluctant to push it. She was enamored of me, and would have spent every night in my bed happily, but I allowed her less access than I did the other Quilting Ladies. Until Sheila Button left town a couple of months ago, they still brought meals over four times a week, and I usually made love to the cook that evening, as we had for months. There were also encounters with all of them in the Quilting Room, impromptu encounters like the first time, that were delightful. Agnes was extremely busy with her studies, and having six nights a week to read or practice to her heart's content seemed appropriate; as far as I could tell, she was working hard and enjoying her graduate studies in music very much.
With a scream, she slid into the room, her shirt untucked under her sweater, her arms at her sides, her breasts bouncing once at the stop, her skin glowing with perspiration, her eyes bright, her long hair disheveled and a goofy grin on her face. Agnes grabbed her sweater by the bottom and stripped it off over her head, saying: "Gosh, it's hot in here." Throwing it on a convenient chair, she went over to put my iPod in its dock, calling up Vaughn Williams'
Songs of Travel
. Balancing on the mantelpiece, she perched on one leg at a time to strip off her knee high socks, revealing her graceful calves, delicate feet and pert little rednailed toes. They joined the sweater on the chair, and she snuggled into my side. I put my arm over her, my hand cupping her teardrop breast, my finger absently stroking her nipple with its bar. Sighing, she wriggled into me a bit more, and we savored the music.
After a while, I said: "I was wondering something just now."
"Oh," she murmured.
"How come we never listen to organ music when you come up here?"
She sat up and turned to face me. "Listening to organ music is too much like work. I always get ticked when I hear a phrasing or articulation or rubato I don't agree with, and it takes all the enjoyment out of it."
"Oh. Then who's your favorite performer?"
"That's easy, it's me."
I gave her a disbelieving look. "That's a little bit smug of you, isn't it?"
"Not at all. When I'm on the bench, I can interpret the music exactly as I think it should go, or at least try. There's nothing more thrilling that putting my hands on my favorite literature for myself; shaping phrases and tempi like a piece of clay; I'm surprised more people aren't eager to do it. When I want to hear music interpreted as I like it best, I do it myself."
"That makes sense, put that way." She nestled back into my side; my hand sought her graceful curve and sweet, jeweled bud.
"Who's your favorite preacher?" She asked after a moment.
"There are many that I've liked over the years, but I guess I'd have to say I am. For much the same reason."
