JEZEBEL'S BLUES

by Ruth Wind

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “I need some of that bath stuff you make for me.”

  “Well, you just sit yourself down. I’ll make you a cup of tea to drink while you wait.”

  “Real sugar.”

  “No problem.” She shot him an amused glance. The two of them shared a love of white sugar, although Esther tolerated honey in her tea when purists were shopping. “I’ve got some glazed doughnuts in the kitchen if you want one,” she added in a conspiratorial tone.

  He shook his head. “Not today, thanks.”

  When he settled with his tea, she measured herbs for his bath preparation. In spite of the fact that she’d found the recipe in a sixteenth-century text on herbal lore, it was hardly an exotic mixture—ordinary garden herbs.

  “Where’s Jeremy?” Abe asked, sipping his tea.

  “Outside, no doubt killing dragons or scaling mountains or slaying the enemy with his superior brand of martial arts.”

  “What a kid.”

  “Right,” Esther replied dryly. “What a kid. He’s a daredevil with all the caution of a kamakazi.”

  “But he’s got a great imagination.”

  “Sure. All I have to do as a mother is see that he makes it to adulthood in one piece so that he can do something with that imagination.” She rolled her eyes. “I have my doubts some days.”

  Abe wiggled his nose, a sure indication he was about to tease her. “Great soldier material.”

  “Not if I can help it,” she replied firmly and frowned at him. “Honestly, how can you even tease me about that?” He was so full of shrapnel he could barely walk some days.

  “Once a Marine, always a Marine.” He lifted a heavy eyebrow, amusement in his dark eyes. “And unlike soldier boy out there in the backyard, for me it was all in pursuit of the admiration of women.” His nose wiggled again. “It worked for all the guys in the movies.”

  She gave him the sealed plastic bag of herbs. “Good thing the good Lord invented women,” she said with a wry smile. “Otherwise, who would heal you?”

  “We’d figure something out,” he said.

  Esther grinned. They’d met when Esther was eight, Abe almost thirteen, and had been friends ever since. “How are you, really?”

  “I’m okay, Mom. Just a little stiff.”

  “All right. I’m going to go check on Jeremy, then.” But as she was turning toward the back of the house, the bell rang over the door. For an instant, she listened to see if she could hear her son’s voice. It came to her faintly, full of the undertones of command he used in playing his games. Reassured, she turned to greet her new customer.

  Him.

  The lion man from the dojo stood just inside the door, looking no less powerful than he had last week. Instead of loose trousers and bare feet, he wore a hand-tailored cotton shirt, open at the collar, and jeans that fit his lean thighs well. Light from the windows haloed his thick, curly hair and outlined the breadth of his shoulders. In his big, brown hands he held a white Panama hat.

  For an instant, all she could do was look at him in surprise, and he seemed as stunned as she. When the silence between them stretched to an almost unbearable length, Esther finally broke it.

  “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  Abe jumped up. “Esther, this is a friend of mine from the dojo, Alexander Stone.”

  The man extended his hand. “Hello,” he said. “Abe has been telling me about your expertise with herbs.” The voice was richly textured, as deep as a summer midnight, the edges and vowels of his words clipped with a British accent. Esther felt it flow over her spine as his strong, callused hand grasped hers firmly.

  Rattled, she shot Abe a glance. “He has?”

  Alexander dropped her hand. “I’ve been looking for someone to help teach a summer class. Abe said you’re the most knowledgeable herbalist in Boulder.”

  “He overestimates me,” Esther said with a smile. His eyes, she thought, were a very unusual shade of blue—a clear aquamarine that made her think of marbles.

  “You’ve got the right woman,” Abe interjected from his seat by the tea table. “Esther is about to be modest and mild, but she’s the best there is.”

