Stefan reclaims his destiny!
Finale scene of Winter Sunrises - Stefan meets up with Faye after twenty-three years, and we see the process of how they come to recognize each other. Epilogue to follow this - gives some details on how the characters' lives work themselves out, but Stefan's intended to do the work of reclaiming his destiny and passion for life here.
Please tell me if this scene is overwrought or if Faye sounds much too old for someone in her mid-twenties. She is gifted with words more so than others her age and is highly emotional, but I don't intend to overdo it.
Personal updates to follow - the Writeathon went well, four people showed and we completed the Special Focus actions as well as the snacks! Everyone was very enthusiastic and helpful and looking forward to next year.
Ten more minutes.
I stopped singing and dragged myself over to check the clock on my nightstand. He would be here soon.
Time to change into lingerie and perform my nightly routine.
In an hour or two, it would all be over.
Then I could drift away into sleep, forget everything.
In the morning I could get back to working on my novel, lose myself in another world.
I dragged myself away from the window, from watching the unfolding spectacle of cleansing destruction.
The storm had already extinguished the humming magenta and yellow marquee of the bar and shopping plaza across the street.
That’s a good thing. Less noise so I can concentrate on my writing after everyone’s gone.
The rain lashed out at the building like so many nails, as if nature intended to retake the ground.
I prepared my body’s evening work mask, slipping out of my violet bedspread and into the slinky outfits arrayed on the chair.
Then, I patted a touch of blush onto my cheeks and applied lipstick and mascara.
Finally, I opened the door. Just a crack, to seem teasingly inviting.
Someone knocked at the door at exactly ten. I stood to answer it, and a man spoke to me in a halfhearted, faint voice.
"Is this - is this Miss Miranda’s room?"
"Yes, I'm here, what's your pleasure tonight?"
I hoped my voice sounded enticing.
He’s shy. Probably embarrassed, or ashamed. Maybe he’s got a family waiting up for him at home.
A strong, clean-cut man in a black business suit strode into my room, with his hair finely combed and a diamond ring on his finger.
Not his left finger, but his right.
And he seemed distracted, with a faraway glint in his eyes. Unlike most men who entered my room in the evening, his eyes didn’t immediately scan over my clothes and body.
He saw me, I was sure. But he seemed to look past me. Through me.
As if he had lived long enough to see all the world had to offer and still wanted more.
I sighed. Oh. Great. He’ll be picky, take a long time.
“Hi. I’m Stefan.”
“Hello. I’m Faye. All yours for the next hour!”
I pulled out a chair for him, and he glanced at my novel’s latest handwritten chapter on the nightstand.
Picking up the pages, he asked if he could read them.
I nodded silently, glad for the distraction.
He’s probably trying not to feel so bad about himself, trying to be polite and show interest in my life. Oh well, it’ll use up some of his time before he gets thrown out of here.
A few moments later he looked into my eyes and spoke softly.
"You have a gift, Faye. You understand people, all our confusion and mistakes, but you still love humanity.”
I had never had anyone actually notice my writing before. Certainly not one of my evening customers. This gentleman intrigued me, and I wanted to know more about him.
But I couldn’t ask him any real questions. I’d been warned about that. About getting too real with people, reminding them of what they’d like to forget. Driving them away, cutting into our profits and the cash I needed for food and rent.
Stefan asked how long I'd been writing, and was surprised when I told him I was a beginner working on my first piece. Which was actually true. I’d kept journals ever since I was very young, but this was my first serious adult story that I hoped to have published.
"Emerson and Byron would be proud to have you in their company. Your characters are strong, lifelike, and passionate in their striving for transcendence…just like Lysandra."
His face darkened, and he suddenly marched to the window, pulled away the curtains I’d just closed, and threw it open. Staring out into the tempest, he cried out to some unseen woman as his dark suit merged with the shadows.
"Oh, Lysandra. You. The one I loved, who inspired my entire life. You’re not gone now. You can’t be. Please come back. I'm not strong enough to make it without you. I'm not worthy of you, but please forgive me. Please.”
Here he stopped suddenly, as if considering some deep truth, and stretched a hand out into the whirling cascade.
“You’re gone. I don’t even dream of you anymore. And I can’t stand that. Can’t live with only the terrible silence.”
