After breakfast the next morning, I returned to my room to write letters to my family and friends. I found Cam's letter to be the hardest to write—I didn't want to send him a letter full of Mikhail, yet it was virtually impossible to avoid mentioning him all together, as much of my time had been spent in his company. The end result seemed awkward and unsatisfactory to me, but it was the best I could do.

As I walked along the boardwalk after lunch, heading toward the shops that lined Front Street, I thought about what Mikhail had said last night. I wondered what would Cam have done in the same situation. Would he, too, have turned to other women in order to forget me? Would he have used women in the same way? I thought back to his experience with the girl, Nadia, and wondered if he had done so after she left him. He hadn't mentioned anything like that, but that didn't mean it hadn't happened. He had assumed that I wasn't a virgin; did that imply that he wasn't? And come to think of it, did it really matter to me all that much if either of them were more experienced than me?

Sighing as I turned down a sidewalk, I thought to myself that while I would have preferred that Mikhail had told me about it himself, I could also understand his hesitation. I believe he would have told me, eventually. His scruples might have been different from mine, but he wasn't lacking in them. I suppose the real question that lingered in my mind was, how much did I trust him now? Knowing that he had not hesitated to use women—however complicit they may have been themselves—I had to wonder... did he really love me as much as he declared? Or was it all just an act—a means to an end?

I stepped into a small shop that, judging from its unabashedly gaudy exterior and its display of kitschy souvenirs, catered primarily to tourists. Perusing the shelves, I found a few nicer things to take home with me as gifts: a pendant made of silver and sea glass in the shape of a seahorse for Georgia, a pair of tiny butterfly earrings with wings carved from colorful shells for Cheryl, a set of wine glasses etched with seahorses for Kana, wind chimes made from beach glass and a piece of driftwood for my mother, and a pretty shell-shaped teacup and saucer for Eileen.

As I was paying for my purchases, who should walk in but the ever-charming Mrs. Bennett and her daughter. She looked around the shop, as if searching for something in particular, then she saw me standing at the register and stiffened. I nodded politely to her and returned to my transaction, but she strode up to me. "Well, if it isn't the farmer's daughter. Do mind your pennies, my dear. I'm sure a little break like this must be a terrible strain on your wallet as it is."

I felt my temper rising at her condescension, but realizing that she was simply trying to provoke me, I decided not to give her the satisfaction. "Why, thank you for your concern, Mrs.... Beard was it?" I said sweetly.

"Bennett," she snapped.

"Oh, that's right. Please excuse me, I've only heard your name just the one time, you know. I'm sure I'll get it right eventually. Anyway, it's awfully kind of you to concern yourself with the state of my finances, but don't fret—my wallet is quite comfortably plump."

"Fancy that. I'd never have guessed so from your appearance," she said, casting a disparaging look over my faded denim short-shorts, my off-the-shoulder crop top, and my high-heeled wedge sandals.

I smiled and shrugged. "Well, you know, I don't have much time to devote to such frivolous pursuits as fashion. My businesses and volunteer work take up a lot of my time, and of course other interests far more fascinating than shopping. But of course, I realize it's different for you."

She visibly fumed, then, at both the implication that I spent a lot of time with Mikhail and that she led a frivolous, insignificant life. But before she could respond, her daughter grabbed her arm and pulled and tugged until she succeeded in getting her mama out the door, still glaring at me, speechless with anger.

I turned back to the sales clerk, who had watched the proceedings with amusement. "It's not often that one gets knocked down a peg," he said with a grin. "She's used to everyone kowtowing to her—or rather, to her late husband's money."

I shrugged and said, "I'm not impressed by wealth. As Tennyson wrote, 'Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.' I'd far rather be poor for the right reasons than rich for the wrong ones."

"That's true enough, miss, though I doubt she's come across many who feel the same as you in her life," he replied as he handed me my bag.

"Probably not," I agreed with a laugh as I headed out the door.

I finished up my shopping, buying more souvenirs for my family and friends, and headed for home. I was particularly pleased with Cam's gift, which I'd found at a tiny shop that specialized in all things garden-related. There I'd selected some unusual flower seeds and a pretty book full of photos of the local gardens accompanied by garden-themed poetry and quotations. The town was nearly as well-known for its gardens, of which there were many, as it was for its beaches. The garden at my lodgings was in there, as were the gardens at Chez Étienne Sur la Mer. It was a beautiful little book, and I hoped he'd like it as much as I did.

