How Stella Got Her Groove Back

by Terry McMillan

  “Well, we wanted to get away from our husbands,” Tonya says and they laugh. Tonya is pulling her hair back into a ponytail. They are in great shape: Patrice has one of those Shape magazine bodies and Tonya looks like a few more crunches a day and she’d be a runner-up for the cover. Neither of them has any children and they’re both thirty-one years old.

  “You guys didn’t come down here to get in trouble or anything, did you?”

  Patrice blushes and says, “Not really. We love our husbands even though they get on our nerves sometimes, but we’ve both been working so hard these last eight or nine months and we hardly ever get to see each other anymore so we decided to take a girls’ vacation and leave their butts at home. That’s all.”

  “That sounds healthy,” I say.

  “Did I mention that I’m two months pregnant?” Tonya says.

  “No,” I say. “Congratulations.”

  Tonya says, “And what about you, girl? Where’s your man?”

  I feel kind of flushed. “Well, I came alone.”

  “You go, girl,” she says, and they give each other a high five.

  “So. Have you gotten in any trouble?” Patrice asks and they both lean forward so all four of their combined breasts rest on the table.

  I am blushing harder.

  “Tell us, girl, tell us! Curious minds wanna know!”

  I lean forward and now there are six breasts sitting on the table. “Well, since I don’t know you sisters I guess it’s safe to tell you but I should be ashamed of myself even though I’m not but I slept with a twenty-one-year-old Jamaican guy.”

  “No you didn’t!” Patrice says.

  “Yes I did,” I say.

  “So what was it like doing it with a kid?” Tonya asks.

  I don’t like the sound of that. “He’s not a kid.”

  “Whatever,” she says. “What was it like?”

  “Yeah, tell us. How was it, girl?” Patrice asks, bending even closer.

  “Well, he moved like butter for one thing and I’m here to testify that I have never been kissed so good in my entire life.”

  “Get outta here,” Patrice says, looking envious.

  “A kiss can do it to you sometimes,” Tonya says.

  “Tell me about it. I was like totally shocked. I mean here I am thinking I’m gonna teach him a few things, turn this young boy out and blow his mind and hopefully make him think he’s on fire and, well, do you see flames coming out of these braids or what?”

  “It was that good, huh?” Patrice groans.

  “I’m not even talking about the sex, you guys. It was some other stuff going on that I can’t put my finger on. But all I know is that I’m messed up. Fucked up really. Because he’s gone.”

  “Damn,” Patrice says and takes a sip of her lemonade.

  “Where’d he go?” Tonya asks.

  “Well, he got a new job working down the road at Windswept so he had to go home and get his stuff which is like a four-hour drive from here because when he comes back he’ll be like living there and everything.”

  “So go visit him,” Patrice says. “My husband and I stayed there for our honeymoon. It’s a beautiful resort, for couples only. Girl, go on down there and get your man,” and the three of us start laughing.

  I shake my head back and forth. “Can’t do that. Don’t know him well enough and I could scare the daylights out of him. Nope. I just wish I could stop thinking about him.”

  “This is too deep for me,” Tonya says. “Girl, forget about him. Look at it for what it was: a one-nighter. You’re on vacation. On a tropical island. It’s called a fling. Not to be confused with the beginning or blossoming of a new relationship. The guy is exotic and goes with the island. It’s not like something like this could lead to marriage! Find yourself a new victim tonight, girl, and you’ll get over this little infatuation before you even blink.”

  “Would you shut your mouth, Tonya,” Patrice moans and now all of us sit up and I feel like I’ve just reenacted the last episode of I’ll Fly Away or something and we are all gathering our composure and trying to step out of that zone. Patrice seems to be totally identifying as if she’s been here done that she can relate, girl, when Holly, this sexy tall lithe young social director with short curly hair whose breasts are so voluptuous they make all three sets of ours look weak and who has apparently been ill for the last two days flops down at our table and announces herself by saying “Hello” loudly in a British accent.

  We each say hello back to her, and she sings, “Don’t let me interrupt you. Carry on,” and she taps the tabletop with her palm.

  And so I do. “Anyway I miss my new boyfriend.”

  And Holly says, “Boyfriend? What’s his name there?”

  And I say, “Win-ston,” in a Jamaican accent.

  And she says, “You’ve got to be kidding. Not tall skinny homely Winston with the big lips?”

  Patrice and Tonya are doing that tennis-watching thing with their heads and I say, “Yes, he’s my friend. Why, what’s wrong with Winston?”

  Holly makes a yucky face and then pushes the air with her hands and says, “He’s been after me for so long now he’s getting on my nerves.”

  All of our eyebrows go up, but looking at her with her flawless sienna skin perfect white teeth round cheekbones curly eyelashes long shapely legs that tiny waist those curvy hips—she could easily be a high-paid runway model—I totally understand why Win-ston would be persistent in calling her. The fact that she does not take my “my boyfriend” at all seriously even though I was trying for facetiousness (although deep down inside I liked the sound of it after I said it) is kind of like a reality check and is somewhat heartbreaking for me at this moment in time and space. “You mean you don’t find Winston attractive?” I ask, trying not to sound defensive.

