by Ruth Wind
A knock sounded at the front door, and, jolted from the sensual suspension, Sarah cried, "Just a minute!" She tugged a camisole on, then the dress, and rushed into the other room.
When she flung open the door to find Eli standing there, she felt disoriented, as if her dream had called him. Her mind flashed a vision of him standing naked before her—
She smoothed her hair. "I'm sorry – I wasn't quite ready. Come on in." She backed away from the door in her bare feet, trying without success to calm the flutter of her hands, flapping at her sides like wings.
He came inside, letting the screen close gently behind him. He wore a simple white cotton shirt with a collar, the long sleeves rolled to the elbow. Under his arm he carried a newspaper.
Sarah halted, stung by the look of him, and the message of her dream. She wanted to touch him, to make a bridge over the gulf of things they couldn't say, and run across it into his arms. She wanted to kiss his mouth and taste his neck, and feel his naked body pressed into her own. The wish was so unreasonably insistent that it took long moments for the expression on his face to register.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "Where's Teresa?"
"I haven't picked her up yet. I wanted to see you alone for a moment." He bent his head, took the newspaper from beneath his arm and, after a second of hesitation, held it out to her. "Page four," he said.
Frightened by his manner, Sarah moved forward to take it. His hand touched hers, as if offering comfort, and she shivered, the dream hazing her senses. She turned away and opened the paper.
"Oh, no," she breathed. "Will they ever let this die?"
There on page four was a quarter-page photo, a crisp, clear black and white of Sarah and Eli dancing at the restaurant. It wasn't clear that they were dancing, however, so it looked as if they were embracing, and on the verge of a kiss. The tag line enigmatically read, "Will the feud be healed by our own Romeo and Juliet?"
That was all. No explanation. None was needed for insiders – and the only people who would care would be furious. She looked up, stricken. "Our parents…"
He closed his eyes briefly. "I know. I don't even want to go out in the street today."
The phone rang – stridently, it seemed to Sarah. She looked at it urgently, then back at Eli.
"Don't answer."
She stared at him, torn, but in the end, she let the phone go on ringing until it finally quit. Before it could ring again, she rushed over and took the receiver off the hook. "How will we explain this to my father? To your mother?"
He had not moved from the door, and he only shook his head. "There is no way. It will just have to be borne, let die." With a sudden curse, he stormed across the room, folding his arms as he stared at the landscape. "How many generations will it take, do you think? How many more children will have to endure this curse?" He turned to look at her, a burning in his eyes. "How many more will have to lose everything, as we did, Sarah?"
"I don't know." She sank onto the stool by the counter and put a shaky hand to her temple, thinking of her father. He would be apoplectic by now. Her mother would be angry with her.
It roused all the old feelings – the guilt and the insecurity and the fear, and along with it, a sense of stubborn rebellion. But all she could do was utter a soft swearword.
Then Eli was standing beside her, and his hand lit on her bare arm, his fingers curling gently around in a gesture of strength, as if to give her courage. "You and I have paid enough, I think. More than enough."
"I can't bear to have it all start again," she said, and lifted her head. "Maybe I should just pack my bags and get back to work. That would stop the rumors fast enough. Give you some peace." Unnerved by his nearness, she stood up and moved away.
But he didn't leave her alone this time. He came behind her, not touching her, but his body warmed her back, her buttocks, her legs. "Don't run, Sarah. Not this time."
She whirled, her anger finding a clear target. "I didn't run the first time. I was hauled away and hidden in a dreary, bleak home for unwed mothers. It was like something out of a gothic movie, and they kept me there without communication with anyone I knew or loved for nearly seven months. And then they took her away, and expected me to just come home without a whimper, as I'd always done." She stared up at him. "I waited and waited for you to come for me."
He jerked back, as if an electrical shock had gone through him. "Don't you think I tried?"
"You know, that's what I always used to think, that you probably had looked and just weren't able to find me." She narrowed her eyes. "But now I think you were probably so furious by the time you got out of jail that you didn't even bother."