While shopping, I'd noticed a tiny bistro with a sidewalk café, so when Mikhail arrived, I asked if he'd been there before. He had not, so we agreed to give it a try. "If nothing else," I said with a smile, "there'll be wine!" So while he waited downstairs, I cleaned up and changed into a pale sea green hi-lo skirt with an ivory bustier top and a cream lace cardigan, slipped on some brown strappy sandals, and we set out.

It was a lovely afternoon for a walk, so since it was early yet, we took our time as we strolled along the boardwalk. There was a light breeze blowing, just enough to keep us from feeling too warm. When we reached the sidewalk café, we selected a table with a good view for people watching. After ordering our meal, we sat and sipped chilled white wine as we waited and watched the world go by. Every so often, someone would recognize Mikhail and stop to say hello or to chat; other than that, it was quite peaceful.

As we sipped our wine and again as we ate our dinner, Mikhail kept giving me several questioning glances. Finally he asked, "Well, Alice, have you come to a decision regarding my past?"

"Yes. But I'd prefer to talk about it somewhere more private than a sidewalk café," I replied.

"Understood. Have you a place in mind?"

I took another bite while I thought it over—there weren't many places we could go for private, uninterrupted conversation. I took a sip of wine, then replied, "I suppose either your room or mine would make the most sense. That's about as private as we can get, anyway—at least, to the best of my knowledge. So unless you have a better suggestion...?"

"Your room would be preferable, I think. I stay in a friend's spare room, and it doesn't provide nearly the level of privacy that your room does. Plus there's only one chair to sit in—it's not a large room."

"Okay, my room it is, then. I have a nice little sitting area that's pretty private—it's in the tower, so there are no other rooms adjacent to it or above it."

"Excellent. I would like to stop by my room on the way, though, if you won't mind? I'd like to bring my violin—that is, if you would care for some music?"

I agreed, so after dinner, we walked on to his friend's home, which was situated in one of the prettier residential areas on the southern end of town, eight or nine blocks from my bed and breakfast. The house was a tiny cream and pink Victorian-style house perched at the top of a flight of stone steps leading down to the sidewalk below, with little terraced beds all along the slope on either side of the stairs.

He led me through the front door and up the stairs to a room at the top of the stairs. The small room had a tile floor strewn with Oriental rugs; the walls were hung with geometric floral wallpaper and had dark wood wainscoting and trim. The furniture was heavy, dark, and old-fashioned, but the bed was the real pièce de résistance: a massive four-poster bed with a canopy and curtains, the frame was made of dark wood that had turned nearly black with age. Ornately carved all around, it bore a coat of arms at the top of the headboard. A heavy red and gold tapestry was spread over it, and the canopy and curtains were likewise red and gold. I turned to him and commented, "Nice... uh, nice bed."

He looked at me in surprise. "Really? You think so?"

"No... not really. I was just trying to be polite."

He laughed, saying, "Well, that's a relief. It's certainly not to my taste. But Erik's a good friend and a fine person, if a bit, well, eccentric in his tastes. And at least it's comfortable."

He picked up his violin case and quickly dropped some sheet music into a folio, which he then placed in his satchel. Looking up at a bottle of dark amber liquid on an adjacent shelf, he asked, "Would you care for a nightcap? I have a bottle of very nice Armagnac I'd love to share with you. I can bring it along, if you'd like."

"That sounds nice. I'd love to try it. I like cognac, but I've not tried Armagnac before," I replied, and he carefully nestled the bottle into the satchel.

"Do you have glasses there you can use?" he asked, halfway reaching for a pair of glasses on the same shelf. I nodded, and he closed and fastened the bag and carefully slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed his violin case, and we left.

Once at the bed and breakfast, I took him up to my room. He looked around admiringly as he stepped in, saying, "What a lovely room you have here. Very tranquil."

"The view is beautiful, too," I added, walking over to one of the windows.

"Oh, definitely. Very beautiful," he said with a smile as he stared intently at me. I blushed and led him over to the sitting room.

"Just set your things down anywhere. I'm going to look for some glasses. I'll be right back."

I headed back downstairs to the bar kept for guest use, and looked in the cupboard of assorted glassware. I found some that were similar to the ones he'd been about to bring, so I grabbed two of them and returned to my room.

