Chapter 8

A Chapter by wendyctsai

Peter and Rachael's perfect date.

Saturday, June 16, 2001

It was the beginning of intensive diving training. The first team competition was coming up in mid-July, and my first individual competition �" the one at which all the Olympic scouts would be present �" was in early August. Coach Kipp had already started us on full-day practices, determined to do well as a team this year.

Although I wasn’t going to be competing in the team competitions, Kipp still wanted me present at the practices. “It’ll do well for you to watch other divers and know their mistakes, so you won’t make them,” he said to me. The other boys were surprisingly supportive of my selfish endeavors.

Kipp showed me the guidelines for the individual competitions, which called for ten-meter platform dives. Team competitions were in Buffalo, New York, but my individual competition would be held in Seattle, Washington. Kipp agreed to try to get the school to pay for my plane ticket, since if I did well, it would reflect well on them.

We worked on a variety of dives, wanting to show the judges my “versatility.” I would start with a forward three and a half somersault dive in pike position, then a reverse twist dive, and then the dreaded armstand dive. That would be enough to get me through the preliminary round.

Despite my training, I still had time to see Rachael. Most of the time, we hung out with her roommate Emma; Sam was visiting his folks in Florida. We ended up seeing Wicked eventually, and we played Mario Kart. I dived and dived and built up my biceps, preparing for the armstand.

Since it was Saturday, though, Rachael and I decided to go on a date, which we hadn’t really done since that first night in the park. I planned everything for our weekend away, but Rachael had no idea where we were going.

“You could just give me a hint. One little hint?” she begged as I loaded her overnight bag into my car.

“If I give you a hint, it’ll give it away.”

She stomped her foot. “I’ll see the road signs. I’m going to figure it out anyway; you might as well just tell me.”

I shook my head good-naturedly. “Nope. No can do.”

“Aw, come on.” She started tickling my sides, knowing that was my weak spot.

I sniggered. “Hey--stop--no fair, stop it--”

“One little clue?”

I grabbed her hands and pulled them forward, wrapping her arms around my waist. I turned my head over my shoulder and planted a quick kiss on her auburn head. “You’ll see,” I said simply.

* * *

We had been driving for several hours, and had just passed New York City. Rachael was asleep in the passenger seat, though not after putting a Joni Mitchell CD into my car CD player. I had attempted to eject it earlier in the ride, but she woke up immediately and inserted it again, much to my amusement.

It had been a while, though, and she looked peaceful, her face relaxed and free of tension. There was a rest stop coming up, and I was running low on gasoline. I decided to take a break and stretch my legs, but not before snapping a picture of her sleeping. The afternoon sun hit her hair, throwing her face into an orange-tinted light.

Careful not to wake her, I shut off the engine, cutting off Joni Mitchell in the middle of “Both Sides Now.” Rachael stirred, and I froze. She opened her eyes blearily and turned her head towards me. “You turned off my music,” she said sleepily.

I kissed her softly. “Yep. We’re at a rest stop; do you want to get something to eat?”

She stretched her hands above her head and flexed her neck. She put her arms around me and pulled me towards her. “Sure,” she murmured.

We got out of the car and headed over to the small convenience store with a Subway attached to it. “Where are we?” Rachael asked.

“Not telling.”

She went up to the man behind the counter at Subway and asked him the same question. “Right outside New York City, ma’am,” he replied.

Rachael turned to me, her eyebrows raised. “You’re not taking me back to Cornell, are you?”

I shook my head. “Nope, that would be way too cruel.” She laughed.

We finished our sandwiches quickly, chatting as we ate. “How much longer do we have on the road?” she asked, her voice muffled through a mouthful of bread and lettuce.

I glanced at my watch. “Probably another three hours or so. We’ll be there by four-thirty, at the latest.” Rachael nodded, not even bothering to ask where “there” was.

“Will I like it?” she asked coyly.

I smiled. “I sure hope so.”

* * *

4:20 p.m., Saturday, June 16, 2001

I pulled into the parking lot of the Kaufmann Residence, and Rachael’s mouth fell open. “No. No way. You didn’t.”

I smiled widely, shutting off the car and taking her hand. “I did.”

The sun was just setting, sitting on the horizon and giving everything a red tint. We walked through the parking lot and toward the information building. “Hi, we’re here for the Sunset Tour?” I told the woman behind the desk. She peered at me over her glasses. “Name?”

“The reservation should be under Clark, for two.” The woman checked her computer and waved us through.

We walked past the information desk, and Rachael caught her breath.

