Auld Lang Syne

by Joanie

New Year's, Firthness Challenge Entry 2005

She was committed now; she couldn’t back out if she wanted to.

Arriving alone at a party for the first time in her adult life, Elizabeth stepped deliberately, eyes screening the other guests. She felt curiously exposed, though none more than usual turned their heads or stared. She knew that all were familiar by now with the Story of the Year and her part in it. She wore their awareness like a heavy suit of armor. It was inevitable in this small, old-fashioned town, and too soon to be old news.

A deep draft of air fortified her as she marched in, looking neither right nor left, avoiding the owner of the decidedly striking eyes by the bar, standing tall among the glittering revelers ringing in 2005.

I could just stay for a bit, then leave and reward myself at home with a nice merlot. I prefer wine to champagne anyway.

She stole a glance, unaware of the breath crowding her chest until it began to ache. Her eyes lingered on the back of his neck as he bent his dark head to speak to a neighbor. She had hoped and feared he would be here. I can’t face him yet. I need a drink first. But she soon found herself arrested in his line of sight – for a long moment, clear blue searched soft brown. Then smiling faintly, she looked away. Coward.

She searched the sea of faces for her hosts, keeping at least three people between herself and her observer at all times. She received greetings timidly at first, as if these were strangers.

“You look lovely, Liz.”

“Happy New Year, dear.”

Maybe I won’t need that reward. She took heart that some were incurious faces after all.

“That’s what you think, is it?” She came up short at the sound of a gruff voice to her left - her ex-husband in a contentious exchange with his companion.

Not him! Not now!

She froze. Caught between secret admiration for one and open revulsion for another, she hardly knew where to go. The voice got louder. It was apparent that he was drunk and hitting on a woman in a very small dress. Hardly unusual. She felt eyes on her from all sides, turned from the spectacle and moved blindly to the far side of the crowded room, feeling an oppressive hush of embarrassment and pity in her wake. A woman’s sequined back blocked the door.

“How are you, dear?”

“Happy New Year. Excuse me.”

People and conversations went unnoticed as she berated herself for the idiot she was. But she was here now, and determined to see it through. She looked back to see one man’s unfocused stare, and another’s clear electric gaze, following her. All three looked off quickly. But this is intolerable!

She stepped out onto the terrace, not minding the cold. Fairy lights glowed through the snow. It was eerily silent out here, nothing but the moon and the tall whispering pines to compete with the muted noise and lights from inside....

October 2004

The river shone silver on that unseasonably cold fall day, ambling past the swaying pines. Normally, she thrilled to the colors this time of year, but this evening all was gray as she sat chilled and unmoving in the tepid blast from the car’s faulty heater. Not even a sunset.

“Thank you for seeing me. Finally.” The rough voice sounded oddly warm and out of place in this chill interview.

Strange how she could find nothing to say to this man who had been her life for years, whom she had not seen for months. She waited for inspiration to strike. It didn’t.

He broke the stalemate, reluctantly it seemed. “Nice to see you.”

“Is it?”

“Look, Liz, can we please be civil? I’ve apologized already. You can’t tell me you got none of those messages.”

Again, she waited. She was very good at it.

She absentmindedly drew a finger down the fogged window, liking the cold, slightly wet sensation on the tip. The trees outside were just visible through the thin strip of cleared glass, reaching their shaggy fingers toward the sky.

She turned her head and looked at his face, once so beguiling but now strangely configured, as if his features had somehow changed along with everything else. Fog on the lenses of his spectacles obscured his eyes.

“What is it you want?” She knew of course. She would make him say it.

“Hon, it’s time we ended things for good. I know you want to, you must.”

She winced at the habitual endearment. Habit had defined so much of their relationship for so long. It was time to kick it.

“Things ended last winter. You remember, Valentine's Day?”

He sighed loudly, expelling a half-hearted cloud. “Right. I assume you are fine with it then? Because you won’t talk to me, Liz. You haven’t for years. Anyway, Denny says it ought to be pretty simple. I mean, good thing there are no chil-.”