Obviously, this man was grieving for someone who’d meant a lot to him. Wasn’t the only one. Lots of men came up to see me because they were going through a divorce, or sometimes after their wives died. And I didn’t hate them really, they were only human. Actually tried to make them feel better, as much as I could.
But this guy was intense. Romantic. Or maybe crazy, maybe dangerous.
I searched the empty room for escape routes, trying to remember what I’d been told if I were ever threatened.
While he still had his back turned, I pulled open the door. Hopefully he wouldn’t block my way if things got ugly.
“Lysa. Please. I’m only human, can’t make it by myself anymore. I’m sorry, I was wrong to try to hurt your family, to try to tie you down to that room in the house. I just wanted to hold on to you so I wouldn’t forget. But I’ve got to find you the way you really are, not make you into something I can understand.”
He bent his head down into the crook of his elbow and wept. “Oh, Lysa. Lysa.”
Stefan didn't seem to want to threaten me. He just kept crying out the window and staring at the storm, hardly even looking in my direction.
I placed my hand on Stefan's shoulder, my entire body shaking and shivering, and spoke as softly as I could. "You must have just lost someone. I'm so sorry."
He immediately turned to me and replied, "Lysandra is not lost. What she represents will never die. I’ll hold onto her forever.”
I’ll never know why I felt the need to correct him then, and regretted it as soon as the words slipped out of my mouth. Perhaps I felt he was close to completely losing it.
"Immortality is just for novels, Stefan. But here, come let me help you forget her for awhile."
Ignoring my words, he suddenly turned and noticed my music box, resting upon the table behind us. He wandered over to it and opened the scarlet cover, letting the little tinkly music drift around the room.
Running his thin fingers over the ornate decorations and the script lettering, he stopped and examined the chipped left corner.
"Lysandra's music box. After so many years…could it be? The one Charles sold?” he whispered.
This time he looked into my eyes, and spoke to me directly. "I know that Lysandra still lives. Her spirit lives on in you."
He paused, and looked over my lint-prickled secondhand bathrobe and wrinkled lingerie, my attempt at creating a seductive appearance on my small budget.
Stefan was then - enraged? Disgusted? I tried, but I wasn't sure how to read his face.
"And I cannot allow trashy men to destroy her beautiful spirit any longer.”
I asked him what he meant, and he told me he’d loved a woman a very long time ago, but she had died. He’d then made a whole bunch of money in software, but wanted to give it away to honor his girlfriend’s memory.
“She was the only person who’d ever mattered to me, so I wanted to keep everything of hers. Even bought out her family’s old house. But you know, that’s not what I’d like to do anymore. Just doesn’t feel right.”
He paced up and down the room, the floor creaking as he searched for words to complete his thoughts.
“I’d like to help make people’s dreams possible. I think that’s something Lysa would have wanted for me.”
He reached into his suit pocket for a piece of paper, then wrote down his number.
After searching around for it, he showed me the drawing of himself and his young friend I'd drawn so many years earlier. Back when Mom and I had traveled through San Francisco and stayed near Union Square, and I’d done portraits of people for extra cash.
I stared at it, hardly believing he’d kept it for so long. Then I started to cry with joy. He’d held on to something of mine for almost his whole life. I’d meant that much to him!
He noticed my face, and returned my smile as I recognized the grown-up boy I had sketched years ago, a fellow wanderer who had at last come home.
Pulling some neatly folded bills out of his wallet, he gave me much more than enough to get on my feet for awhile.
He then asked for a way to contact me privately, and I gave him an email address only I knew about.
"You'll hear from me soon, I've just got some other important business I have to deal with first."
"Oh, that's fine.”
Fine! That’s fine! Why is that all I can say, when someone’s finally trying to help? He’ll think I’m being rude, that I don’t like him.
But he seemed to understand.
I reached out to shake his hand, surprising myself by having the guts to look him right back in the eye.
"My foster mom's been in a convalescent hospital for awhile after she had a stroke, and I'm helping her move back home right before New Year's. Also, I have a few things to settle with Richard. He's…well, he's my brother."
“That’s good, hope everything turns out all right.”
I smiled as I watched Stefan pick up his briefcase and replace his wallet in his suit pocket.
