And now this. This was something else, something she hadn’t felt in a long time, something she hadn’t felt in so long she had thought it might be gone for ever.
It was the deepest form of desire, a deep low aching, a rush of strong impulse beating in her brain; that it had to be this man, that it had to be now. His lips were full and plump and soft and nothing else could fill her mind than the desire to kiss him, and for him to kiss her back, the way she wanted – needed, absolutely needed to be kissed, firmly, with passion, and confidence and full-hearted conviction. She found herself letting out a small sound, even as the noises of the party faded away completely.
She stretched herself up on her toes, her eyes beginning to close, the scent of him intoxicating, the sunny breeze blowing through the dunes.
His huge hands moved down to circle her tiny waist in the red dress, holding her firmly. But she saw he wasn’t moving his head towards her, showed no signs of being about to kiss her.
She panicked. Was he still thinking of Lara? It was the excitement; it had to be. She had been overwhelmed. She looked up at him, terrified, blushing: had she misjudged it? It had been so long since she’d had any male attention – any attention at all, it felt like. Of course she had gone nuts. Of course she had. Oh God. This was awful. And it made things worse somehow that he was a teacher, as if she was a ridiculous student with a crush.
He let her go, gently, sat down in the sand, his arms around his knees looking confused. His brown eyes blinked in that slow way they did.
Marisa looked at him, her embarrassment turning to fury. ‘What?’
He shook his head shortly.
‘No. Please. I am thinkink,’ he said. ‘Sit down please?’
She refused and instead stood, furiously, a short way away from him, crossing her arms over herself. She wanted to leave, but couldn’t bear to.
‘I haff to think.’
‘Oh, do you.’
Her tone was sarcastic.
‘I haff to think. I think Marisa does not know I am so crazy about her. She does maybe not know what she is doing, maybe she has been unwell, maybe she is just lonely, maybe she does not really care about a bear who lives next door, maybe if I kiss her I will be happy for two minutes and then so sad for ever and that will be very bad.’
She looked at him steadily.
‘Marisa. I cannot be your—’
‘Crutch. I get it. You said that.’
He looked puzzled.
‘But I have to say. Is important. If you want to kiss me . . .’
This was torture. Marisa stood there, torn, uncomfortably aware of her own breathing.
‘You have to know. That it is not nothing to me. It will be . . . lot to me.’
He looked straight at her, those long lashes fringing those beautiful eyes.
‘You are music to me,’ he said quietly. ‘You are a dance, or the whisper of a song. When you are cross, you are Beethoven dreamink of the far seas, and when you are happy you are Saint-Saëns to me, and when you are sad you are Grieg looking on a rainy day, and when you laugh it is Mozart to me. And I would so very much like to make you dance.’
This speech took her totally by surprise. She felt the flush rise in her again, but this time it was something else; not humiliation. Something else. The ice that had flooded her veins started to melt.
‘So.’
He was still seated, his hands now outstretched in a gesture of supplication.
‘. . . Marisa,’ he finished finally.
Very, very slowly and nervously she walked closer towards him, not breaking eye contact.
‘I—’
‘Enough,’ she said finally.
And very carefully she climbed on to his knees, sitting sideways on his lap. He was so solid. He felt like a mountain she could climb. Something immutable; that she could lean on absolutely.
With one hand she pressed a finger to his mouth.
‘Be quiet.’
And then she traced those wide lips, hard and soft at the same time, so ready to laugh, to shout, to sing.
‘Sssh,’ she said again, and leaned in and she could feel the beating of his heart, as big as the rest of him, under his shirt, and gently, carefully, traced his lips with her own, tiny brushing kisses, teasing him, light as a butterfly.
‘Argh.’ He made a groaning sound from somewhere deep inside himself. ‘No,’ he said. ‘For me, that will not do.’
And with a sudden jerk, his hands pulled her closer to him, much closer; he put one of his huge hands on the side of her head, where it cradled her face, and he bent down and kissed her so fully and deeply and hard and with such intent that every other kiss she had ever had suddenly felt as if they dissolved into nothing in the sea because this – this was full colour, full-hearted; this was everything and he was right. He was all or nothing. The heart and the soul and the passion that came out in his playing; that was everything he was, in everything he did. And suddenly he was everything she had ever wanted, more than anything. And he kissed her all better.
Chapter Seventy-nine
The twins just about got to the end of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ at more or less the same time. Huckle glanced up at Polly, who was going through the post, now Jayden had managed to take over so many shifts at the bakery.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘that they’re genuinely massive prodigies.’
‘I LOVE MY PIANO,’ shouted Avery loudly and they let them play it again.
‘Goodness,’ Polly said, and handed over the letter she’d just opened. Huckle stared at it, then whistled.
‘Why is Reuben doing this?’
‘He isn’t – his lawyers are insisting. If we promise never to sue – which we never would—’
‘I would,’ said Huckle furiously.
‘Well. Anyway,’ said Polly.
He looked at it again.
‘That’s a lot of new windows,’ she said. ‘And OMG a boiler. OMG. Water pressure in the shower.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Huckle.
‘I think we each need one piano,’ said Daisy seriously.
‘YES! MORE PIANO!’ said Avery, banging his little fists ferociously on the old upright.
‘Oh lord,’ said Polly. ‘But also, you know . . .’
‘What?’
‘They haven’t finished fixing the causeway yet. It could go towards that . . .’
‘You genuinely want to fix the island rather than our windows?’
‘Can’t we do both?’
Huckle pulled her over to him.
‘One of these days,’ he said, ‘we are going to have that tropical vacation.’
‘Eh, you’d be bored,’ said Polly, kissing him as the twins played a triumphant chorus and Neil moved from one leg to the other on top of the piano, in what was almost certainly not (or, possibly was) a dance.
Chapter Eighty
Marisa sat in the comfortable armchair next to the warm light on the table, fingers poised over the manuscript paper. She was using her old workbook as something to lean on. She had finished filling it in – for now. But she had kept it.
On top was the paper with the five lines, the staves, printed across it.
‘I’m really not sure . . .’ she was saying.