She looked icicles at him that the meager sun could not hope to melt.

“Sorry” he mumbled, looking down at miles of seat between them.

She closed her eyes. There was nothing left for him to take. “You may have your divorce. Goodbye George.”

She shut the car door on his surprised response. The dull metallic thud startled a bird somewhere. She started home heavily along the river, as the fallen leaves swirled past in an unseen eddy, drawn below by an invisible current. She wondered what color they were -- rust or ochre, wine-deep, stubborn green or dead brown -- it was too dark to tell.

~~~ “I’m so glad you could make it tonight! Come inside and have a drink.” She turned and found herself being air-kissed by Char. “Hurry, you have no wrap. What were you thinking, Liz?”

“Sorry, just a bit of air…”

“You don’t mind Wick being here, do you? I had to invite him -- Collins, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she managed.

“My, you've been scarce around here lately. One would think you’d moved to the City.”

“I‘ve had work. It’s kept me absorbed really. Lovely party.”

“Who works over Christmas? You’ve been avoiding us.” Perfectly shaped eyebrows narrowed at her in indulgent accusation.

She was spared further explanation by the arrival of more guests. Char excused herself ‘for a tiny moment’ and darted off in an authoritative flurry of clicking heels to greet them.

By the bar, underneath a pale simulated sky lit by tiny simulated stars, she spied him, dimpled smile in evidence as he chatted amiably with another. From her strategic post behind three others, she eyed his square ring-less hand, well-toned forearm holding a tumbler of scotch, watch glinting as he raised it to his lips. She turned away at the sound of his deep, engaging laughter. She had once thought he never laughed.

When she looked back again, George was advancing toward her, momentarily free of all attachments. She assumed her trademark look of indifference, noting the disparity between the two men. There was little resemblance -- one’s gaze was lucid, cool and warming at once, while the other’s was dark, shot with conflicted depths. How could she ever have thought him the better man? He could have charmed a snake. He wavered a bit, and offered a brave greeting.

“Hi, hon. Happy New Year.”

Is it? “Hello, George. Where’s Caro?” She couldn’t resist.

He shrugged and stared hard at her, an odd half-smile on his lips.

“I hear she’s pregnant. Congratulations.” Could she be forgiven for that small note of irony?

He said nothing, just looked. She stared back.

“Nice to see you.” He nodded and edged off, becoming more animated the farther he traveled from her. She winced at the sound of his laughter, roughened by another Jack Daniels.

From the corner of her vision she saw him again. He was watching her intently - always intently. William Darcy was a famous architect, a creator and builder of beautiful things. His look spoke of reason, intellect, appreciation. He had loved her once. George Wickham was a Navy man -- served on a destroyer, trained to kill. She had thought him so sexy, and had chosen him -- a man of thoughtless action and deceitful character.

All of a sudden her plan for this evening seemed ridiculous. She drifted back to the window and looked west. All was black now, where earlier the sun had been a low, luminous pink strip oppressed by purple, indigo, black....

July 2004

The colors of the sunset, brilliant in the warm evening, joined the green of foliage reflecting off the polished steel panels that covered the structure’s finished section like a silvery eel’s skin. The building had puzzled her almost from the very beginning of its construction.

She sat motionless at the window of her cluttered office, staring at the site across the river. She’d been oddly fascinated by the sharp, unusual angles as day by day the skeleton slowly took shape. Only it wasn’t any recognizable shape, and seemed to make up two skeletons -- a boxy inner one and a more fanciful outer one.

Geometry battled logic in the seeming randomly placed struts and girders shooting out in multiple directions that made up the many sides of the building. Chiefly disconcerting, though, was the appearance just this morning of two long protrusions, like arcs or arms of a sort, from the roof. The entire structure was reflected upside down on the placid water beside it, its many planes and angles multiplied and then obscured by the swiftly moving current farther out.

She could not imagine how it would all end up.

The ring of the telephone broke into her thoughts. Out of habit, she let the machine take it; out of habit, she stiffened as the familiar voice invaded her peace.

“Hon, it’s Wick. Please pick up the phone. We need to talk; it’s been months.” He waited; she could hear him tapping his pen on his front teeth. “You know this won’t go away. I’m tired of speaking to this thing. I know you're working through your vacation, Collins told me.”

She closed her eyes and cursed silently, then sought again the luminous pile outside, now reflecting moonlight off its chameleon skin. She huddled closer to the window. The voice droned on, frustration magnified by the electronic distortion and static delivery of the machine.

“If you would only meet me, it’s important… We could talk down by the river, at the park, you like that place. It would be a neutral zone…. Please call me back.”

She bristled at ‘neutral zone', shivering in the blast of the AC. She sat looking out long after there was nothing left to see.