"Goodbye, Faye. Thanks for not letting me forget an "old acquaintance."
He started humming Auld Lang Syne as he walked out the door, and I joined him by opening the music box one more time.
Please tell me if this scene is overwrought or if Faye sounds much too old for someone in her mid-twenties. She is gifted with words more so than others her age and is highly emotional, but I don't intend to overdo it.
Personal updates to follow - the Writeathon went well, four people showed and we completed the Special Focus actions as well as the snacks! Everyone was very enthusiastic and helpful and looking forward to next year.
Ten more minutes.
I stopped singing and dragged myself over to check the clock on my nightstand. He would be here soon.
Time to change into lingerie and perform my nightly routine.
In an hour or two, it would all be over.
Then I could drift away into sleep, forget everything.
In the morning I could get back to working on my novel, lose myself in another world.
I dragged myself away from the window, from watching the unfolding spectacle of cleansing destruction.
The storm had already extinguished the humming magenta and yellow marquee of the bar and shopping plaza across the street.
That’s a good thing. Less noise so I can concentrate on my writing after everyone’s gone.
The rain lashed out at the building like so many nails, as if nature intended to retake the ground.
I prepared my body’s evening work mask, slipping out of my violet bedspread and into the slinky outfits arrayed on the chair.
Then, I patted a touch of blush onto my cheeks and applied lipstick and mascara.
Finally, I opened the door. Just a crack, to seem teasingly inviting.
Someone knocked at the door at exactly ten. I stood to answer it, and a man spoke to me in a halfhearted, faint voice.
"Is this - is this Miss Miranda’s room?"
"Yes, I'm here, what's your pleasure tonight?"
I hoped my voice sounded enticing.
He’s shy. Probably embarrassed, or ashamed. Maybe he’s got a family waiting up for him at home.
A strong, clean-cut man in a black business suit strode into my room, with his hair finely combed and a diamond ring on his finger.
Not his left finger, but his right.
And he seemed distracted, with a faraway glint in his eyes. Unlike most men who entered my room in the evening, his eyes didn’t immediately scan over my clothes and body.
He saw me, I was sure. But he seemed to look past me. Through me.
As if he had lived long enough to see all the world had to offer and still wanted more.
I sighed. Oh. Great. He’ll be picky, take a long time.
“Hi. I’m Stefan.”
“Hello. I’m Faye. All yours for the next hour!”
I pulled out a chair for him, and he glanced at my novel’s latest handwritten chapter on the nightstand.
Picking up the pages, he asked if he could read them.
I nodded silently, glad for the distraction.
He’s probably trying not to feel so bad about himself, trying to be polite and show interest in my life. Oh well, it’ll use up some of his time before he gets thrown out of here.
A few moments later he looked into my eyes and spoke softly.
"You have a gift, Faye. You understand people, all our confusion and mistakes, but you still love humanity.”
I had never had anyone actually notice my writing before. Certainly not one of my evening customers. This gentleman intrigued me, and I wanted to know more about him.
But I couldn’t ask him any real questions. I’d been warned about that. About getting too real with people, reminding them of what they’d like to forget. Driving them away, cutting into our profits and the cash I needed for food and rent.
Stefan asked how long I'd been writing, and was surprised when I told him I was a beginner working on my first piece. Which was actually true. I’d kept journals ever since I was very young, but this was my first serious adult story that I hoped to have published.
"Emerson and Byron would be proud to have you in their company. Your characters are strong, lifelike, and passionate in their striving for transcendence…just like Lysandra."
His face darkened, and he suddenly marched to the window, pulled away the curtains I’d just closed, and threw it open. Staring out into the tempest, he cried out to some unseen woman as his dark suit merged with the shadows.
"Oh, Lysandra. You. The one I loved, who inspired my entire life. You’re not gone now. You can’t be. Please come back. I'm not strong enough to make it without you. I'm not worthy of you, but please forgive me. Please.”
Here he stopped suddenly, as if considering some deep truth, and stretched a hand out into the whirling cascade.
“You’re gone. I don’t even dream of you anymore. And I can’t stand that. Can’t live with only the terrible silence.”
Obviously, this man was grieving for someone who’d meant a lot to him. Wasn’t the only one. Lots of men came up to see me because they were going through a divorce, or sometimes after their wives died. And I didn’t hate them really, they were only human. Actually tried to make them feel better, as much as I could.