He opened his mouth, closed it again, and with stiff dignity backed toward the door. "I'll tell Teresa this is a bad day for this. We'll finish the rest later."
A lump in her throat made it impossible to speak. "Then It's true, isn't it, Eli? You didn't even look."
He bowed his head. Nodded.
Sarah bit her lip to keep from calling him back as he left. "I'll call you," she said.
"I'll be waiting."
* * *
With an acid burn in his gut, Eli left the house. There was a roar in his ears, and sorrow in his chest, and a pain of yearning in his groin that he'd almost grown used to now. When he reached the gate he hesitated, feeling somehow that this was all wrong, that they were still responding to old patterns. He was reacting from shame and anger. She was responding to betrayals.
Vast betrayals. And he'd just dealt another. The shame of it burned in his chest, and he stopped at the gate.
What did he want? Apart from family or work or obligations of any kind, what did he want?
To kiss her. Touch her. Explore what had been and what still was.
"Eli, wait."
He turned to see her coming off the step, her hair loose on her shoulders, the thin cotton of her dress swirling around her legs. Her big gray eyes looked haunted and sorrowful.
"Sarah…" he began.
"Wait a minute." She halted before him, and he saw her mouth working before she finally shook her head, as if to clear it. "I'm sorry. I overreacted."
"Overreacted?" he echoed. "No, you didn't. It's a wonder you haven't murdered us all, Sarah." He raised his eyes. "I am ashamed that I didn't look for you."
She shook her head. "Let's not go over all that, okay? What we're doing with Teresa is at least a step in the direction of healing. Let's go on with it."
He said nothing for a moment, searching her face for the desire that had been there when he first came into her rooms. It was submerged now under her masks. He wondered what it would take to bring it to the surface again. "That dress is almost as bad as your robe," he said, without thinking.
A puzzled frown crossed her brow, and she looked down, smoothing her palms over her thighs. "What's wrong with it?"
A lot was wrong. The way the slim straps seemed too loose and threatened to fall down her shoulders. The way the thin yellow fabric both hid and illuminated the underswell of her left breast, the bend of her waist; the way light reflecting up from the ground showed the inner line of her thighs.
He had been quiet too long, and she raised her face to seek her answer, knowledge dawning on her cheeks.
A tight fist of need drew up in his belly as he stood frozen, wanting to press his mouth to every golden freckle on her breasts, all the way into the hollow between, wanted to stroke that inner thigh, kiss drunkenly those parting lips. "I'm sorry, Sarita," he said roughly, and brushed a finger over her cheek.
She took a breath, and he saw that there was a faint sheen of tears in her eyes. "If you make me cry, I will never forgive you," she said.
With iron will he forced himself to step back. He put his hand on the latch, cold and rusted under his palm, an anchor to sensibility. "I'll be back with Teresa in a little while."
"Maybe," she said, "you should come a little later. Give me some time to go talk to my parents. Maybe you should talk to your mother, too."
"You do what you have to." He grinned ruefully. "You only have your parents. I have all my siblings, uncles, aunts, everyone. Maybe I'm the one who should go to work in New York. Get me a camera."
A smile touched her mouth.
When he had the gate firmly closed between them, he said, "Maybe we should talk a little, Sarah. Not everything. Just—" He didn't know what he meant. "Clear the air a little."
Fear blossomed wild in her eyes and she clasped her hands so tightly together he could see white on the knuckles, but she gave him a single, jerky nod. "Maybe."
* * *
There was no point to avoiding the inevitable. Sarah braced herself with a good strong cup of coffee, then walked to her parents' house.
But to her amazement, there was no one there. The car was gone, so they weren't out for a walk. She let herself into the house and peeked into her father's room: the bed was neatly made, with the cat curled in a ball on the pillow.
Odd. Sarah went to the kitchen to see if there was a note from her mother. There was not.
A terrible fear touched her – maybe there had been an emergency. Maybe the phone call she had ignored this morning had been from her mother. Urgently, she called the hospital, but the woman who answered the phone assured her Garth had not been in. They hadn't seen him in several weeks.
