Sylvain Reynard

“Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! Facta est quasi vidua domina gentium . . .”

1292

Florence, Italy

The poet pushed back from the table and looked out the window at his beloved city. Though her architecture and streets called to him, they did so with hollow voices. It was as if a great light had been extinguished, not just from the city, but from the world.

“Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! Facta est quasi vidua domina gentium . . .”

His eyes scanned the Lamentation he’d quoted only moments previous. The words of the prophet Jeremiah were woefully inadequate.

“Beatrice,” he whispered, his heart seizing in his chest. Even now, two years after her death, he had difficulty writing about his loss.

She would remain forever young, forever noble, forever his blessedness, and not all the poetry in the world could express his devotion to her. But for the sake of her memory and their love, he would try.

Professor Gabriel Emerson stood in the doorway of his study, hands in his pockets, gazing on his wife with no little heat. His tall, athletic form was striking, as were his rugged features and sapphire eyes.

He’d met her when she was seventeen (ten years his junior) and fallen in love with her. They’d been separated by time and circumstances, not least of which was his indulgent lifestyle.

Yet Heaven smiled on them. She became his graduate student in Toronto six years later and they’d rekindled their affection, marrying a year and a half after that. Almost six months into their marriage he loved her even more than before. He envied the very air she breathed.

He’d waited long enough for what he was about to do. It was possible she’d need to be seduced, but Gabriel prided himself in his expertise at seduction.

The strains of Bruce Cockburn’s song “Mango” floated in the air, casting his memory back to their trip to Belize before they were married. They’d made love outside in a variety of places, including the beach.

They’d been resident in Selinsgrove a week—a respite from their busy lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Gabriel was a professor at Boston University while Julia had just finished her first year of a PhD at Harvard, under the supervision of a brilliant scholar, formerly of Oxford. They’d fled Cambridge because their home in Harvard Square was in upheaval, as an addition to the house was under construction.

The Clark house in Selinsgrove had been renovated to accord with Gabriel’s exacting standards prior to their arrival. Much of the furniture left behind by Richard, Gabriel’s adoptive father, had been placed in storage.

Julia had chosen new furniture and curtains and persuaded Gabriel to help her paint the walls. Whereas his aesthetic ran to dark wood and rich, brown leather, Julia preferred the light colors of a seaside cottage, with whitewashed walls and furniture, accented with various shades of Santorini blue.

Four days ago, they’d made love on the bedroom floor, covered in paint, before the furniture had been delivered.

(Julia had decided that body painting with Gabriel was her new favorite sport.)

With memories of their physical connection in mind, and the music increasing its tempo, Gabriel’s patience had come to an end. They were newlyweds. He had no intention of allowing her to ignore him for another evening.

He prowled over to her, his footfalls silent. He moved her shoulder-length hair aside, exposing her neck. The slight stubble of his unshaved face rasped against her skin, intensifying his kisses.

“Come,” he whispered.

Goose pimples rose on her skin. His long, thin fingers traced the arch of her neck as he waited.

Julia returned his smile, shifting the blanket so that she could take his proffered hand.

As they journeyed downstairs and across the yard, his expression grew playful.

“Have you ever made love in an orchard before?”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head.

“Then I’m glad I’m your first.”

She tightened her grip on his hand. “You’re my last, Gabriel. My only.”

He quickened his pace, switching on the flashlight as they entered the woods behind the house. He led the way, navigating over roots and uneven ground.

He pulled her on top of him. A strange charge seemed to jump between their skin as he gripped her hips.

“When you’re ready, we’ll start trying.”

She grinned.

“We should probably practice a lot in preparation.”

“Absolutely.”

Julia startled awake early the next morning. Dawn had yet to break and the bedroom was quiet, the silence broken only by the sound of Gabriel’s rhythmic breathing and the distant chattering of birds outside.

A few hours later, Gabriel walked into the kitchen, carrying his running shoes and socks. He was clad in a Harvard T-shirt and shorts