by Alana Lorens
Still in disbelief, she laughed. “You. A farmer. For real?”
Quite solemn, he nodded. “Got three-quarters of the way through Florida A&M, working on a degree in agronomy. Would have made it, too, except my…my old man drank up all the money I’d hidden in the bank for school.” He bit his lip, trapping whatever pejorative term he’d been about to call his father. “I always meant to go back, but once I started playing guitar seriously, I never made it.”
He continued to stare at the flowers, lost now in some memory of the past, one that obviously hurt him. She changed the subject, wanting to lighten the mood again. “I like this one,” she said, pointing to a bright pink flower identified as oleander.
“I’d make a different choice. That one’s poison.”
She yanked her hand back. “Oh, my gosh!”
He laughed. “Here. Now if this was my greenhouse, I’d give you…” He studied her a minute. “A string of white dendrobium, like little butterflies. You could pin them in your hair, right here.” He reached over to tap her head gently, then his hand slid down her hair to her neck, while he looked into her eyes.
She felt such a connection that almost without conscious thought she moved a little closer. His hand drew her in, till they stood inches apart, gaze still locked. Her lips parted, as if she intended to speak. Nothing came out. Before she knew it, he’d stepped in to kiss her. Right then she knew they wouldn’t leave each other till the morning.
He seemed to feel the same way, because after they left the greenhouse at the estate, they went down to the Grove Arcade, looking in shop windows, then out to the botanical gardens, all the time holding hands and talking. If she could have predicted what a “soulmate” might be for her, someone who seemed to share so many common qualities, right down to their favorite peanut butter cup ice cream, she’d have chosen someone like Arran. A man who took no effort to be with. Someone she could really be herself with. No matter what she was wearing, or how her hair looked, or how much she earned.
It was time.
When they reached the end of the path at the rose garden, she whispered, close to his ear, “Why don’t you come home with me?”
He drew back, his eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? You’ve just met me.”
Another surprise. She’d always believed men were hardwired to say yes any time they were propositioned. Arran was indeed out of the ordinary.
“I’m sure,” she said. “I’ve even got a couple of Danish in the refrigerator for breakfast. And coffee.”
“Breakfast, hm?” He studied her a long moment. “Leyla, I don’t want you to think that because I sing in a band means I just use women. I’d never take advantage of you.”
Now, that could be one hell of a line. Maybe it was. But his eyes were so sincere. She didn’t want to frighten him off, not now. That kiss had promised much more. “Guess I don’t usually stalk guitarists and throw myself at them, either. Does that make us even?”
He actually blushed. “Hey, I’m the one who asked you to lunch.” He held out his right hand. “Let’s call it a draw.”
She took his hand and shook it. “Deal.”
He let go and slipped an arm around her waist, his hold on her possessive. She did the same. “Which way to your place?”
****
In the morning, the sun was high when she woke up to find him gone.
A magnet held a scribbled note to the refrigerator.
What a great night! You’re amazing. I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so beautiful sleeping there. Got a call I’ve got to answer—we’ll get together soon.
He signed with an oversized A.
Her disappointment that he’d left her faded as she focused on his words. You’re amazing…beautiful. She tucked them away inside, treasured morsels of warmth, like soft chocolate kisses to savor in the weeks to come.
She made half a pot of hazelnut coffee from the free trade shop, taking in the wonderful smell as it brewed, reliving the highlights of the night before. She’d done it. She’d really done it. She’d been in the right place, at the right time, to meet Arran. He had depths she’d never suspected.
And he’d loved her in so many good ways.
When they’d arrived back at her place, their interaction could only be described by one word: heat.
They undressed each other, lips tasting each other’s skin as each new piece of clothing came off, holding each other, sweat slick and salty on the tongue. Each kiss reached deep into the other’s soul, tying a connection there, a marker so they could find their way back. They didn’t even make it to the bedroom the first time, but made love in a burst of passion on the throw rug in the living room.
As they lay there, recovering from the shattering collision of their libidos, Leyla listened to the stillness, no sound but their ragged breathing. No wonder it was hot. She hadn’t left the air conditioning on. “Come on,” she whispered.
She flipped the switch to the ceiling fan overhead, then slipped into the bedroom to turn on the small window unit, so it would be cool when they returned. He stumbled after her as she dragged him into the shower. “Cold or hot?” she asked.
“You’re pretty hot,” he said with a lazy smile. “You’re pretty pretty, too.”
