The Lover From An Icy Sea Page 34

  Mrs. Sørensen brought a tray in from the kitchen on which she’d laid out three cups and saucers; a plate piled high with what looked to Kit—he remarked as he wandered back in from the greenhouse—like the Danish equivalent of scones; some clotted cream; and an assortment of jams, jellies and marmalades. The ‘leading man’ in this culinary spectacle of many-colored and variously-textured players was a rectangular block of butter of a delicate golden hue. He looked at it, looked at Daneka, then fixed in his mind that this color would forever after be known to his visual memory as “Daneka gold.” He couldn’t, he thought, find a more fitting way to memorialize it and her. But that was Kit—to whom color, light and lichens were everything.

  “Are you also a gardener, Kit?” Mrs. Sørensen asked as she began to set out the plateware.

  “Well, I don’t know that I’d describe myself quite that way, Mrs. Sorensen. I’m really a photographer—that’s what I do for a living. I’m just a dabbler when it comes to gardening,” he said as he helped her distribute cups and saucers.

  “He’s both, mor. And he’s very good at both.” Daneka, of course, had no way of knowing whether Kit could even tell the difference between a hosta and a honeybee. But she’d decided that he was her knight in shining armor, and that she was going to sing his praises to whatever receptive ears she could find. Mrs. Sorensen marveled that Daneka should defend her man so vigorously: this was something she couldn’t recall ever having seen in her daughter.

  “Your prince is awfully proper, Daneka. Do you mind if I insist that he call me by my first name?”

  “Not in the least, mor.”

  “Then please, Kit. Let’s be done with this ‘Mrs. Sørensen’—or even with this ‘Mrs. Sorensen’—okay?” she said as she set out the tea pot and a pitcher of cream. Kit blushed at her Anglicized rendition of her own name—in clear imitation of his less than valiant effort. She extended her hand a second time. “Just call me Dagmar.” Mercifully, Kit thought, she didn’t also Anglicize the sound of her first name, but gave it the full Danish glottal thrust—something he could comfortably replicate. He put his hand back out.

  “Thank you, Dagmar. And please—just call me ‘Kit'.” They both laughed. Daneka’s eyes found the ceiling as she wondered whether it might put an end to their little jokes.

  “Well. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s eat, drink and be merry—and no longer morbid, okay Daneka?”

  “Ja, mor. Whatever. But let’s please be more careful in giving proper credit for this so-called ‘morbidity,’ shall we?”

  “‘Morbidity’?” No. I was just trying to be motherly. In the same way you’ve been trying over the last few years to become increasingly daughterly. Daughterly? Kit, can one say ‘daughterly’ in English—even if that doesn’t quite describe my Daneka to a ‘T’?”

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Daneka. “I’ve been very busy, Mother. My job takes huge chunks of my time.”

  “Yes, I quite understand that, my dear Daneka. ‘Daughterly’ is not always easy to manage. And speaking of ‘daughterly’, how’s Margarette?” Daneka shot a quick glance at Kit. “You know ‘motherly’ is one thing. You can take it or leave it. ‘Grandmotherly,’ however, is something I feel I have a right to for as long as I’m still alive. Do you think I might be allowed to see my granddaughter more than once every couple of years?”

  Her glance veered away from Daneka and towards Kit—and she suddenly realized he did’t have a clue. “Kit has never met Margarette?” she asked in a tone of disbelief. Kit’s gape suggested to her that the news was even more incredible. “Does he even know she exists?”

  Kit was helpless at this point to intervene on Daneka’s behalf.

  “Åh gud, Daneka! Hvad drejer det her sig om?”

  “Vi har bare ikke haft lejlighed til at tale om hende endnu, det er alt. Det er faktisk Annemettes fortjeneste, at vi lærte hinanden at kende. Jeg bestilte ham til at fotografere hende.”

  “Jeg ville ønske, du ville lade være med at bruge det rædsomme navn! I’m sorry, Kit. This is terribly rude of my daughter and me. I seem to have opened a little Pandora’s box here,” she said, giving ‘Pandora’ a distinctly Danish pronunciation.