  Again she was about to protest, but a single scream pierced the air, cutting through the sound of the radio and their conversation. Without an instant’s hesitation, Esther turned and ran for the backyard, her heart pounding in fear. Jeremy was, in addition to being an eccentric little daredevil, very loud, and he was known to shriek in frustration. But the scream she heard had been one of pain and fear.

  As she slammed out the back door, she cursed herself inwardly. Her instincts had told her to check on Jeremy a moment ago. She should have listened—they’d proved true more than once. If anything serious had happened to him—He lay beneath the crab apple tree unmoving, flat on his back. Esther raced toward him and kneeled in the grass. “Jeremy!” she cried.

  He opened his eyes and coughed, then promptly burst into tears.

  “Are you all right, honey?”

  “I fell!” he wailed and sat up to throw himself into his mother’s arms. The tears were as much a defense from the wrath of the scolding he knew was coming as in fear.

  She hugged him for a moment, then loosened his grip around her neck to look at his face. “How many times have I told you to stay out of that tree?”

  “But, Mommy—”

  “Not a word, Jeremy. You could have broken your neck.” She paused to let the meaning sink in. “You can’t watch any television for the rest of the week.”

  His head dropped, the dark curls tumbling forward in glossy disarray, and his plump lower lip popped out. “Okay,” he said in a tragic voice. Then he realized the consequences of his actions. “That means I can’t watch Sesame Street!” He wept, and threw himself against her chest again.

  For a moment, Esther simply held him in her arms, reveling in the smell of little boy—sunshine in his hair and dust on his clothes. She felt the heat of his wire-taut limbs against her palms and the prickling of his hair against her shoulder. And in memory, she saw him lying so still in the grass.

  What was she going to do with this child?

  * * *

  Alexander fingered the tins on the shelf as he waited for Esther to return, and admired a row of jewel-toned jellies with hand-lettered labels: rose petal, chokecherry, crab apple. Curiously he picked one up. “I’ve never heard of anything like this,” he commented to Abe, who had returned to sipping tea in a rattan chair next to a huge fern.

  “You ought to give them a try.” He grinned and lowered his voice. “Esther would probably hang me for saying so, but you get the flavor best if you make the toast out of white bread.”

  Alexander smiled appreciatively, for he was no stranger to the fanatical devotion of many Boulderites to natural foods. He lifted the jar toward the light, admiring the pale ruby color. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Esther makes it.”

  “Do they have healing properties?” Alexander asked with a grin.

  “No. But they’ll do wonders for your attitude.”

  Esther breezed back into the room. Once again, Alexander felt himself riveted upon her. Instead of the bright yellow peasant blouse of the festival, she wore a brown rayon dress with buttons up the front. It was oddly old-fashioned, a dress from the forties, and it clung with demure but enticing exactness to her generous curves. “Abe,” she said with a toss of wild red hair, “would you mind sitting with Jeremy outside for a few minutes? He’s pouting, but he might like a friend.”

  “Maybe I’ll go tell him some soldier stories,” Abe said with a wicked grin and headed for the backyard.

  Esther turned toward Alexander, brushing wisps of hair from her porcelain face. “Would you like to sit down?” She gestured toward a rattan love seat.

  As he settled on floral cushions, he decided that she made him think of a goddess, but not those ethereal creatures artists were so fond of, with their flat blond hair and frail figures. Rather, Esther was more
like an ancient goddess of fertility—laughing and lusty, drawn in robust hues, love and appetite flowing from her like sunshine.

  Oddly appropriate that she was an herbalist.

  “Since you’re English, I’m sure my tea won’t suit you,” she said, “but can I offer you a glass of lemonade?”

  Alexander had to gather his scattered thoughts to speak and it annoyed him. He was thirty-nine years old and in addition to having been married twelve years, he was no stranger to women. What was it about this woman that tied his tongue? “Lemonade is fine,” he said gruffly.

