At that another instinct flared, slamming his brain with a strange new arrogance. He stared down at her face, so pale and lovely, her eyes trusting, yet fearful. Yes, she would remember him, he vowed, gritting his teeth. Forever. She would be his. He lowered his mouth to hers again, tasting the sweetness he already was addicted to. His sweetness, he thought.
Her skin and flesh were like pink flower petals, moist with dew. When she arched again her fragrance engulfed him. His vision blurred and his blood surged.
“Tell me you want me,” he almost growled.
Charlotte flickered open her eyes to see him staring down with a ferocity that excited her.
“You must tell me,” he said in a strained voice.
“I want you,” she cried, quickly reaching up and holding him fast around the neck.
He saw the fear in her eyes again, but it was time. “Querida,” he murmured, gentling her with kisses, unaware that he was speaking Spanish. Then when she relaxed again, he began moving within her. Advancing and retreating, slowly at first, giving her time. He thrilled at her high-pitched gasps and her soft sighs.
Charlotte knew her virginity was over, and she hugged Michael fiercely in a triumphant welcoming. This was right, she told herself. I give myself to him willingly. I will never have any regrets.
The sensation of him inside of her was so deliciously foreign. There was nothing in her sheltered experience to compare it to. When Michael thrust, it felt as though he’d pushed straight up to her heart, piercing it through. Then higher still, to her mind, obliterating all thought. Everything except for her senses. She could smell the pungent scent of his skin, taste the saltiness of his shoulder, feel the scrape of his jaw against her cheek. He stoked the fire crackling inside of her relentlessly, making that little hard coal glow hotter and hotter. Charlotte felt bits of her past peeling away like old veneer under the flame. The ugly girl, the shy girl, the insecure girl, they were all curling up and turning to ash.
Make it burn hotter she begged in her mind. Make it burn away those memories. Make me new. Make me whole. Make me yours.
Michael felt her fire spread throughout his own body like a blazing torch, cleansing him of all memory of those who came before her. Scorched clean, he felt like a virgin himself. Surely, lovemaking had never felt so pure.
Later, he felt her smile move beneath his lips. For a while, neither of them spoke. Their breathing gradually returned to normal, and when he could lift his arm, he gently stroked her damp hair away from her face as he looked down at her.
“Michael,” she began in a voice so quiet he had to move his head to hear her. “I feel—” She paused, lifting a limp arm to smooth away the straggles of hair from his eyes. “I feel like I’ve been baptized.”
“A baptism by fire.” He chuckled and shifted on the mattress, lifting her to his shoulder. He took the wrinkled sheet and wrapped it over them. In the warm, moist cocoon of their lovemaking, he cradled her. “Sleep now, Charlotte,” he crooned in her ear. “Tomorrow will be brand-new.”
Charlotte awoke with the sun pouring in from her window directly on her face. Every muscle and bone in her body ached, but it was a delicious kind of ache. Her skin felt smoother, her lips fuller, she stretched taller. Yawning, she fluttered her eyelids open, feeling a little disoriented, as if she’d wakened in some strange room.
Suddenly she recalled everything and her eyes opened wide. “Michael…”
But when she looked for him beside her, he was gone. Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp. He couldn’t have left her. She’d heard how some men didn’t like to wake up with a woman after casual sex. God, no, she thought, running her hand through her tousled hair. He couldn’t think what they’d shared was commonplace. The pillow beside her still bore his imprint, the sheets still held his scent. But they were cold, like her heart.
“Michael?” she called out. No answer.
She rose from the bed, spotting the red stains on her sheets. The red color flooded her cheeks. Grabbing her robe to cover her nakedness, she hurried to the kitchen, to the back patio, out to the yard. His car was gone. He was gone.