  Yes, Mother—you have opened one, thanks very much.” Daneka reached over and put her hand on Kit’s arm. “Darling, I’m sorry. I’ve been wanting to tell you—but the moment for that discussion was just never at hand. Thanks to my mother,” she said glaring at Mrs. Sørensen, “it now is.”

  “But why all the mystery?” Kit asked.

  “She’s the project. The reason I went looking for a photographer in the first place.”

  “To take pictures of her? Why don’t you do it yourself? You obviously know how to handle a camera.”

  “I can’t. I’ve tried. She won’t sit for me. I don’t know why. She just won’t.” Kit stared at her, still trying to fathom the irregularity of it all. As if there weren’t already enough unknowns about this woman, here was one more—a mystery child.

  “When can I meet her?”

  “Just as soon as we get back to New York. Promise.”

  “Well. I’m glad that’s settled!” said Mrs. Sørensen. “Perhaps I’ll send along a picture of myself to remind her—but with you, Kit. That way, I’m sure it will actually get to her and not be left under some breakfast table at Tiffany’s. Are we ready for our tea now?” she asked as she picked up the pot and a strainer.

  With her eyes focused on something elsewhere in the room, Daneka pushed cup and saucer with a dismissive finger in the direction of her mother. Mrs. Sørenson held the pot poised over Daneka’s cup, then poured tea for Kit and for herself instead and put the pot back down on the table.

  “Du kan selv skænke din forbandede te!” In almost the same instant, she dropped her scowl and smiled at Kit. “So tell me about this photography, Kit. What do you like to photograph?”

  “Mostly naked women, mother,” Daneka interjected.

  “Young ones, I hope.” She then glared directly at Daneka, who was still staring off into space. “Young, firm-bodied ones, no doubt. And with some cause bigger than themselves. Women who—if they have children—actually spend time with those children, listen to them, take them outdoors to play with other children. Who don’t leave them locked up behind closed doors, and who—.”

  Daneka abruptly stood up from the table. “Thank you, mor. It has—as it always is—been lively and entertaining. Kit?”

  The tension in the room had reached a level that even Kit found intolerable. He was certain he’d like this woman. He wanted to spend more—much more—time with her. But today was clearly not the day. Perhaps again during the week, he thought as he stood up.

  “I’m sorry, Dagmar. I’d hoped we could discuss my plans for Daneka’s garden. Perhaps another day? I’d really like your help.”

  “You’re not, I hope, both her lover and her gardener, Kit!”

  “Mor!” Then, instead of trading any further insults with her mother, Daneka chose to exit, turned abruptly on her heel and walked out the front door.

  Kit leaned down to give Mrs. Sørenson a kiss on the cheek. She leaned her face up and returned the kiss. “I’m sorry about all of this, Kit. It doesn’t usually get this bad—at least not right away. Maybe by the next time we see each other, Daneka and I will have sorted out our differences and will be able to carry on a civilized conversation.”

  “Please don’t apologize. I understand. I, too, have parents. Or rather, they have me.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure you’re a source of unending pleasure to them.”

  “Well—.”

  “I’m sure of it. Okay—go now. You probably already know Daneka doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” They exchanged a quick glance of shared understanding. It was obviously something they both knew all too well.

  Chapter 58

  Kit walked out to the car and found Daneka already seated and belted in. He could see she was trying desperately not to cry, but quick swipes to both cheeks told
him she wasn’t having much success.

  “Daneka, come over here,” Kit said and pulled her to him once he’d settled into his seat. As she scooched over, she made some effort to restrain her sobs, but otherwise none to conceal the hurt behind them.

  Kit knew his greatest use to her right then would simply be to be—not to withdraw; not to tell her it was all right; not to insist the pain would go away. He knew that nothing would be worse at that moment than withdrawal; that it would never just be ‘all right’; and that the pain would have to recede into some quiet place where pain lives in all of us. But he also knew it would never simply go away.

  They sat for a good five minutes. Kit could imagine the same scenario right inside Mrs. Sørensen’s front door, though without benefit of a comforter. He wished he could split himself in half—but he couldn’t, and so he had to choose. However much he might have wanted to comfort her mother, Kit’s allegiance at that moment had to be to Daneka.