There was Fallingwater, in all its glory. The concrete threw sharp-edged shadows on the pavement around it and softer ones across the nature surrounding the building. Glass melded with trees, and it seemed like architecture and nature had fused. Rachael took a tentative step forward, and then another, mesmerized by the sight before her. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

We made our way to the building, which was even more breath-taking close up. A group was gathered nearby, and a guide was welcoming them to the Sunset Tour. “That’s us,” I said to Rachael, pointing towards the group.

The tour guide walked us around the building just as the sun was going down. The glass looked crimson in the light, and the concrete and limestone almost seemed to be glowing.

“All of the horizontal walls are made of concrete, and all the vertical ones made of limestone,” the guide was saying. “This horizontal concrete slab has an interesting story behind it,” she went on, pointing to a piece of concrete that seemed to be floating. “Wright’s contractors were doubtful that it could stand according to his designs, and they refused to attempt it, sure that it would fall. Wright �" being the stubborn man he was �" insisted that they build it his way, and stood right where we’re standing now. He told them to move the slab to its position, threatening that if it fell, he would be the one crushed. Amazingly enough, it stayed, and to this day, it still stands. Wright knew exactly how much of the concrete needed to be supported in order for it to stay balanced, and he stuck to his plans, no matter what anyone else said.”

The rest of the tour group nodded thoughtfully, and the guide moved on to another part of the structure. Rachael and I lingered behind. She stood under the concrete slab, her arms open wide, face turned up towards the concrete. She began to turn slowly in place. “Can you imagine, Peter?” she said, her eyes glowing. “Can you imagine how magical it must have been? I’d love to see the look on those contractor’s faces when the concrete didn’t fall.” I nodded as I backed up and snapped a candid shot of her, arms wide, rotating slowly underneath the concrete.

Rachael let her arms drop to her sides and turned to me. “Did you just take a picture of me?” she said incredulously.

I held up my camera mockingly. “Don’t worry, you look beautiful.” She smiled shyly. I took her hand, and we joined the rest of the group.

Following the guide, we trooped inside of the building. The sun was half hidden already, and the room was lit only by the sun’s orange rays and the dim lights in the ceiling. Even though I knew nothing about architecture or design, I couldn’t help but admire the tasteful furnishings that Wright had chosen.

“This is the best part of the Sunset Tour,” the tour guide said enthusiastically. “There are hors d’oeuvres behind you, in case you get hungry.”

The tour group crowded around a table near the back of the room, but Rachael stayed near the glass. I stayed with her, and we watched as the sun slowly sank, until it was barely peeking over the horizon, only a sliver of light illuminating the inside of the building. As we watched the sun go down and afternoon turn into evening, the glass seemed to turn black and the walls faded out. The room was lit only by the dim ceiling lights, and it looked as if the boundaries and walls had completely disappeared. The building had merged completely with nature.

Enchanted, Rachael took a step forward and reached toward the glass. She didn’t touch it, but she watched the reflection of her hand in the window, the other side of the glass pane pitch black. I took another picture of her, reaching out with her hand parallel to the window. The shutter clicked, and Rachael said, “I heard that, Peter.”

I laughed, and she turned around. In the dim light, her eyes looked as dark as a forest, with hints of a bottle green here and there. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For bringing me here.”

I walked to her and wrapped my arms around her. She buried her head into my chest, and I felt her shaking. Was she crying?

Hesitantly, I let go of her and lifted her chin. She was crying. She wiped at her tears and laughed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d get emotional. It’s just…it’s so different from the pictures. And so beautiful.” She laughed again and rested her head against my chest. “Thank you.”

We stood that way for a long time, until the tour guide poked her head into the room. “Hi, we’re closing up right now, actually, so…”

Rachael pulled away, and I took her hand again. “Right, thank you,” I said to the guide. She nodded and left the room, and Rachael and I followed suit.

As we got into the car to go hotel hunting, Rachael squeezed my arm. “Can I see the pictures?” she asked. I felt my face go red, and I was thankful that it was nighttime.

“Um, well. I’m not a photographer or anything--”

“I know. I just wanted to see.”

I took out my camera and showed her the photos, starting from the one I had taken of her sleeping. The red light was trapped in her hair and her skin looked like satin. I flipped to the next one, the one of her under the concrete, her arms spread open as if she were about to take flight. And finally, the photo of her with her hand outstretched, her face and hand reflected in the glass, and me in the reflected background, the camera covering my face.

“These are beautiful,” she said softly, flipping through the pictures slowly.

I cleared my throat. “Only because you are.”

She looked up at me and smiled her half-smile, the right corner of her mouth tilting higher than the left. She leaned over and kissed me. “You’re a wonderful photographer,” she said simply. She handed my camera back to me, her eyelids fluttering shut. She yawned as she said, “Print out some nice copies for me, okay?”

I shut off my camera and watched her drift to sleep. “Yeah,” I whispered, although she couldn’t hear me. “Okay.”

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