“Come sit on the couch with me, and
we’ll find passion with our fingers.”
“Am I still lacking?” Elsie strode to the bay window, guitar in her arms, suddenly needing to
defend her life. “I ride Gertrude
Geronimo with the wind in my hair, and dance in my back yard in four-inch red
heels. I fly through the sky
connected to the earth only by my hands. Is passion really that absent in my life?” She was astonished to find herself pacing.
“No.” Vero paused a
beat. “And yes.”
“No mysteries, please!” Elsie spun around, wondering where her happy summer afternoon had
gone. “Enough witch riddles.”
Vero smiled, apparently not at all dismayed by the temper
tantrum. “You have found many
wonderful sources of passion in your life, my girl, and you will find many
more. But for the most part, they
are the pure, sweet passions of a child—to go fast, fly high, dance in
the midday sun.”
“And those are wrong?” Elsie let her temper flow, even as she wondered why people always lashed
out at the messenger.
“Not at all.” Vero
walked the floor with her now, a circling duet of feet. “But they are the first. You’re going back, making up for lost
time. But tell me—why do you
dance in your red shoes? Those
aren’t the shoes of a child—what pushes you then?”
A dream. Elsie
stayed silent, not sure where the words had come from.
“A child lives her passions, and if she’s lucky, holds on to
them her whole life.” Vero clasped
Elsie’s hand briefly. “But she also
grows up to be a woman, and discovers new passions, a new range of emotion and
experience.”
“That sounds like riddles again.”
Vero’s chuckle rippled through the room. “Well, when I was a young woman, it
involved a lot of late nights in a Paris garret.”
Elsie’s cheeks flamed. “You’re telling me to go have sex?”
Now the chuckles grew into waves of sound. “Well, that’s certainly one
possibility, although it’s not the only one, even in a Paris garret.” Vero stared out the window a moment, a
sure sign she was reliving some past memory. “I’m just saying that you are a grown woman, and one that
has begun to tap her deeply passionate soul. Don’t be surprised if some of what comes out isn’t from the
realm of young girls.”
This was beginning to rival one very uncomfortable discussion
with her mother when Elsie was about fourteen. She looked down at her guitar. “Should we sing? It’s my turn to cook dinner tonight, and I’m trying something new.”
Vero reached out and ran a hand gently down Elsie’s hair. “Passion isn’t comfortable, love. But it lives in you. When it’s time, give it a chance.”
Elsie nodded. And
tried not to wonder what Vero had done in Paris garrets.
Chapter 6
It was a restless night—the kind that made fire sing in
Elsie’s soul.
The sort of night where she usually closed the curtains, tucked
her head under the covers, and tried to get a responsible eight hours of sleep.
To hell with responsible. Something in her was itching to be free, and she had no idea what it
was.
She slipped out the front door in her bare feet, and then bent
down to slide on strappy sandals. There was no point waking Lizard up just because her blood was
restless.
Moving faster now, Elsie strode down the walkway. She swung automatically toward Gertrude
Geronimo, and then stopped—this wasn’t a night for childish
pleasures. Fast hills and the wind
in her hair weren’t going to cool whatever stirred inside her.
Elsie raised her fingers to the sky, collecting beams of light
from the low-hanging moon. It
called to her, the moon—a wordless invitation to seek whatever lay hidden
in the swirling night.
It felt very much like a walk she’d taken before. Many times before. Which just wasn’t possible—Elsie
Giannotto spent the hours after midnight safely in her
we’ll find passion with our fingers.”
“Am I still lacking?” Elsie strode to the bay window, guitar in her arms, suddenly needing to
defend her life. “I ride Gertrude
Geronimo with the wind in my hair, and dance in my back yard in four-inch red
heels. I fly through the sky
connected to the earth only by my hands. Is passion really that absent in my life?” She was astonished to find herself pacing.
“No.” Vero paused a
beat. “And yes.”
“No mysteries, please!” Elsie spun around, wondering where her happy summer afternoon had
gone. “Enough witch riddles.”
Vero smiled, apparently not at all dismayed by the temper
tantrum. “You have found many
wonderful sources of passion in your life, my girl, and you will find many
more. But for the most part, they
are the pure, sweet passions of a child—to go fast, fly high, dance in
the midday sun.”
“And those are wrong?” Elsie let her temper flow, even as she wondered why people always lashed
out at the messenger.
“Not at all.” Vero
walked the floor with her now, a circling duet of feet. “But they are the first. You’re going back, making up for lost
time. But tell me—why do you
dance in your red shoes? Those
aren’t the shoes of a child—what pushes you then?”
A dream. Elsie
stayed silent, not sure where the words had come from.
“A child lives her passions, and if she’s lucky, holds on to
them her whole life.” Vero clasped
Elsie’s hand briefly. “But she also
grows up to be a woman, and discovers new passions, a new range of emotion and
experience.”
“That sounds like riddles again.”
Vero’s chuckle rippled through the room. “Well, when I was a young woman, it
involved a lot of late nights in a Paris garret.”
Elsie’s cheeks flamed. “You’re telling me to go have sex?”
Now the chuckles grew into waves of sound. “Well, that’s certainly one
possibility, although it’s not the only one, even in a Paris garret.” Vero stared out the window a moment, a
sure sign she was reliving some past memory. “I’m just saying that you are a grown woman, and one that
has begun to tap her deeply passionate soul. Don’t be surprised if some of what comes out isn’t from the
realm of young girls.”
This was beginning to rival one very uncomfortable discussion
with her mother when Elsie was about fourteen. She looked down at her guitar. “Should we sing? It’s my turn to cook dinner tonight, and I’m trying something new.”
Vero reached out and ran a hand gently down Elsie’s hair. “Passion isn’t comfortable, love. But it lives in you. When it’s time, give it a chance.”
Elsie nodded. And
tried not to wonder what Vero had done in Paris garrets.
Chapter 6
It was a restless night—the kind that made fire sing in
Elsie’s soul.
The sort of night where she usually closed the curtains, tucked
her head under the covers, and tried to get a responsible eight hours of sleep.
To hell with responsible. Something in her was itching to be free, and she had no idea what it
was.
She slipped out the front door in her bare feet, and then bent
down to slide on strappy sandals. There was no point waking Lizard up just because her blood was
restless.
Moving faster now, Elsie strode down the walkway. She swung automatically toward Gertrude
Geronimo, and then stopped—this wasn’t a night for childish
pleasures. Fast hills and the wind
in her hair weren’t going to cool whatever stirred inside her.
Elsie raised her fingers to the sky, collecting beams of light
from the low-hanging moon. It
called to her, the moon—a wordless invitation to seek whatever lay hidden
in the swirling night.
It felt very much like a walk she’d taken before. Many times before. Which just wasn’t possible—Elsie
Giannotto spent the hours after midnight safely in her
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