  Eventually, she stopped. As she rummaged unsuccessfully through her purse for a tissue, Kit put his hand inside his shirt, bunched the material together in five fingers and offered it up to Daneka without a word. His gesture this time needed no instruction set. She put her nose down and blew. Then she laughed and threw her arms around his neck.

  “I love you, darling. You and your snotty shirt.”

  “Just don’t ever mistake it for a potty shirt,” he said. “I’ll wipe your nose anyday of the week. But don’t ask me to wipe your ass. At least not with my shirt.”

  “No. I won’t. However, I wouldn’t mind in the least if you kissed it once in a while,” she said, smirking.

  “Bare it.”

  “Here? In front of my mother’s house? Are you kidding?”

  “Okay. Not here. But just as soon as we get back to your place. Deal?”

  “I’m not sure I can wait that long.”

  “I’m not sure I can, either. What do you suggest?”

  “Drive!” Daneka said. “Drive on, Charon.”

  “Where to, my lovely?”

  “To Hades. Where else? To burn. Though not just yet.”

  Kit stared at Daneka. She stared back, then slowly undid the top three buttons of her blouse, reached in and pushed the strap of her bra off one shoulder. “Fuel for your fire, fireman.”

  He leaned down and opened his mouth. Daneka took her breast out and teased his lips with the nipple. Each time Kit lunged forward, she retreated—but not too far. Not too far at all. Only far enough, really, to keep her nipple poised on his lips. He eventually closed his eyes and stopped lunging. She continued to hold up one breast and move the nipple back and forth across his lips until it hardened. Meanwhile, her breath began to come in little bursts.

  “Now, drive like the devil!” she said as she put her breast back inside her bra.

  Kit made a U-turn and accelerated up the country lane—conscientiously on the look-out, however, for errant tractors or hopscotchers in pinafores. Once they reached the town’s main road, she gave him further instructions.

  “Let’s not go home just yet. Let’s go to my special place.”

  At that precise moment, the sun came out—apparently also in the mood to play. Daneka directed Kit this time not around the periphery of the island, but rather straight across it. Cow pastures and open fields ceded in short order to ever denser foliage. The sun would occasionally peek through the overstory, but only for a quick burst.

  “Will you at least tell me what this special place we’re going to is called?”

  “Of course, darling. We’re in it. It’s called the forest of Almendingen.”

  “You want to do evil in a forest primeaval?” Kit snickered.

  “Only if you do it first. You show me yours. Then I’ll show you mine.”

  “Is there any special place within this special place?” Daneka was about to answer, but stopped herself when another, more mischevious idea occurred to her.

  “Yes, darling,” she cooed. Let me show you.” She took Kit’s hand and guided it slowly up the inside of her thigh. Today, and quite by coincidence, she was wearing silk. She next reached between her legs with her other hand in anticipation of the arrival of Kit’s hand and pulled the crotch of her panties to one side. Today, she thought to herself, there would be no impasse. They were way past discovery. If Kit was going to stake her for his queen, he would find her an obliging guide, a grateful slave even. As she considered the notion of herself as a slave to Kit’s passions, she felt his fingers move snail-like up her thigh. Even before she felt her wetness, she could smell herself in the car. Kit could, too.

  As his fingers reached that spot she’d wanted them to reach, she lay back against the car door and spread her legs. She guided one finger in; then another; then a third. Kit was content. She, however, was not. She pressed in a fourth, then grabbed his wrist and fixed his hand to the spot. With her free hand, she began to caress herself. She closed her eyes and leaned her head out the window. Little darts of sunlight would occasionally strike her face. The quick warmth of those darts was easily upstaged by the slow glow she felt burning between her legs. She was now, she knew, on fire.

  She climaxed—this time, without shame. They’d come far since their first day in Positano. As if to reinforce the point, Kit slowly withdrew his hand and put it into his mouth, one finger at a time. He next reached out, took her hand, and placed her index finger in his mouth. At the sight of him sucking on the finger she’d used to caress herself, she did something she’d never achieved through a simple visual stimulus: she came again. Instantly.