~~~ The music picked up, and couples began to dance. More New Year’s wishes issued from ever freer mouths as the liquor flowed in abundance from the bar. She noticed George leaving, a thin blonde laughing in tow. Someone placed a glass in her hand and murmured, “He ought to be home with his wife, she’s due soon, did you know?”

“Yes,” she sipped the champagne absently and began to enjoy in spite of herself. Light from the chandelier cast a golden glow on the animated faces dancing below.

I am free, she thought. And she will never be.

She thought of the now-finished building, of the odd protrusions from the top that had confused her so. It was brilliant, reflecting its surroundings, extraordinarily responsive to light and shadow. Each panel was a small work of art in itself. Silver and preposterous, it soared above all expectations.

She looked off in William’s direction. He looked divine. Once more their eyes met and held across the teeming space. They'd been approaching this moment all evening, she knew this -- had recognized it just as she recognized the thinly veiled interest lurking behind his eyes. She had not that physical beauty that immediately inspired carnal feelings in a man -- she was no Jane -- but hoped that other qualities might compensate. Yes, there was some … flicker.

She told herself to relax; they'd known each other for years. They’d even come to be friendly after the painful and embarrassing moments so many years ago had been obliterated by their separate marriages. He had always taken an interest in her; they had family in common after all. They'd come to share a camaraderie borne of hard-won understanding and common interest, before being sundered by public humiliation and private heartbreak.

Elizabeth had no trouble identifying what likely smoldered in her own eyes at that moment. It went beyond mere interest. William was of that rare class of man who need not rely on looks to attract and hold spellbound a woman who truly knew him. His air of grave confidence in company; his ability to engage any topic in conversation; and his steady, clear gaze were more potent than any advantages gained by height, breadth of shoulder, or trimness of waist. Or wealth. And that slight silvering at his temples was just a bonus.

As he worked his way toward her, she fought the urge to turn and run, or seek out the one behind her who must have arrested his attention. No, that he was coming for her was evident in the fact that his smoky eyes had not left hers for the last five minutes at least.

She heard Char's voice in her head. Time to live again, Liz. You deserve it. It’s now or never.

She was resolved. If this year was going to be better than the last, she would have to make it so. She would have to tell him. Finally. Quickly, she relieved her suddenly parched lips with the dregs of the champagne flute and stood straight, shoulders back, ready to divulge at last the delicate secret of her regard.

“May I refresh your drink?” His voice was like his scotch -- liquid, smooth, intoxicating, no ice, of course. He seemed as acutely aware as she of the oddity of their presence here, together.

Let them think what they will.

“And to think I was just about to leave.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?” One broad, generous hand pressed to French blue Brooks Brothers classic, expressing mock horror. She noticed with a private thrill the lost tie and loosened top buttons, momentarily forgot herself in the way the hollow of his neck pulsed when he spoke, was nearly undone by that soft spot where the square jawbone yielded to the skin of his neck. She thought it was soft anyway, was quite certain actually. Though one really ought to test these things.

