P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

She pulled back to look at his face. “Something’s wrong?” she asked.

“Things are tense at work,” he said.

She smiled again. “Trees make you tense?”

He laughed but it was to cover his guilt more than anything. He had made up a lie about what he did, a lie he had told her on their second night together. He told her he was working for the Forestry Office, a temporary assignment connected with the University of Michigan.

“My boss is a prick,” he said.

“You need to reduce your stress level.”

“Oh yeah? Got any ideas?”

“Well, in fact, I do. You own a pair of running shoes?”

“What?”

“You can come run with me.”

He smiled to hide his weariness. “I had a different form of exercise in mind.”

She laughed. “Go get dressed. We’ll run to my place.”

They went into the cabin. He didn’t really want to go anywhere but played along, dressing quickly.

They struck off through the snow. Louis was chagrined that Zoe slowed her pace for his sake but as they rounded the east end of the lake he forgot his discomfort. He almost forgot, too, about Gibralter, the cases and everything, losing himself in the simple pleasure of running. He had forgotten how exhilarating it felt to run. He glanced at Zoe. And how good it felt to be in love. The realization struck him like a laser. How could he be in love after only a few weeks? No, it wasn’t love. It was lust, pure and simple. But then why had he missed her so much?

After an hour they came to a hill and walked up to a small log cabin set down in a stand of tall pines. Below, the lake was an opaque white expanse in the moonlight, rimmed with the yellow lights of cabins and a cluster of brightness where the town sat down on the south end.

“You’re really isolated here,” Louis said.

She held open the door for him. “I like it that way.”

Louis stepped inside. He was struck immediately by the smell, something sweet that transported him immediately back to college. Patchouli incense.

“Leave your shoes there,” Zoe said, pulling off her jacket and shoes. “I’m going to change.”

Louis slipped off his sodden Nikes and jacket, his eyes taking in the small room. From the outside it was a log cabin, much like his. But inside it looked like an exotic brothel. The log walls were draped with swags of gauze in peach and orange. There were brass candlestick holders on the mantel, the windowsills and the tables. A large rough-hewn wood coffee table dominated the room, filled with more candles and flanked by a Victorian sofa, upholstered in paisley. The floor was covered by an Oriental carpet and dotted with dozens of pillows, all in a riot of colors, fabrics and patterns.

Louis’s gaze traveled around the incredible room. There were no pictures, except for one large print in a heavy gilt frame above the fireplace. It showed two men and a woman having a picnic in the woods. The men wore formal nineteenth-century dress and the blissfully blank expression of cows. But the woman was nude, gazing out nonchalantly at whoever looked at the painting.

Louis was staring at the painting when Zoe came back in. She was barefoot, wearing a red caftan and carrying two brandy snifters. She smiled as she handed one to Louis and then set about lighting the candles.

“I’ve seen this painting before,” he said.

“Manet. Le Dejeuner sur l’herbe,” she said, going to sit on the sofa.

“’Lunch’…” Louis began then shook his head.

“’On the lawn,’” she finished.

“Can’t run anymore, can’t remember my college French,” he said, coming to sit next to her.

She smiled and took a sip of brandy. “The real one is in Paris. I want to go see it someday. It’s one of my favorite paintings.”

“Why?”

“The woman,” she said, nodding at the painting. “Look at her. She’s naked but she’s obviously the one in charge.”

Louis took a drink of the brandy, tilting his head and closing his eyes. He let the soft, warm liquid trickle down the back of his throat. He heard a gentle tinkling sound and looked back at Zoe. She had shifted to face him, folding her legs up under her on the sofa. She was wearing earrings, intricate little gold things with tiny bells.

“I like your place,” he said. “It’s very…”

“Overwrought?” she said with a smile.

“Romantic.”

“If you like early Turkish brothel.”

“I feel like I should be listening to ‘White Rabbit’ and stuffing towels under the door.”

She laughed. He felt so good, as if he were drifting in a warm ocean somewhere, surrounded by the smell of flowers. It was the patchouli and her perfume. She had moved closer to him, leaning back into the pillows, swirling the brandy in the glass.

“Well, I’m just an old hippie at heart,” she said.

“How old?”

“Thirty-five.”

He cocked a brow. “I’ve never been out with an older woman before.”

A black cat jumped up on the sofa and settled into Louis’s lap. Zoe reached to brush it away but Louis stopped her.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” he said. The cat began to knead his belly, stretching its paws and purring loudly.

“She likes you,” Zoe said.

Louis rubbed the cat’s head. “What’s her name?”

“Isolde.”

“Come again?”

“Isolde.” She pointed to a white cat cowering behind a chair. “That’s Tristan. You know, Wagner?”

Louis gave her a puzzled shrug.

“Tristan and Isolde. It’s an opera about two doomed lovers.” She paused, smiling. “Louis, don’t tell me you’ve never heard Wagner.”

“Sure. He wrote that music in “Apocalypse Now ,” the part where Robert Duvall is in the helicopter talking about how much he loves the smell of napalm in the morning.” He sobered. For all he knew, her mother had been killed by some soldier in Korea.

But to his relief she didn’t seem to get it. She rose and went to the stereo, putting on a tape. Moments later, the music began, so softly he barely heard it. Zoe came back, fitting into the crook of his arm, laying her head back on his shoulder.

“This is Liebestod,” she said.

“Nice,” Louis said.

“It means ‘Love Death.’ It’s Isolde’s song of ecstasy, just as she’s getting ready to jump into the fire to meet Tristan in death.”

“Oh, those wacky Germans.”

Zoe closed her eyes. “Now, just listen to it. It starts out so slow, so sensual.”

Louis set the brandy aside and shut his eyes.

“Listen,” she whispered. “Hear how it builds?”

“Hmmm.”

“This part…listen to this. Louis? Are you listening?”

The music was growing louder. Zoe’s voice was at his ear. “Here,” she said. “The climax begins. It comes in waves, hear it?”

“Yes.”

“And now, just when you think it is over — ”

“Zoe.”

“It builds again.”

“Zoe…”

“Hang on, it’s only seven minutes long.”

“That’s not the problem.”

The music came to a crescendo then became quiet again, trailing off as it had begun. The only sound was the cat purring in his lap. Zoe kissed his cheek and he opened his eyes.

“I like opera,” he said.

“I knew you would.”

“But I don’t think I should stand up just yet.”

She laughed and went to put on another tape. It was Billie Holliday. He listened to “Trav’lin’ Light” and “Gimme a Pigfoot and a Bottle of Beer,” a small smile tipping his lips. Zoe was tapping out the tempo lightly on his thigh. It turned to a caress as Billie Holliday moved on to “What a Little Moonlight Can Do.”

The next song began, “Strange Fruit.” Zoe’s hand stopped moving. They sat motionless through the images of magnolias and black bodies hanging from trees. Neither moved until the tape went on to the next cut.