  * * *

  When Daneka regained her composure, she looked out the front window and realized they’d driven past the point at which she’d meant them to stop and get out. She giggled.

  “Sorry, darling. I guess I got a little distracted. That, or too much sun.”

  “Yes. Probably too much sun.”

  “Would you mind turning around?”

  “Not in the least.” Kit brought the car to a stop and executed a three-point turn. Once he’d brought the car back up to full speed again, he turned to Daneka.

  “Oh, it’s not more than a mile or two back. I’ll let you know when we’re getting close,” she said as she reached over and put her hand between his legs. “Are you feeling terribly frustrated, darling?”

  Kit didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Oh, my darling. I’m so sorry.”

  “Will you make it up to me?”

  “I will—promise. Oh, it’s just up there on the right, darling,” she said as she pointed out through Kit’s half of the windshield. “But let’s not park directly in front. I don’t want anybody else to discover my little secret. Instead, why don’t you pull up about a hundred yards and park on the left-hand side of the road?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kit said and started to tip an imaginary cap. Daneka, however, arrested his arm in mid-salute.

  “Oh, stop that! Are you making fun of Ron?”

  “Well, maybe just a little. But that’s only because I like him,” Kit said as he brought the car to a halt and turned off the engine.

  “Good. Then you like both Ron and Estrella and you clearly like my mother. Now if it turns out you also like Annemette and Grace, we’re home free.”

  Kit had apparently missed the mention of ‘Annemette.’ “Grace? Who’s Grace?”

  “She’s my closest female friend,” Daneka said opening her car door. You absolutely have to like Grace. If not, well, I’m afraid there’s no hope for you, no love for me, and no charity for either of us.”

  “I’ll do my best—even if I have to pretend.”

  “Thank you, darling. I knew I could count on you.” They walked across the road into a clearing, then started out down a rough path.

  “What does she do, your Grace? Is she a work buddy? A colleague?”

  “Oh, no, darling. Grace doesn’t work. She doesn’t have to. She married well.”

  “Lucky girl. What, then, does her husband do?”

&n
bsp; “He doesn’t. He did once. Just enough to leave her with a small fortune. But he’s dead.”

  “Did she marry him for love or money?”

  “Why does it always have to be one or the other? Can’t a girl just fall in love in spite of a guy’s money. You know, just ignore the diamonds as he’s picking a big one out.”

  “What’s up with diamonds, anyway?” Kit asked as he glanced down and noticed mushrooms, the occasional fern, and mounds of emerald green moss to either side of the footpath. “Why not a lichen—for instance?”

  “A lichen? What’s up with lichens?”

  “Look right here, Daneka. Look around you. What do you see?” Daneka scanned the panorama but offered no comment. As they walked on in silence, Kit began to wonder whether he’d made a serious error in judgment in his choice of a gift for her from California. Clearly, she hadn’t noticed it on the coffee table before they’d left New York. Maybe he could just quietly sneak it out when they got back.

  * * *

  At the instant he saw it, he realized that her designation of the spot as her ‘special place’ had been an understatement. He didn’t have a word in his vocabulary to describe it. It was almost too perfect to be natural.

  In a clearing of not much more than two or three body lengths in any direction, a bed of velvet-soft moss—pure Polytrichum—tiptoed up to a sheer and jagged granite wall. Here and there in the moss carpet, tiny poppies peeked through. Map lichen—Rhizocarpon geographicum—spotted the granite wall like forests made for Lilliputians. Water dropped down the face of the wall and dripped into a tiny pool. Kit looked into the pool to gauge its depth, but couldn’t discern a bottom. The water was blacker than any black he’d ever known. Emerald bridal gowns of liverwort—Conocephalum conicum—covered trunks of trees surrounding the clearing, while their branches wrestled in wraiths of Isotheciium stoloniferum, the color and texture of lime-green lace. Oddly, a single piece of lava rock—covered in dark green Grimmia moss—was lodged in among the granite boulders.