Puzzled, Sarah stepped out on the porch. The neighbor, an elderly woman with a black-and-silver cap of hair, was bent over her flowers. "Mrs. Hernandez," Sarah said, "did you see my parents this morning?"
"I saw them get in the car about an hour ago, but they just waved, happy." She shrugged. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"I guess not."
Sarah went back in and scribbled a note of her own. "I was here and you weren't – see you at dinner."
Back at her cottage, she hoped to find a note taped to her door, or some other indication of where her parents might have gone, but there was nothing. She found herself pacing the long living room, back and forth, like a caged tiger, restless and anxious.
Blips of memory flashed in her mind, dredged up by the strange events of the morning. She remembered the night Eli had been arrested, remembered praying there would be no mistakes, that they would not shoot him there in the street. Blip. Her father's roaring when he discovered – the first time – that Sarah had been sneaking out to meet a boy from the Santiago family. Blip. Her mother, weeping and red eyed, but silent as Sarah was loaded, numbly, into her father's car and driven three hundred miles to the unwed mother's home.
She blinked at the regular flashes of memory, regular as a metronome. Memories she had not allowed to surface in many, many years. Memories she'd buried so carefully she'd thought they would never be unearthed.
Desperate to stop them and the dangerous flood of emotion they carried with them, she grabbed a camera and went out to the garden, trying to find calm in the single frame. But as she bent over a white cosmo, she saw the delicate petals against Eli's face, his mouth, and a sword went through her heart.
She put the camera down and sat on the step. Thought you were so grown up, didn't you? said the nasty little voice in her head. You're really in control now, aren't you?
"Oh, shut up," she said aloud. She considered going out to the plaza to shoot pictures of tourists, just for the heck of it, but she was afraid she might run into someone on the way. Someone who would have seen the picture. One of her father's policeman friends, maybe, or her mother's bridge partners, or any one of the Santiagos who still hated her.
Stuck now, aren't you?
No question about it. And it was a reprise of the old melody – she was stuck between her wish to please her parents and her wish to make her own decisions.
At last she heard Eli and Teresa on the hill, coming down to the cottage, and she jumped up with relief, until a nasty thought occurred to her: what if her parents came by and found Eli here?
No.
"I have an idea," she said as they entered the courtyard.
"Teresa, I'm going to teach you a little about the way the camera works. The Hacienda has some interesting light and angles, especially this time of day. What do you think?" It was something she'd been meaning to do, anyway.
"Kill two birds with one stone?" Elias asked, lifting a brow.
She tried to think of a cliché to go with it, and was too flustered. She simply gave him a rueful smile. "Yes."
"Sounds good to me." He lifted a wicker basket. "I even brought a picnic."
"Oh!" Sarah was absurdly pleased. "Well, let me get my bags, then, and we'll go."
"Sure you want to venture into the world?" Sarah lifted her chin defiantly. "Hey, I'm a famous photographer, remember? What are they going to do to me?"
He smiled, giving light to his dark eyes. "And I am a wealthy, successful entrepreneur." He held out his arm gallantly. "What can they do to me?"
Sarah's heart lifted. This Eli she knew. "Who would have believed we'd come so far?"
Teresa looked from one to the other. "What in the world are you two talking about?"
"It's an old story, hija. I'll tell you when you're older."
"Whatever." Her tone said adults were beyond comprehension.
Eli put the basket into the back of the truck. "It's going to be crowded, but it's not far."
"I'm skinny," Teresa said, "but I'm claustrophobic. Can I have the window?"
Sarah grinned. "Shameless greed." she said, and climbed in. To her dismay, the truck was a standard shift. Demurely she put her knees to one side and tugged her skirt down over them, but Eli gave her a wicked grin as he put his hand on the stick shift. No matter how far she moved, it wouldn't be quite far enough to avoid the brush of his arm against hers, or the teasing brush of his fingers below her skirt. "Sorry," he said.
She gave him a look, and he chuckled.
And in that instant she was aware of several things. A lot had changed between them over the past few days, especially this morning, and it gave her a vast sense of relief to discover they could play verbally like this.