“Without talking to me first?” His smooth voice invaded her thoughts just in time, she was certain, for her to avoid making rather a large fool of herself. He shifted, slipped a hand in his pocket and leaned imperceptively closer.

“No, I wanted to talk to you. … Er, I enjoy a good conversation.”

She pursed her lips on the rim of her glass, realizing as she sipped that it was empty and he had just offered a refill. Blushing, she handed it over and cursed her wits for having chosen that moment to desert her.

“I enjoy a good conversationalist.” She caught the slightest of enigmatic smiles and twinkling eyes, just before he bowed his head and left with their empty glasses.

Was he flirting? Was this an invitation to share a private repartee free from the strings of past encounters and no longer hindered by their marriages, their divorces?

Tell him!

He returned and handed her a new glass, ruby liquid scent wafting sweetly like the subtlest of aphrodisiacs. She took a large gulp and smiled brightly up at him.

“No champagne?”

“I know you dislike it.”

She smiled her thanks. “Um … have you seen the new Art Center? It’s finally finished.”

“Ah, the elephant wrapped in tin foil! The chancellor’s version of a belly flop without the merciful water landing?”

“Oh come now, it’s stunning.” She took another sip while he warmed to his topic.

“Just a few feet further and he would have made it -- right into the river where it belongs.”

“You must admit its daring, it makes a statement.”

“Not a statement the University ought to be making. They might as well put up a sign announcing ‘Your tax dollars at play’.”

“You don’t believe that! What about ‘an architect ought to be bold, original, ought never pander’?”

“Must you repeat my former intoxicated statements to my current intoxicated self? I might get confused.” His gaze was compelling even through an affected pout.

“You’re just jealous because they went with someone else.”

“Of course I am. But I also believe there is merit in blending with the current environment. The entire rest of the campus is classic lines, red brick, pediments, pillars...”

“Stodgy, boring, academic, anemic ...”

“Careful, that’s your food and drink you’re disparaging.”

“Who’d know better than faculty? This is art -- contemporary art.”

“Take it from one who considers daily the practical function of art in the everyday world. There is art, and then there is art. This is just art.”

“As opposed to, say... art?” He has devastating eyes.

“And what are those strange arms poking out from the top?”

“Those are wings.”

“Wings?”

“Yes. I call it triumphant. Rising up in gleaming glory from the arid atmosphere of its grounding." I’m getting carried away now. "It's a breath of fresh air.”

“You are a breath of fresh air.” His was the faintest of smiles and the lowest of voices. She shivered. He moved closer and touched her shoulder with three blunt fingertips. His looming presence was reassuring, his smile indulgent and inviting.

“Where’s your wrap?”

“Oh, I’m not cold.” Brilliant. Why not just announce outright that you quiver at his touch, at the sound of his voice?

She became suddenly fascinated with the way the wine ran in tiny rivers down the sides of her goblet after sipping. Drops ran together and became larger before disappearing inevitably into the whole. His face looked artificially far away through the resulting prism, momentarily unrecognizable. Or perhaps too recognizable?

Through a glass oddly, Alice through the wineglass…What’s happened to your resolution, girl?

“Wings.” He shook his head smiling, and she caught a brief spark, feeling suddenly warm and a little weak.

“Yes.” She took a last undignified gulp.

Another long, scorching look went unbroken by either.

“You look good, Libby.”

So do you. He’d never looked better. She never looked away but blushed, held fast, breathed. “I’ve missed you.”

There was no mistaking the smile that followed. It was all teeth. A rare sight on a Darcy. “Are you ready for another, or would you care to dance?”

Elizabeth put down the glass and reached for him. He stood a moment looking at her, drinking her, then turned and walked onto the scuffed parquet floor, his warm hand encasing hers.

This was it. She would tell him tonight. Somehow.

She thought this might be the end of a long, long drought -- water for the parched, whetting curiosity.

Let them talk.