She felt a sudden chill and wrapped her arms around herself. What a fool she was, she chided herself, kicking a pebble in the driveway. Last night in his arms she’d felt beautiful. Truly loved and cherished. What was the matter with her? Why couldn’t anyone love her? She knew the answer. It was because she was nothing but an empty shell. When he touched her deep inside he must have sensed that. Otherwise, how could he have just left? Not even left her a note to say goodbye?
Wiping her eyes, she turned and headed back inside. Just as she reached her front door she heard a crunching of gravel at the drive and two short beeps from a horn.
Roaring up the driveway was Michael’s red pickup truck, looking more like a Parisian peddler’s flower cart. The sides were overflowing with the large pink blossoms of a magnolia tree, dozens of flowering shrubs, and bursting at the seams with annuals and perennials of reds, blues, yellows and pinks. Behind him were two more trucks filled with tools, soil and men in green T-shirts emblazoned with the name Mondragon.
Michael leaped from the truck and hurried to her side, scooping her in his arms and planting a deep kiss on her mouth. When he released her he handed her an enormous bouquet of flowers.
“You weren’t supposed to be awake yet. I wanted to be here when you opened your eyes.”
The tears in her eyes flowed down her cheeks and she reached around his neck to hug him close. “Oh, Michael, I am awake. Wide awake. And I see you.”
“That’s not all I want you to see. Come! Look at what I’ve brought,” he said, tugging her toward his truck with the excitement of a boy at Christmas.
He was a man accustomed to giving orders, and the men responded to him quickly and with respect. She lingered close behind him, admiring the flats and flats of flowers as they were unloaded.
“So many, Michael!” Her hands were on her cheeks; her mouth was grinning widely.
“That’s just the beginning. Wait here.”
He strode off in long, happy strides toward his men, then led them around the lot, pointing out the landmarks for his foreman and reviewing the blueprints. He spoke to the six workers in Spanish, joking with ease and friendliness. How efficient he was, she thought, watching him with pride mixed with admiration. And his crew was well organized. Within a half hour of their arrival, they’d begun outlining her gardens with string and the first shovels struck the earth.
“You’ve brought so much more than I ordered,” she said when he returned to her side.
“I hope you’ll allow me to give you gifts.”
“But so many…I’ve given you nothing.”
He moved to stand intimately close to her, running his callused hand along her back. The silky slide of fabric revealed she was naked under the robe. His lips caressed the top of her head and he said in a gruff voice, “The gift you gave me last night was the most precious gift I’ve ever received.”
She was deeply moved. The final insecurities she’d felt this morning evaporated in the sunlit sky like a specter at dawn. A small smile curved her lips and she moved them closer to his ear. “The pleasure was in the giving.”
“Dios,” he swore softly, and moved his head to cover her lips with his own. “You are a quick learner, querida. One night a virgin, the next morning a temptress.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“I’ll give you another lesson tonight, my love. But for now—” his caress on her bottom became a firm pat “—I must get to work with my men. I’ve already stripped the crews from other jobs. There’ll be hell to pay, I’m sure. So, if we’re going to get your garden in before you leave to film your movie, it’s got to be today. Besides, you really must go inside and get dressed. It would be a shame if I have to kill all those good men for sneaking looks at you in that skimpy robe.”
She blushed furiously, unaccustomed as she was to such teasing. He loved her shyness, the fumbling on the sash of
her robe, her long toes curling in the grass. She was in so many ways still a gawky young girl, all long limbs, bones and awkward blushes. Then she’d surprise him and assume a mantle of maturity, a depth of wisdom in those pale blue orbs that extended beyond her years. She was a quixotic creature, and he doubted he would ever grow bored. He reached for her again and cupped her small rear, pressing her close.
“Okay, break it up. You’ll inspire a mutiny out there.” Bobby sauntered to their side, his large panama hat fanning his smiling face. He was dressed in pale linen pants and a flowing mint shirt, certainly nothing to wear while working rocks out of the soil. He once told her that he went to sites “strictly as an adviser.”
“They’re looking at you like you’re a bowl of juicy ripe strawberries,” Bobby said to Charlotte.
