“Estas son manzanas rojas, como mi appellido,” he replied animatedly, pointing to the apples and then back to himself.
“Claro, of course,” I replied. I turned to Julian, “You’re not going to believe this, so maybe I won’t tell you for a while. Anyhow, can we escort José to his new home? I have a few sandwiches left, so we can have a little ‘welcome to Gibsonville’ meal once we get there.”
Julian looked over at our new neighbor as he spoke to me, a smile of appreciation on his face. “That sounds like the least we can do after the way Short Dick treated him today.”
Julian wasn’t as guarded as he used to be. I could tell he was checking out the new man. My gay-dar perceived that the youthful—but not too young—José was aware of, and enjoying, his perusal/inspection. The feeling appeared to be mutual. I caught him giving Julian the once over—twice—checking him out when he thought no one was looking.
“Andalé, vamos a ir a su casa, José,” I called. He hopped up into his wagon, smiling broadly, and waited for us to get into ours. “I think we should lead, Julian. I suspect we know the way better than he does.”
Julian took the reins, turned to José, and lifted his chin in salutation, “Andalé, amigo, andalé.”
We led the way with José’s colorful wagon and menagerie bringing up the rear. We made it in an hour and a half, with only one potty stop for me, to where the deed indicated the property was located. At that point, José pulled up beside us, and waved for us to follow him.
We trailed behind him, the wagons barely able to negotiate the narrow path that followed the creek. We managed to make it to a small clearing just before it got impassable. José jumped down from his wagon, ran ahead of us, and pulled on what looked like a bush. It was actually brush attached to a swinging gate, plenty wide for a wagon to enter.
Then we saw it. Down the shaded road, not even a hundred yards away, someone had built a little paradise amidst the grove of tall, dense oaks—a Spanish-style home with stuccoed walls, arched doorways and windows, and a luxurious broad porch with pink-blossomed bushes spilling over the dark wood trim.
We followed his wagon down the broad lane and stopped in front of the sweet smelling veranda. José hopped off his wagon seat and ran over to help me down. “Con su permiso,” he said, his hand held out for mine.
“Gracias,” I replied, and let him help me to the ground. He scurried over to the door of the manse and pushed it open for us. Julian followed behind me with our little picnic basket.
The surprisingly cool room had a breathtaking centerpiece–a massive, dark wood table, its edges and legs ornately carved, its top accented with an embroidered, lacy table runner. Beside it, a matching china cabinet with floral etched-glass doors showcased brightly painted dishes—the red apple and floral design similar to the wagon’s—and elegant cut-crystal glassware. Beautiful—could they be Persian?—rugs carpeted the floor. Dark, ornate picture frames held bright oil portraits of men and women with Andalusian horses, the apparent family pictures softening the brightness of the white walls.
I was stunned by possibly the most beautiful room I had ever seen—I knew it certainly was for the short span of my current memory. “Wow,” was all I could say. It was stunning—a classy parlor and dining room that didn’t need to be large to be impressive.
José opened a drawer in the china cabinet, grabbed a tea towel embroidered with the familial apples and apple blossoms design, and used it to dust off the table and a chair for me. He then did the same to the chair for Julian, smiling sweetly as he looked up. When he realized he was looking at him just a little too long, he got busy, did a bit more dusting, and took a pitcher from the hutch. He said, “Momentito, por favor,” and headed out the door, wearing a smile that didn’t stop at his face, but continued all the way down to the spring in his step.
“Julian, I think he likes you,” I whispered across the table.
“Hmph” Julian replied.
“Oh, like that is it? You sound just like a Scot when you do that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied in his formal, British aristocratic tone.
“Uh-huh. Is that ‘don’t be ridiculous’ about sounding like a Scot or about José liking you?” I couldn’t help but smile from eyebrows to toes. “Someone’s got a crush on you,” I sang.
“Eev-vie,” he said. His stern admonition—stretching out my name in an unnaturally low baritone range—was cut short by the reappearance of our new host.
José had filled the pitcher with water and brought it and a bottle of wine to the table. He set them down and took three glasses from the hutch.
“¿Platas, tambien?” I asked as I put the small package of sandwiches on the table.
“Sí, sí,” he replied and handed me three small dishes. I unwrapped the sandwiches and placed one on each plate, then set the table, making sure I was opposite them, the men’s settings next to each other on one side.
José filled the glasses with the dark red wine and we all sat down. He lifted his crystal chalice and toasted us, “¡Salud! Gracias por todo lo que has hecho, mis amigos.”
Julian and I replied, “¡Salud!” and sipped. Well, I sipped the dark, sweet brew, and Julian gulped it.
Julian raised his half-full cup again and said boldly, “Prost!”
I had no idea what that meant, but tipped my glass just the same, wetting my lips, enjoying the sweet nectar without swallowing more than a taste.
José refilled their chalices several times. They were drinking heartily, but I continued with my sipping. After the first glassful, I decided to substitute water for the wine. I took the initiative, hoping I wasn’t insulting our host, and refilled my own glass from the water pitcher while they chatted. Women of this era drank while pregnant, but I knew its dangers.