But this guy was intense. Romantic. Or maybe crazy, maybe dangerous.
I searched the empty room for escape routes, trying to remember what I’d been told if I were ever threatened.
While he still had his back turned, I pulled open the door. Hopefully he wouldn’t block my way if things got ugly.
“Lysa. Please. I’m only human, can’t make it by myself anymore. I’m sorry, I was wrong to try to hurt your family, to try to tie you down to that room in the house. I just wanted to hold on to you so I wouldn’t forget. But I’ve got to find you the way you really are, not make you into something I can understand.”
He bent his head down into the crook of his elbow and wept. “Oh, Lysa. Lysa.”
Stefan didn't seem to want to threaten me. He just kept crying out the window and staring at the storm, hardly even looking in my direction.
I placed my hand on Stefan's shoulder, my entire body shaking and shivering, and spoke as softly as I could. "You must have just lost someone. I'm so sorry."
He immediately turned to me and replied, "Lysandra is not lost. What she represents will never die. I’ll hold onto her forever.”
I’ll never know why I felt the need to correct him then, and regretted it as soon as the words slipped out of my mouth. Perhaps I felt he was close to completely losing it.
"Immortality is just for novels, Stefan. But here, come let me help you forget her for awhile."
Ignoring my words, he suddenly turned and noticed my music box, resting upon the table behind us. He wandered over to it and opened the scarlet cover, letting the little tinkly music drift around the room.
Running his thin fingers over the ornate decorations and the script lettering, he stopped and examined the chipped left corner.
"Lysandra's music box. After so many years…could it be? The one Charles sold?” he whispered.
This time he looked into my eyes, and spoke to me directly. "I know that Lysandra still lives. Her spirit lives on in you."
He paused, and looked over my lint-prickled secondhand bathrobe and wrinkled lingerie, my attempt at creating a seductive appearance on my small budget.
Stefan was then - enraged? Disgusted? I tried, but I wasn't sure how to read his face.
"And I cannot allow trashy men to destroy her beautiful spirit any longer.”
I asked him what he meant, and he told me he’d loved a woman a very long time ago, but she had died. He’d then made a whole bunch of money in software, but wanted to give it away to honor his girlfriend’s memory.
“She was the only person who’d ever mattered to me, so I wanted to keep everything of hers. Even bought out her family’s old house. But you know, that’s not what I’d like to do anymore. Just doesn’t feel right.”
He paced up and down the room, the floor creaking as he searched for words to complete his thoughts.
“I’d like to help make people’s dreams possible. I think that’s something Lysa would have wanted for me.”
He reached into his suit pocket for a piece of paper, then wrote down his number.
After searching around for it, he showed me the drawing of himself and his young friend I'd drawn so many years earlier. Back when Mom and I had traveled through San Francisco and stayed near Union Square, and I’d done portraits of people for extra cash.
I stared at it, hardly believing he’d kept it for so long. Then I started to cry with joy. He’d held on to something of mine for almost his whole life. I’d meant that much to him!
He noticed my face, and returned my smile as I recognized the grown-up boy I had sketched years ago, a fellow wanderer who had at last come home.
Pulling some neatly folded bills out of his wallet, he gave me much more than enough to get on my feet for awhile.
He then asked for a way to contact me privately, and I gave him an email address only I knew about.
"You'll hear from me soon, I've just got some other important business I have to deal with first."
"Oh, that's fine.”
Fine! That’s fine! Why is that all I can say, when someone’s finally trying to help? He’ll think I’m being rude, that I don’t like him.
But he seemed to understand.
I reached out to shake his hand, surprising myself by having the guts to look him right back in the eye.
"My foster mom's been in a convalescent hospital for awhile after she had a stroke, and I'm helping her move back home right before New Year's. Also, I have a few things to settle with Richard. He's…well, he's my brother."
“That’s good, hope everything turns out all right.”
I smiled as I watched Stefan pick up his briefcase and replace his wallet in his suit pocket.
"Goodbye, Faye. Thanks for not letting me forget an "old acquaintance."
He started humming Auld Lang Syne as he walked out the door, and I joined him by opening the music box one more time.