It made her feel giddy, this sudden knowing -- or was it the fierce connection she always felt when their eyes locked? His scent, the sureness of his hold, his breath kissing her skin? All of it – all! The music, unremarkable, was drowned out by their own. Wordlessly, hand pressed to hand, warmth to warmth, they danced. She quickened to hear the whisper as their thighs negotiated the narrow space between. She held her breath at every new touch. He clasped her very close – she’d forgotten this! He held her heart – did he know it?

He led effortlessly, but then she’d follow him anywhere. Now.

There it was, Auld Lang Syne. Somehow they’d missed the countdown. And suddenly, twin banked fires deepened and advanced upon her with sweet purpose. The look on his face made her forget she had feet. She found herself clinging fast, inhaling the sharp, sweet, musky, heady scent of him as their lips met in a rush -- a crush -- and she found herself propelled backwards across the dance floor.

When was I last kissed? Her thoughts raced erratically, barely mindful of the bruising pressure of mouths, the song of their bodies, the unexpected impact with the wall. She relished the touch of tongues, the click of teeth, the taste of him. She thrilled to feel his sudden weight, her sudden weightlessness. Embraced by a man with a passion that startled, she felt immediately, brazenly, alive.

At length, they broke apart smiling like fools, and inhabited the same air. She thought it might not be possible to really be floating, then looked off for a moment, and blushed for the curious faces.

George hadn't kissed her, beyond an obligatory peck, in years. Lovemaking had been silent, perfunctory, both knowing exactly how to reach the inevitable conclusion with a minimum of effort. At least we were efficient. Efficiency in the bedroom was all, she had convinced herself, that could be hoped for. Better than nothing.

But how chillingly lonely it all seemed, now that she’d been kissed with fire, with verve, with style even! She heard a low murmur and realized it was she....

February 2004

She walked home leisurely through the park, more intent on avoiding stubborn patches of snow than the path in front of her, wishing she’d bought stock in Hallmark. She heard a low murmur off to her left, and turned abruptly to peer into the shadows. There stood a couple, half hidden by the trunk of an old oak. Stifling a smile and thinking they obviously were not cold, she was about to turn away when she recognized the man, unmistakable for his close military haircut and the fact that he was hers. She noted the slim hand gripping his neck, long manicured nails pointing almost accusingly towards a small anchor tattooed just below his hairline.

“I am a cliché.” The voice in her head was impossibly loud. She stepped backward off the path. “I’m a cliché for thinking that I’m a cliché.” A cheating husband! She couldn’t even claim the comfort of a unique affliction. Oh!!

Her cry had the effect of accomplishing with speed what her initial reaction had not. Two pairs of surprised and horrified eyes stared back at her in wide recognition.

Her legs could not carry her away fast enough. Unaware of their calls, she ran through the slush to the riverbank. There she stood for a moment, watching the familiar beam of the moon broken by the open current that cut through the frozen surface of the water.

Her husband, and Caroline Darcy! Caught, not in flagrante delicto but worse – kissing! Passionately. Never, in all their years together, had George Wickham kissed her like that. It would be the Story of the Year in their sensation-starved town. Neighbors, friends, lovers. Betrayers and betrayed. All in a heartbeat, four lives changed utterly.

Shards of the moon stabbed at her as slowly she knelt, ignominiously and uncaring of the damp, beside the brisk water’s edge.

~~~ She felt his thumb graze her cheek gently. Around them couples celebrated, embraced, clinked glasses. She smiled. The music shed its beat and became contemplative.

“Where did you go?”

She looked up, seeing him for the hundredth time through layered veils representing years of submerged attraction, sharpened admiration, unabashed longing. It had all been reciprocated in a single, wondrous…

“I … I can’t remember ever being kissed --” A gentle finger under her chin urged her to look up again from beneath lowered lashes.

“Like this?” He bent his head, and the world blew away in the strains of an insistent cello that only they could hear.

Her New Year's resolution? She told him, without saying a word. This would be the Real Story.

End

Copyright held by Joanie - 2005