I also knew I had to keep my calorie intake up. I didn’t know what the protocol for social drinking and dining was in Britain or Spain, but I was hungry. I daintily picked up my sandwich and did my best not to wolf it down. I restrained myself by taking a small bite, putting it down, and looking around the room as I chewed.
I finished my little one course meal and watched the two men as they tried to communicate. It sounded as if the more Julian drank, the better his Spanish became. I also noticed that José would try to communicate a word or phrase to him, then put his hand on top of Julian’s as he tried to get the message across. I’m not sure what he was trying to say, but when I saw Julian look down at José’s hand and smile, I knew that his message was coming through loud and clear.
I waited until there was a pause in the bilingual conversation to ask, “Julian, do you think José would mind if we stayed here tonight? I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink and, well, I would really like to lie down if there’s room.”
I really hadn’t had very much to drink, and certainly wasn’t incapacitated, but I was tired. I also knew this initial connection, or bonding, would be hard to recapture on a future visit. They were on a roll, and I didn’t want to stop or slow down the momentum.
Julian said something to our host, then put his hand on top of José’s shoulder for to make sure he understood. He left it there just a tad too long, but José looked over at him and smiled. The two of them arose and came over to me. José put out his arm and asked me to accompany him. He led me to a very nice bedroom off the main room. It was complete with fluffy feather bed, ewer and basin, and a chamber pot. Julian looked over the room and then left quickly. He returned just as fast with the pitcher of water that José had brought in to the dining room table. He set it next to the bowl, swapping it for the empty ewer, and asked with a wine-induced glowing smile, “Is there anything else you require, ma’am?”
“I seem to have everything I need for the evening. Don’t forget to take care of the animals.”
“Oh, I can’t believe we did that! José, ¡los caballos y cabras!”
“¡Aye, carumba!” José rushed out to untie, feed, and water the horses and goats.
Yup, the two
men had eyes for each other only. When a man forgets about his livestock, he is definitely smitten.
I reached out to Julian before he left. “I need a hug,” I said, my bottom lip pooched out like a pouting three-year-old.
He gave me a big hug and long squeeze. “Do you really think I can’t see through your ‘I’ve had too much to drink’ ruse? I don’t know about you, Evie,” he said as he rocked me back and forth like a child. “You have an old soul for such a young body.”
He stopped rocking and set his hands on my shoulders, making sure I could stand by myself. “Good night and sleep well, you rascal,” he said and kissed my forehead. I turned around, and he gave me a pat on the bottom. Oh, boy, he was sure wound up! Good wine and good company were working for him tonight. I was glad someone was going to get lucky.
I washed up as best I could with the cold water. Something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Then I got an idea.
I went into the main room and listened for the men. They were walking back from the barn, laughing, but still keeping a gentlemanly distance from each other.
I came out onto the porch. “Julian,” I called out, “I think maybe José can help you tonight with your back.” I looked right into Julian’s eyes as I was talking and hoped he could see the ‘just trust me on this’ look I was giving him.
It must have worked because Julian replied, “Why don’t you tell José what is needed, and see if he wants to be of assistance.” He paused, then looked away from both José and me. I wished I could have seen the look on his face. I wanted to know if he was laughing, scared, mad, or disgusted. I couldn’t see, but I was sure it was at least one of the four reactions.
I took a deep breath and started, “La espalda de Julio es dolor. Oh shoot, how do you say rub or massage?” I started making the movement of rubbing. “Julian, come here, please.”
Julian came to me obediently, his bottom lip sucked in to try and keep his mask of detachment in place. I spun him around and used his back to demonstrate upper to lower back massage. “Es mejor con aceite.”
José heard this and rushed into the house. Julian was confused, his mouth now hanging slack, his whole body wavering slightly from the wine and the uncertainty.
“Well, Julian, I’m off to bed—now that I’ve left you in good hands. And don’t forget to take off your shirt…at least. I don’t want you to get oil on your clothes.”
“Oil?” he asked. “What’s this about oil?”
“Oh, it just makes the massage more effective. It’s also lots of fun to play slip and slide if you decide to get carried away—and I hope you do. I really like José, and I think he likes you, too.”
José came out on the porch with a bottle of what I assumed was oil. Julian bent his head and brushed invisible lint off his jacket. I watched as his face did a perfect transition from an embarrassed blush to a glow of anticipation. He looked up and put his hand on my shoulder, pulled me to him and gave me a one-armed hug, and then placed a long, hard kiss on my forehead. “Goodnight, my dear Evie. Don’t wait up for us. Sweet dreams.”
I half walked, half waddled up the steps of the porch, pausing when I encountered José, “Buenas noches,” I said with a polite and gracious smile to our host, “Hasta mañana.”
Back in my room for the night, I shut the door, finally able to release the huge grin I had been holding in check. I started to sing softly, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.” I rubbed my twice-kissed-in-one-hour-spot on my forehead. The world was spinning in the right direction today. I lay down on the fluffy feather bed and sighed deeply. The last thing I remembered was my head sinking into the pillow.