  “Fresh squeezed,” she said, sliding open the door of a glass-fronted cooler that displayed all sorts of exotic juices and soft drinks. She poured a tall glass of lemonade for each of them from a pitcher, then settled in the chair Abe had vacated. The pose put her against the light, giving her hair an edging of gold fire. Taking a dainty sip of her lemonade, she gave him a curious glance. “So, tell me more about this class.”

  Alexander fingered his beard momentarily, gathering his thoughts. “My specialty is the history of the dark and middle ages, and I’ve several students who need a touch of reality regarding their favorite time period.”

  She flashed that inviting, mysterious, goddess smile. “How interesting. What would you like me to do?”

  “We need someone to share the old ways of medicine with us. Abe said there’s no one who knows the herbal arts as well as you do.”

  Again she brushed away the compliment. “He’s much too loyal. But I love talking about herbs on any level.” Biting her lip, she paused. “I think I may even have a few books on the dark ages in particular.”

  “An honorarium would be arranged, of course.” He forced himself to look away from the glowing colors of the woman before him and sipped the pulpy lemonade.

  “Waive the honorarium,” she said. “It’s been a while since I’ve taken a class of any kind. I might enjoy sitting in on the sessions that I don’t teach.” She looked at him, a hint of shyness in her rich brown eyes. “Would that be all right?”

  “Of course.” He smiled to put her at ease and cocked an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  “How many students are in the class?”

  “Only eleven—most of them very intense, I should warn you. The sort of students who live and breathe for history. All of them are very bright, eloquent, and—” he gave her a rueful smile “—absurdly certain that the world we left was a far better one than the one in which we live.”

  “You sound as if you know them very well.”

  “Oh, I do. I proposed the class with all of them in mind. Obsession can be dangerous.” He shook his head. “You’ll see what I mean soon enough, I’m afraid.”

  “Believe me,” Esther said with asperity, “I’m familiar with the syndrome.” She laughed. “I’ve probably even been one of those students.”

  “As have I, I’m afraid.”

  A group of little boys rushed up to the door. “Mrs. Lucas, can Jeremy play?” one called through the screen.

  “He’s around back, guys.”

  Alexander watched the gaggle of them run toward a parked group of trikes and tiny two-wheelers.

  “Do you have children?” Esther asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Somehow I didn’t think so.”

  “Oh, really? Why is that?” His question was more curious than anything.

  “You strike me as someone with an orderly life—and don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.”

  For a moment, he was surprised, then he laughed at how accurately she had pegged him. “As a matter of fact, I do have an orderly life.” He inclined his head, realizing with a small part of his mind that it had been literally years since he’d laughed out loud so spontaneously. “But would I still live amidst disorder if my children were grown and gone?”

  “Not a chance, Professor. That silver might fool some people, but you aren’t old enough to have children already sprung from the nest.”

  “Right again,” he said. He stood up. “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to like working with you, Ms. Lucas.”

  She inclined her head, as if taking his measure, a measure that somehow puzzled her. “The feeling is mutual.”

  “I’ll send you a syllabus for the class and you’ll have a clear idea of what I’ll need from you on that.” He stood up and extended a hand. “I’m listed in the university directory if you should have any questions—and I don’t live very far from here, either.”

  “All right. It was nice to meet you, Alexander Stone.”

  “Goodbye,” he said formally, and firmly placed his hat on his head. Outside, the day seemed bursting with life and energy. He decided suddenly to forego the work he’d had planned for this afternoon in favor of working out at the dojo.

  As he walked home to get his things, he found himself whistling.

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  BREAKING

  THE

  RULES

  (Excerpt)

  by

  Barbara Samuel

  PROLOGUE

  She drove all night. Fast and hard through the emptiness of the Kansas plains, dotted with silos and water towers silhouetted against the clear, starry sky. In Emporia, she clutched her coat around herself and bought a cup of coffee and filled the gas tank.