She laughed lightly, feeling happy.
“Nice of you to show up,” Michael said. He seemed aloof and dropped his hand from her. She tilted her head, wondering at the sudden tension. “Go around back and tell them to keep their eyes to themselves. I’ll be right there. Please,” he added, his voice cool.
Bobby’s smile hardened. “You’re the boss.” He flopped the hat on his head, then with a worldly air, bowed to Charlotte, offered her a friendly wink and walked away, his heels clicking on the pavement.
“Shit,” Michael swore, slamming his hands on his hips and scowling.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He was cutting her off. “Listen, I’ve got to see to things.” He gave her a chaste kiss. “Later. We’ll talk about those strawberries.”
Her gaze followed Michael as he walked with purpose toward the side lot where his men were working and his brother was leaning over the blueprints, directing the placement of the plastic edging. What could have happened between those brothers that made them so estranged, she wondered?
The men finished packing up the tools into the truck and drove off before the sun set, eager to be home. They’d put in a long, full day. Bobby was the last to leave, presenting Charlotte with a hybrid tea rose plant as his gift.
“Yellow roses are for friendship,” he told her, placing the pink-fringed yellow rose in her hands. “I’ll leave it to Romeo here to give you the red roses. Long-stemmed beauties. Like you. I took the liberty of creating a small bed for roses over there by the far edge of the patio. The spot is perfect and you’ll catch the scent as you sit.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome to California.”
“Don’t feel you have to leave,” she hurried to reply. “I was just going to serve some wine. Won’t you stay for a glass?” She looked at Michael to add to the argument, but he held curiously back.
Bobby glanced at his brother, then back at her with a slight flush. “No, but thank you for the offer. It’s Friday night and I have plans. I’ll be back next week with a truckload of mulch, that is, if my brother doesn’t bring it. Now, why do I suspect he will?” There was a gentle tease in his eyes. Michael looked at his boots.
After he left Charlotte carried a tray of chilled glasses of white wine and a bowl of fresh strawberries that she’d purchased at the market especially for tonight. Beyond them the sky was shooting out spears of magenta, purple and pink that rivaled the colors in her new garden.
And such a garden Michael had given her. She was overcome with love for him just to see it. The scrubby lot had been transformed into a charming, informal garden that had the exuberance of spirit that comes from a mixture of flowers and herbs against a backbone of select trees and shrubs. Earlier, Michael had taken her hand and walked the gentle sloping hills now dazzling with the extravagant colors of verbena. She was delighted with his asymmetrical approach, curves blending one into another. It softened the harsh lines of the landscape, flattering the house, creating an oasis in which to relax.
On the patio he’d placed several immense terra-cotta pots for Melanie’s herbs. Occasionally a breeze brought the scent of rosemary or lavender, and the heady fragrance of Bobby’s rose.
“You’ve done too much,” she said, gazing at the last views of her garden in the fading light. “Do you always go overboard?”
“Only where it concerns you,” he replied. “I intend to spoil you terribly so you’ll be unfit for any other man.”
“You’ve already succeeded. You can rest on your laurels.”
“Hmm. I still have to plant a laurel bush.”
“Stop, you’ve done too much already. They’ll say I’m a kept woman and Mrs. Delaney will raise the rent.”
He shrugged insolently and swirled his wine. “Tell her they’re mostly annuals. If you leave, it will all revert to nasty weeds with long, stubborn roots in all that expensive soil I just put in. She should reduce your rent for improving the property.”
“I don’t care about any of that. I’m just so happy.”
“I am, too,” he replied, surprised to realize that for the first time in many years, it was true.
Part Three
Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.
