secrets and confessions Part 2

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret,
between the shadow and the soul.
—Pablo Neruda

I’m not a mystic—I don’t try exotic things like communing with the dead—but I do spend a lot of time talking to Claire’s soul, and so far it’s been in vain.

There’s a secret between us that I’ve only confessed to my mentor and I’m beginning to think I’ll never share the truth with Claire.

Unless thoughts are transmitted over the ether like some kind of mental radio, she’ll probably never know that I love her.

So, here we are, shivering in my office after being caught in the rain, huddling beneath an afghan and trying to get warm.

It’s an enchanted moment being here alone with her. Water sheets down the windowpanes, and thunder roars.

The two of us sit in silent fidelity to a mystery—April showers and the mythos of spring.

Suddenly, she begins talking very softly, her voice whispering like rain.

“You know, Blaine, these old houses harbor secrets—they’re sounding boards with echoes from long ago.”

The beauty of the image impresses me. “That’s very poetic—I like that.”

She continues on in a drowsy tone.

“These tall narrow windows and dark rooms must have concealed much of what happened inside.”

I nod. “Well, the Victorians liked it that way—they were very private people.”

She laughs. “They were, or so they thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Their houses weren’t as private as they thought. Take this heat register, for example. Right now it’s full of rushing air and ticking noises as the ductwork expands with heat—but on a day when the furnace is off that same ductwork is like a speaking tube amplifying voices from other parts of the house.”

I look at her curiously. “And how would you know that?”

She lowers her eyes.

“I have a confession to make. I was up here last week going through your old English journals, when I heard voices floating into the room. I didn’t know who it was at first, but the closer I listened, I recognized who was speaking. It was you, Blaine, confessing to Fr. Breton in his downstairs office.”

A sudden realization dawns on me, and my heart stops in anticipation of what she must have heard.

I confided to Fr. Breton my feelings toward her. It wasn’t a confession of sin per se, but regardless, he assured me my confidence would be kept sub rosa—safe as under the seal of the confessional.

And now the very thing I closely guarded was revealed—I might as well have confessed my love to Claire herself.

I want to shrivel up in a corner, I feel exposed and vulnerable.

“This is embarrassing—I’m sorry, Claire.”

She looks at me astonished. “Why do you feel sorry? I was the one eavesdropping on your confession. I felt terrible afterwards and wanted to tell Fr. Breton, but couldn’t work up the nerve.”

“I can sympathize with those feelings,” I grin sheepishly.

“I had no business to listen to that conversation.”

“It was an accident,” I say, trying to console her.

“Maybe, at first—but I kept listening. I could have walked out of earshot, but I didn’t”

“It’s okay, Claire. Forget about it.”

She raises a hand to stop me. “But that’s just it. Don’t you see? I can’t. I can’t forget about it, because I’ve been obsessing about you for months—talking to you in my head each night before I go to sleep. I thought you couldn’t hear me, but plainly, I was mistaken.”

For the second time this day I act impulsively.

But this time, instead of taking her hand, I put my arms around her and silence her with my lips.

I taste raindrops and wild berries, and inhale her sweet powdery scent.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.

Photo: https://goo.gl/images/KwSneC