"Will these do?" I asked, handing them over for inspection.

"Yes, perfect," he replied, then he poured a little of the brandy out into each and handed a glass to me.

We sat down on the loveseat, and kicking my sandals off, I tucked my feet up under me. He put his arm around my shoulders to draw me a little nearer, then looking me in the eyes, said, "So. You said you'd come to a decision regarding my past... indiscretions. What have you decided?"

I leaned against his shoulder and took a tiny sip of the potent liquor as I gazed out the window. After a minute, I sighed and said, "I'm disappointed, of course. But even if I can't say I'm thrilled by your actions, I do understand why you did what you did, and also that you aren't wholly to blame—if anything, those older women are far more to blame, at least in my view, since you were so much younger than them. So I can get over that. But...."

"But?" he prompted after a moment.

"But I... I'm not entirely sure whether I trust you now, either. You see, I keep wondering... so often you push yourself on me or try to take things farther than I want. So now that I know more about your past history... I keep worrying that all you really want from me is sex—that I'm just another conquest. The only times you've actually mentioned marriage was that one occasion when you were getting so carried away—and that was just because you wanted to sleep with me so badly—and a few times teasingly while I was playing with Rahi and Ying. So... all that taken together, I worry that you'll just keep at me in the hopes that I'll give in, then once you've succeeded, you'll go on your merry way."

He sat silently for a minute, looking out the window and apparently lost in thought. Finally, he replied, "I can't make you trust me, of course. And I realize that my actions haven't exactly inspired trust in you. But I swear to you, Alice, I will never force myself on you against your will, nor will I attempt to break your resolve, now that I know of it. The only reason I have not talked about marriage with you, I suppose, is because it so obviously the desired outcome. Of course I want to marry you—nothing would make me happier. And while that time I asked you to marry me I was drunk with desire for you, nevertheless it was not mere lust speaking—I meant it sincerely."

He sat for a minute, sipping his drink contemplatively before continuing. "I don't know how to prove my sincerity to you, how to regain your trust. But I'll do whatever it takes, if it's within my abilities."

I scooted a little closer to him and rested my cheek against his chest. "I suppose we'll just wait and see how it goes. You can tell a lot about a person by their actions, you know. Of course, that can also work against you—like your actions on the night of my birthday party. But we'll see."

He nodded, then started slightly. "That reminds me, speaking of birthdays...." He set his glass down on the table and rose. Fetching his violin and the folio of music, he returned and sat next to me. "I never had the chance to give you your birthday present. So... here it is. I hope you like it."

With that, he tuned his violin, then began to play—a lovely, lilting piece I'd never heard before, calling to mind the season of spring: a little bit here sounding like gentle spring rains, a section there reminiscent of butterflies and songbirds, and a another part that reminded me of soft breezes and babbling brooks—all with an undercurrent of romance and passion running through it.

Afterwards, he set his instrument down and looked at me. "Well? Did you... like it?" he asked, watching me closely.

I sighed—a long, blissful sigh—and snuggled back up to him. "It was... it was just beautiful. I've never heard anything like it before—did you write it?"

"Yes, I wrote it for you and to you. I poured my heart out into it, so I'm very glad that you enjoyed it."

"Very much," I said smiling up at him. He looked down at me for a minute, then, hesitantly, he leaned down and kissed me. He restrained himself, apparently surmising—correctly—that asking for more than a kiss at that time would have been an unwise move on his part. But nevertheless I could feel the passion in his kiss, like a shock of electricity coursing through him and into me.

After a short while, I pulled back. "I'm sorry, Mikhail. I'm not ready for more. Not yet anyway."

He nodded, saying, "There is no need to apologize." He rose, put his violin and sheet music away, and carefully replaced his bottle of Armagnac in his satchel, then turned back to me. "I'll go now. May I see you tomorrow? I have an engagement in the afternoon—I'm to perform as part of a series of garden tours, each of which ends with tea and music. You are very welcome to join me, if you would care to do so. I'd certainly love to have your company."

"Yes, I'd like that, thank you."

"Wonderful. It begins in the early afternoon, so why don't I come by for you a little before noon? I'll take you to lunch, then we can go to the tour after that. I think you'll enjoy it—the garden featured tomorrow is quite a lovely one."

I walked him to the front door and gave him a kiss, then he left and I returned to my room to sleep—and to dream—until the cries of the gulls at dawn awoke me.