**31 A Partnership Evolves
I awoke the next morning content and happier with life than I had been in a month, maybe two. The dappled sunlight slipping through the leaves outside the honest-to-goodness glass window painted ever-changing patterns on the walls of my borrowed sleeping chamber, almost hypnotic in its movement. A rooster singing his ‘get out of bed, sleepy head’ song broke me out of my peaceful trance. I smoothed out the clothes I had slept in—still the only ones I had—ran my fingers through my hair, and drank about a half-gallon of water. Where there was a rooster, there were usually hens—and what hens produced. It was time to hunt eggs for breakfast!
I tiptoed through the main room so I wouldn’t rouse anyone. I didn’t see them, so they were still be in one—possibly, but unlikely, two—of the other rooms. I opened up the hutch and took out a big china bowl. It was a high dollar egg basket to be sure, but I didn’t know my way around this place, and I didn’t want to make a lot of noise looking for the right container.
I made my way down the porch steps toward the barn, the fancy bowl tucked under one arm. I grasped a fistful of my skirt with my other hand to facilitate my seek-and-find stance, and began the hunt. Large brown-feathered chickens were pecking the ground right in front of the barn doors, gleaning bugs or seeds from the spilled straw. Hopefully there was a coop where they had their nests. I didn’t want to have to go traipsing through the brush to gather eggs. It was hard enough to reach down without having to try and see over my big belly at the same time. I already had to pick up low-lying objects by approaching them from the side.
I cracked open the barn door to investigate and—voila!—cute little boxes with hens setting on straw nests. It was time to reach under and rob a few components for our breakfast omelets.
As I walked through the door, I heard rustling noises. I froze. I didn’t know what critter was moving around, and I didn’t want it to find me first if it was un-penned, big, and ornery, like a bull. A moment later, I was able to discern the sounds. People—someone was making happy people noises. I grabbed half a dozen eggs and sneaked out as quickly as possible.
It seemed the men had stayed overnight in the barn. If they wanted to talk about it, I’d let them. But if they wanted me to believe that they had been in separate quarters—well, I wasn’t going to embarrass the two of them. Of course, I’d have fun making Julian squirm and blush later, when we were alone.
As I walked into the kitchen, I noticed braids of onions, chilies, and garlic hanging from the rafters. I twisted off an onion for the omelet and walked in, making as much noise as I wanted. I found a crock of what appeared to be lard in the kitchen, a large bin of flour, and a small painted ceramic jar of what I hoped was salt. I dipped my finger in it, tasted the white grit, and found out that my guess was right.
Now it was time to stoke the stove for breakfast. I was going to make fresh tortillas and put together egg and onion burritos. I was just finishing up the last of the tortillas when a sheepish-looking José came in.
“Buenas días, señora,” he said, nodding to me. He went to the cupboard, pulled out a coffee pot, and took it outside to the well. When he came back in, he snatched half an eggshell from my little compost pile, and dumped it and a tin cupful of ground coffee into the pot. He carefully moved around me and set it on the back of the stove. He smiled and said, “¿Café?”
“Yes, thank you. It should go well with the egg burritos.” I knew I could make better conversation in my pidgin Spanish, but he might as well learn English with the immersion method. I wasn’t going to use Spanish unless absolutely necessary. He’d catch on faster this way, for sure.
I turned around to see if I could find some cheese, and walked right into Julian. He grabbed both my shoulders to steady me, and then looked me right in the eyes with a ‘don’t mess with me’ glare. “Good morning, Evie. It looks as if you’ve become the lady of the house once again. Something smells good.” He gave me a fatherly hug, then pulled away and asked, “May I help by setting the table?”
“That would be great. I think everything is in the hutch.”
I went back to the small, dark pantry off of the kitchen and found neat rows of fresh red tomatoes! “I’ll be just two more minutes. I think I found something else for us.”
I gently squeezed a couple of tomatoes until I found one that wa
s perfect, not too firm. I chopped it up, along with a small onion, added crushed cilantro, and a double pinch of salt. Voilà—two-minute salsa.
We had a nice, but boring, breakfast. It was good food all right, but the men were quiet—uncomfortably quiet. I saw them steal quick glances at each other under their long lashes. Why, oh why, did men always get the long eyelashes? Anyway, the mood was too glum for me. I wanted to steer this breakfast social to where I wanted it to go.
“Ahem. Hey, guys, I need a few questions answered before we leave. José, is there anyone around to help you with the ranch?” I was already using the English immersion program on him.
He gave me a blank stare and I gave in a little, “¿Quien ayudas te?” I was pretty weak in my grammar, but did know that “quien” was who, and “ayuda” was help.
Julian broke in. “José doesn’t have anyone here to help him. His mother and brother lived here until they took ill. The one hired hand they had, Robert, was the one who sent the urgent message to Spain for José to come to America and help take care of the family and the ranch. Robert stayed here and did all he could. Two months ago, mama died. Brother passed two days later. All Robert knew was that they had chills, then very high fevers. He remained here by himself, taking care of everything as best he could. When he heard that a man with two magnificent gray horses had arrived in town, he came out to greet his deceased mistress’s son. Robert introduced himself to José, received his wages, and then the trouble started. Robert had planned to come back to help José with the ranch and new animals, but when the threats, pushing, and shoving started, he panicked and left.
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