  By morning, she reached Pueblo. Leaving the technically stolen car in the parking lot of a huge discount store where it would eventually attract notice, she fastened her coat around her again and went inside the store. She bought a pair of soft desert boots, jeans and a handful of T-shirts, trying to ignore the collection of stares she received over her wild and incongruous appearance.

  From the discount store, she crossed the street on foot to a convenience store that sold gas and food. In the bathroom there, she ripped the tags off the new things and threw her tattered dress in the waste bin. For a moment, she stared at the royal blue taffeta, bloodstained on the side and at the hem. A wave of dizzy nausea washed through her.

  Once changed, she assessed herself in the fly-specked mirror. This was the hard part. With trembling hands, she braided her hip-length hair, secured it at the top and bottom, then lifted the shears she’d bought with the jeans.

  “Do it, Mattie,” she said to the white-faced woman in the mirror. She did, but resolve and necessity didn’t keep her from weeping as she did so. Her pride and joy. Her hair.

  When it was done, she held the three-foot braid in her hand, then looked at herself. The cut was ragged, but not bad, considering. With surprise, she touched her neck and shoulders.

  Taking a deep breath, she coiled the braid and nestled it into her bag. No one would recognize her now. No one.

  She left the car with its Kansas plates in the sprawling parking lot and hopped on a city bus that took her downtown. At the Greyhound station, she scanned the lists of destinations and impulsively bought a ticket for a little town she’d never heard of because she liked the name.

  Kismet, Arizona.

  They would never find her there.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  In the middle of the morning bustle, with country music playing in the kitchen of the café, and coffee perking and the noise of a dozen men buzzing around the room, Mattie realized that somehow or other, the job she’d taken out of desperation three weeks before was one she had learned to like. No, love.

  “Order up!” called the cook. Mattie grabbed the thick porcelain plates filled with greasy eggs and strips of bacon and good white toast. Piling them on her arms, she hurried toward the table of road workers who would gulp the food down and tip her a dollar, no matter how well or poorly she did her job, as long as she kept their coffee cups filled. Bustling back toward the counter, she grabbed the coffeepot and swung through in a circle, touching up every cup along the route, except Joe Harriday’s, who liked to get all the way to the bottom before he starte
d again.

  There was a buzz in her muscles and heat in her chest. Her hair fell in her eyes and she brushed it back, feeling the pleasant grime of hard work on her skin.

  Loved it.

  As the breakfast crowd thinned, leaving behind only a single pair of tourists who’d wandered in off the highway, Mattie made a fresh pot of coffee, mainly for the crew to drink as they cleaned up breakfast and got ready for lunch.

  “A woman after my own heart,” said Roxanne, the other waitress, breathing deeply of the scented steam rising from the pot. “You want to take a break first?”

  “Go ahead, Roxanne. I can wait awhile.”

  “Thanks.” She touched her stomach. “I’m starving.”

  The low, precise grumbling of a motorcycle cut through the post-rush quiet. Mattie turned to watch a bike roar up in front of the café. Through the plate-glass windows, the waitresses watched as a man parked a sleek, midnight blue machine. Chrome shone all over it. The man driving settled it easily and limberly dismounted.

  Mattie stared, a prickling in her nerves.

  For a minute, he stood beside the bike, looking out toward the canyon. She’d learned the hard way to be careful about men, careful about even looking too hard at one for fear she might start to want again what she couldn’t have.

  But it was impossible not to stare. Standing there against the backdrop of rough red sandstone cliffs and thick ponderosa pine, he looked like one of the outlaws that had hidden in the canyon long ago. Or maybe, Mattie thought, he was more like the eagles she sometimes saw on her dawn trips to the canyon – there was in his stance the same wary alertness; in his size she felt the same sense of leashed power.

  He wore a plain white cotton shirt, the long sleeves rolled to the elbows, tucked at the narrow waist into a pair of jeans. His hair, the color of coffee and tangled from his ride in the wind, was long. Very long. Casually, he finger-combed it away from his face and headed for the restaurant.