  “He’s kind of cute but far too skinny. He really needs to gain some weight and he has no money and he’s far too passive.”

  “Passive?” I say. I want to say, I beg to differ with you, sweetheart, but I don’t, and as I’m thinking this Patrice and Tonya both give me the eye but Holly keeps right on talking.

  “Yes, passive. He’s kind of slow actually and besides I’m sick of Jamaican men. They have no money, hardly any class at all, they can’t dress, and I’m hoping to meet an American man one of these days.”

  “Is that why you have this job?” Patrice asks.

  “No. It’s just a job,” she says, looking around the dining room, perhaps for a prospect. I’d really have liked to tell her that young men rarely go on vacation alone because they don’t know how to entertain themselves and basically because they’re, well, stupid and they don’t want to bet on getting lucky when they can just pay up front and bring all the luck they need with them. So the chances of her actually meeting somebody who would forget about the Miss America runner-up he brought with him and go off in her direction would be slim indeed and she should save up her money and just like get on a plane and fly to the U.S.A., though her chances of getting lucky there will probably (but I don’t dare say this to her) be even slimmer because there are millions of pretty women in the United States hoping and praying they get lucky too.

  Holly taps the table again with her palm and jumps up. “Well, gotta go. Enjoy your breakfast. Are any of you ladies interested in a game of volleyball today?”

  We look at each other. I say, “Maybe,” and Patrice says, “Maybe,” and Tonya says, “Maybe,” and then we all laugh.

  “She was cute,” Tonya says.

  “She was phony and knows exactly how cute she is, but forget about her, we want to hear more about Winston,” Patrice says.

  So I go back to day one and tell them everything and by the time I finish we are lying out on the beach on our respective chaise longues and Norris comes over and says, “Ladies, are you going to play volleyball today?” and we all gaze up but I can see he is clearly looking at me and he says, “Did you know Winston stopped by this morning to drop off my key? You do know he was shari
ng my room?”

  And I say, “No,” and he smiles like the bitch he is and says, “Yep,” and turns around and struts away like Naomi and Cindy do on those runways. I hate him.

  “Who’s Miss Thang?” Patrice asks over her sunglasses.

  “I think he has a crush on Winston,” I say.

  “That’s pretty obvious,” Tonya says and rolls over.

  “I don’t want to play volleyball,” I say.

  “Me neither. We just got here last night and we’re tired,” Tonya says.

  “Yeah,” says Patrice. “I’m volleying right here.”

  We basically ignore Holly and Norris and when we hear the sound of drums and cymbals and “The Star-Spangled Banner” we each pull our sunglasses away from our eyes and turn to see where the noise is coming from.

  We simply do not cannot believe what we see coming in our direction: a parade of red white and blue painted people. And there are about fifty or sixty of them! “They must think today is the Fourth of July!” I yell.

  “You ain’t never lied,” Tonya says.

  And we sit there until these naked patriots march right by us, their bodies painted interpretations of the American flag. Lips are red. Hair is blue. Black bodies are rendered iridescent white. Stars are painted across bellies and behinds and an old man’s penis is red white and blue while a woman who has not had the liposuction she needs has miniature flags covering her private area and glued to each of her huge breasts. They are blowing trumpets singing up a storm and waving as they walk past us. We watch the heat from the sun melt the blue red and white but we are too stunned to comment and we just stare until they turn around and walk by us again and then we just sort of lie there and it is obvious that we are all thinking the same thing: did we just see a parade of painted naked people marching along the beach? We think we did we think we did we think we did.

  To our complete astonishment, the volleyball game has continued uninterrupted. We shake our heads back and forth and drop them against our towels, which are rolled to form pillows, until we get so hot we run out into the water and swim for a while and then I guess we eat lunch and then I take my afternoon nap and then I eat dinner again and walk into the empty disco and it is boring and I go to my room and wonder what Winston is doing if he is thinking about me at all and I am thinking it is only Sunday and I still have all of Monday Tuesday and Wednesday left to go and why on earth did I have to stay so many days what am I going to do here on this stupid island without him? I mean I like Patrice and Tonya but they are not quite as stimulating company as Winston is and as I look out at those massive waves crashing against the big rocks again and I press Seal On again and I stand out on that balcony and breathe in the ocean air again and look out as far as I can but don’t see anything at all except the world looking as if it ends somewhere out there and I step back inside and close the French doors because I’m tired of all this beauty all this water all this whatever, because it feels like this tropical fever has broken and now I just want to go home.

  “I’M REALLY BEGINNING to wonder if maybe I’m under some kind of spell or something,” I say to Tonya and Patrice. We are lying on our stomachs oiled down and glowing on our chaise longues on the beach and of course I am drinking my third virgin piña colada of the afternoon and they’re on their fourth real piña coladas.

  “Girl, you sound like you’re lovesick,” Patrice says.

  “That’s impossible,” I say.

  “Why is it impossible?” she asks.