The second recognition was that she was as giddy and breathless as a girl on her first date. She was thrilled to be sitting next to him in his truck, going on a picnic.
And for once, the knowledge gave her no sense of alarm. She simply let the happiness and anticipation exist in this moment, attached to nothing. Only now.
She voiced the third thing aloud. "I feel wonderfully wicked."
He laughed. "You know what? Me, too."
"What's wicked?" Teresa asked.
Eli and Sarah exchanged a glance. "Never mind," Sarah said.
"Hey, did Eli show you the new tea boxes?" Teresa said. "Is there still a picture in here, Eli?"
"There is a color copy in the glove box."
"Is this what you've been working on?" Sarah said, taking the sheet Teresa gave her just as Eli pulled in to the parking lot of the Martinez Hacienda. He parked under a tree, and Teresa exploded out.
Sarah moved more slowly, looking at the color copy of the new art. A bright border with a southwestern geometric pattern banded the sides, and a stylized botanical garden graced the top. This one looked like chamomile.
Her marketing eye picked it apart, and it was with genuine pleasure she said, "Eli, I love this!"
"The borders will be the same on all the various mixes, just done in different color combinations. Each box will be printed in a color to coordinate with the botanical drawing – this one is yellow and white to go with the chamomile flower. This oval will be on the front of every box." He pointed to a stylized drawing of Taos Mountain, with fields of herbs spreading down from a wealthy-looking adobe hacienda. Santiago Herb Teas, Taos, New Mexico was printed in a circle around it. "I'm really pleased," he added. "I didn't even really know what I wanted, but Jenny managed to figure it out."
"It's gorgeous. I hope you've given her a giant bonus." Eli smiled and plucked the sheet from her hand. "We'll see first if it brings us the market share we want."
Teresa popped back at the door. "Ar
e you guys coming?"
"So impatient!" Sarah said, but slid out.
They paid their admission to the old hacienda, and wandered into the first courtyard. Sarah spent a few moments showing Teresa how to operate the camera, then gave it to her. "I want you to spend one roll shooting anything you like, anything that catches your eye," she said. "People, shadows, rocks. Whatever. Just look through the lens and don't be afraid to take a picture that might seem strange."
Teresa showed the first hesitation she had displayed. "Anything?"
"Yes." Sarah tucked the strap around her neck. "Play. That's all. Just have fun."
"But what if I waste it?"
Sarah chuckled. "It's only film. There is much more where that came from."
Teresa shrugged. "If you say so." She moved slowly away from them, her dark head gleaming in the noonday sun. Sarah could see the girl felt uncomfortable at first, but she quickly forgot about them.
"I remember," Eli said conversationally, walking beside her through the courtyard, "when you saved all your babysitting money for film. Took you a week to get enough for one of those little packs, and you'd shoot the whole thing in two hours on a yucca."
Sarah grinned. "I learned a lot from yuccas."
"Yeah?" He gestured to a bench in the shade and they sat down. "Like what?"
"How to get clean, sharp focus. Those little curls on a yucca leaf are so small it took a very steady hand to get it right. Depth of field, too. That was hard." She pursed her lips, remembering the stillness of desert evenings and a stand of yucca. "They still appeal to me. I like the way they're shaped."
"Me, too," he said. "It was yuccas that made me start thinking of the teas. You remember my grandmother? That shampoo she makes from yucca root?"
"Yes."
"Well, I was out at the grocery store one day, and there were these two old guys in the tea aisle, laughing about the herb teas. They were joking about the teas they would make from all the weeds in town. Weed tea. They thought it was so hilarious."
Sarah turned to watch his face. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, remembering. "I went home and saw all that land that was good for nothing but weeds. Too dry for most crops. No grass for cows. Only sheep and goats like it. And the yuccas and the sage." He grinned. "So I was thinking of the yucca shampoo, and thinking of asking my grandmother how to make it, how maybe we could put it in bottles to sell. And there were two women in her house, getting her summer tea. She had all those specialty teas, you know, for summer, winter, spring. Teas for a cold and for heartache, and—" He lifted a shoulder. "Everything."