—John Donne
Eleven
So this is love, Charlotte mused. For one glorious summer Charlotte lived and breathed Michael Mondragon. His name was on the tip of her tongue while the sun was up, and filling her dreams when the sun was down. Her skin glowed with a rosy color, partly from joy and partly from the long hours she was spending outdoors in her garden. She liked to run her hands through the rich, black soil, relishing its coolness, thinking of the way she combed her hand through Michael’s thick black hair when they made love. It seemed all of her senses were awakened and alive. The air smelled sweeter, the birds sang more clearly, the nerves of her fingertips were sensitive to hot and cold, smooth and rough.
Most of all, the woman that she saw in the mirror was no longer an impostor. Especially after lovemaking, after Michael had caressed every inch of her body and turned her feelings inside out. At those times, flushed with satisfaction, when she looked in the mirror she actually liked the face she saw smiling there.
It was the face that Michael loved.
Michael came to see her every day. They’d trowel together in the garden a bit, perhaps she’d toss in some peat moss, or he’d add a plant or two. Then she’d cook him dinner and he’d stay until late in the night. He was an insatiable lover and an incurable romantic. She discovered a sweetness and kindness that he hid behind his usual stern expressions and silent demeanor. Or perhaps it was a side that he chose to reveal to only a few people. She wondered this while watching him chop vegetables into professionally small pieces and talking animatedly. She giggled thinking that her stoic Michael could talk up a storm when alone with her after a heady bout of lovemaking. He had many sides to his personality. He was like the soil—dark, mysterious, sensual, grounded. The thought of planting roots in him appealed to her. Her love for him was everything. She couldn’t imagine a future without him. She never thought she could feel so connected to another human being.
Which was why lying to him had become such a burden. The more he opened up to her, the more she found it necessary to close doors. At night, after they’d made love, Michael liked to draw her up to his shoulders. He’d punch the pillows behind his head, then hold her tightly in his arms, sometimes lightly stroking her hair, sometimes tracing patterns on her arm, while he talked about his family, his philosophies, his ideas. It was then, when she should have felt closest to him, that she felt the wedge of lies slip between them.
He told of the time his father, Luis, swam across the river into the United States one dark, starless night. Thigh-deep in water he’d met a pregnant woman struggling to cross with her three-year-old child. Luis carried the child on his shoulders as he swam the heavy current, then, after settling the child on the shore, he’d returned to help the woman reach safety.
He told of how every Saturday night, until puberty when he staunchly refused, his mother had treated his dark skin with a mixture of egg white and lemon juice concentrate as a remedy to lighten his dark skin. It was Marta’s lifelong
sadness, Michael said with a sad smile, that the potion never worked for him.
Lying on his dark chest, she loved to hear his laugh rumble beneath her ear as he spoke of his fiery sister, Rosa, a tomboy who refused to wear a dress, learn to cook or take dancing lessons like all the other girls. She was a home-run hitter on her softball team, liked strong coffee and Cuban cigars, was a whiz at math and science, and was stronger than most men he knew. Yet as a woman, she had fought with their parents to send her to college. College was unthinkable for a girl whose main job in life was to raise a family. A waste of money. So Rosa got married to Manuel quickly after high school and ran the business with their father. When Charlotte asked about Bobby, however, Michael was strangely silent.
He had so many stories to tell about his family, his boyhood, his years away at college. He had opinions about everything: pollution, politics, religion, even the way she wore her hair. In turn, Charlotte ventured her own opinions about these subjects, flattered that he was a rapt audience. She prided herself on her intelligence. For most of her life, it was the one attribute she could hold out to the world without shyness or fear of being mocked. Now, when her brains tended to be overshadowed by her beauty, she was all the more appreciative to share ideas with Michael. They loved to debate loudly, heatedly, over anything at all, usually ending their contest in a tangled, passionate pile on the bed.
When he asked about her childhood, however, she answered obliquely, shrugging away a lifetime with “Oh, there’s not much to tell.”
One night she came very close to telling him the truth. That the face he loved had been created by man, not God. That she was estranged from her mother, that her childhood had been hard and downtrodden. What did he call the story? The Ugly Duckling Who Turned into the Swan? Yes, she wanted to say to him. That was her story!
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