  “Because he’s a child,” I hear myself say. Stella, come off it, girl, you know deep down inside you are totally smitten with this young man and you are the one who keeps tripping on his age when in fact is it really just his age that’s causing you so much discomfort or are you uncomfortable because of your discomfort, which is basically a reaction to the high-yield comfort level he generated inside you, and because he happens to be young you have made that a negative and as usual chosen the negative as your focal point instead of the good stuff? I mean isn’t it a much cooler cop-out to trip on the fact that he is young and therefore somehow unacceptable, but what if he were like white or Jewish or Asian or even a woman—I mean if you keep saying too young you can like use this defense for the benefit of who, Stella? If he were thirty-one or forty-one, what would the issue be then?

  “Winston doesn’t sound like any child I’ve ever met,” Patrice says. “He’s six foot four, living on his own, working full time, and he certainly approached you like a grown-up and he sounds very much like a man to my mind.”

  “Seriously,” I say, “they do do that kind of stuff down here, don’t they? Don’t they have like conjure women who work their mojos on you for a nominal fee?”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Patrice says, nodding.

  “He probably had this all planned from the beginning. He chose me. Or she probably chose me for him and he just went along for the ride. Maybe he’s under the spell too.”

  “Girl, you’re tripping too hard.” Patrice rolls over on her side.

  I sit up and look down at my thighs and legs and realize I am now totally bronzed and boy I wish I could keep this color. I stand, about to walk into the water, when running down the beach heading straight toward us looking like one of those men in a Calvin Klein ad is a very real bronzed statue and it is moving faster and as he gets closer I/we see that he is absolutely gorgeous!

  I look over at Patrice and Tonya and they both pull their sunglasses down over their noses and we simply watch him as he approaches us and he is not wearing any shoes or shirt just dark nylon running shorts and he looks like a wide receiver because he is tall and muscular but his neck is not enormous his body is not puffed up and bulky like most football players’ but his thighs legs shoulders triceps biceps are perfectly formed and now that I can see him closer he is the color of espresso and his mustache is thick and flourishing and his hair is cut close and look at those cheekbones and the hair on that chest and those pectorals pushing out from under it and when he looks directly into my face and smiles showing off those pearly whites and in a British accent says, “Hello,” and then he turns to Patrice and Tonya and says, “Hello,” and we are totally awestruck, can just barely manage a weak “Hi” but the three of us say it pretty much in unison.

  He runs over to the outside shower which is close to the grassy area and I don’t realize it but I’m like staring at him as he pulls that silver chain down and the water forms a silver waterfall over his body and the now-chocolate water bounces off his shoulder blades in little droplets that splash against the concrete and he turns his face up to the spray and I’m thinking as I notice that his waistline is probably smaller than mine that he should do some ads for Calvin (I might call Calvin when I get home to tell him that I’ve found his man for real) and then I hear Patrice say, “Go on over there and get him, girl.”

  Then Tonya sits up and says, “Something that looks that good should be illegal. Dang. Where did he come from?”

  “I don’t know but God must’ve sent him here for a reason,” I say and finally I push my feet into the white sand and then into the water. I walk out until I’m up to my shoulders and when I turn around I am positive that that man is looking at me and if he’s not he is looking in my direction and then when he waves and smiles I dunk my head under the water. This is unreal. I mean damn, here I am suffering from an enormous all-encompassing sense of heartache and now this black knight comes out of nowhere and where is his horse is what I’m thinking as I try to focus my eyes to adjust to the thick wetness to see if I can spot any fish families but I can’t seem to see clearly today and when I come up for air he is gone.

  I walk run through the water back to the shore where Tonya is now reading some medical journal and Patrice is reading In Search of Satisfaction by J. California Cooper but when they see me they drop their respective books in their laps and this time they take their sunglasses off.

  “Girl, did you get a good look at him?” Patrice asks.

  “I did,�
�� I say. “But where’d he go?”

  “Up there,” Tonya says, pointing to the second floor of the beachfront rooms that’re right behind the volleyball area.

  I pick up my towel and dry off. “If I knew it was gonna be raining men I’d’ve come down here a long time ago,” I say.

  “Well, it must just be in the stars for you, girlfriend, because we’ve been here two days now and the most play we’ve gotten is from little short guys or really old guys and all they say is, ‘Hey, mon.’ These wedding rings scare folks off, which is just fine with us. I love my husband,” Tonya says.

  “And I think I’ll keep mine around a little longer,” Patrice says. “But you, girlfriend, you ought to have as much fun as you can while you’re here. You are single. And Winston is gone.”

  “Byeee, Winston.” Tonya sighs, waving to the air. “When you snooze you lose, baby.”

  “How many days do you have left?” Patrice asks.

  “Three,” I say.

  “We leave in two. But three days is plenty of time to do some damage,” Tonya says.

  • • • •

  Later, Tonya asks me, “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

  “Eating,” I say.

  “Funny. You want to go to Rick’s Café with us?”

  “I’ve heard of that—it’s in one of my brochures or something.”

  “It’s fabulous. It’s about fifteen minutes from here near the tip of the island and some white guy named Rick owns it and it’s outside and there are these cliffs adjacent to it and you can sit outside and eat lobster and watch these fools dive off.”