She felt the blush hit her all over and knew he could see it, too. “I think cold.” She turned the knobs and they both shrieked as the cold water hit them full force. His hand reached over hers and he moderated the water temperature to lukewarm, just warm enough not to sting, but cool enough to bring their burning skin temperature down.
“You are a wicked, wicked girl,” he teased.
“And that’s why you’re here with me.” She slipped her arms around him, the water running down her back. The manly scent of him, the sense of his skin against hers, made her feel drunk, even though she hadn’t had one sip of alcohol.
He reached for her shower gel, something that smelled of raspberry and coconut, and began to slather it over her. When she would have protested, he laid his lips over hers, effectively cutting off any objection, and kept his hands moving, washing every part of her, coming to know her entire body as if it could be read in Braille. He took down the shower head to rinse her, then washed her hair, too. She’d never felt so pampered, so loved.
When she was thoroughly clean, she kissed him to express her thanks. “But you’re still dirty,” she said, her voice soft as a summer cloud.
“I suppose I could go home and wash up.” His eyes danced with mischief.
“I suppose not.” She eyed the shower gel. “But I don’t have any macho soap here. You’ll have to smell like a tropical drink, too.”
He chuckled. “If that’s the worst thing that happens to me today, I think I’ll be fine.”
She switched places with him, admiring his broad shoulders as he stretched back to wet his hair under the falling water. He couldn’t claim a six-pack, though he wasn’t overweight by any means. Again, he was comfortable; no need to build his body to impress others. He had no lack of muscles, as her fingers discovered as she rubbed him with soapy bubbles. When she reached up to wash his hair, he pulled her body hard against his, his insistent lips not the only evidence of his growing desire. She surrendered to his fevered excitement, which only the water cooled again, once they were both spent.
When they finished, they took turns drying each other with thick spring-green towels, one of the only luxuries she’d allowed herself in her limited effort at housekeeping. He insisted on combing out her hair before they retired to the bedroom, nice and cool now, since it was hardly bigger than a walk-in closet. Still wrapped in towels, they snuggled under the sheet and the light blanket, his arm under her neck, watching the blades of the ceiling fan rotate, enjoying the quiet lull as the fires of their passions took time to rekindle.
They drowsed, then talked, then took the time to discover each other all over again. Leyla found that as the night drew to a close and the morning came near, the early rays of the sun tinged the wall over her closet with
a faint blush. They’d been talking about their dreams—his wish to touch the lives of his fans with songs from the heart, songs that really meant something, but never to lose himself in that life; her long-held aspiration to tell stories, to write down the ones that would express what she felt in herself and others.
He pulled her gently to him and kissed her forehead, half asleep already. “All we need is for the right phone call to come, baby doll. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Like that will ever happen,” she said, but mostly to herself. So many people had those big dreams, and the new wave of television fueled them even farther with those reality shows where people off the street could hit the big time. But no one she knew. Heck, no one most people knew. She snuggled close into the safety of his arms and let the world fade away.
She must have slept like the dead, because she’d never heard his phone, never heard him get up, never heard him latch the door behind him. Who’d called him? Maybe it was Jack, the music agent he’d been waiting to hear from for weeks. Surely he’d call her as soon as he had news.
She waited till mid-afternoon, then called him, leaving her number when he didn’t answer. Maybe he was in a meeting. Maybe he’d already written her off.
No. Arran wasn’t like that. Soulmates might be just a hokey concept those matchmaking companies made up to sell their services, but if she’d ever met someone whose soul fit exactly with hers, she knew now Arran Lake was the one.
Just when she thought her heart would explode with not hearing from him, he called her, late that night. She’d already climbed in bed, exhausted from a long day at work, lying between the pale blue sheets, letting her mind wander back to the night before, and Arran. When the phone rang, she practically dropped it in her haste to get it into her hands.
“Hello? Arran? Is that you?”
“How’s my girl? I miss you already.”
She fought not to beg him to come back. She wanted his arms around her again, that security she’d felt with him in the early dawn just before she’d fallen asleep. “I miss you, too. Did you find your guy? The one who called you?”
“This is it, Leyla! They want our music. We’ve got a contract, we’ve got an agent—but I’ve got to go to L.A. tomorrow, to get everything signed. I’m so sorry.”
She swallowed hard, wanting to encourage him, even though her gut was pushing words up through her throat, begging him not to go. She thought she’d choke on them. “Don’t be sorry, Arran. This is your dream.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
She tried not to let her disappointment come through. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know where I am.”
“I’ll…I’ll call you.” His turn to sound tentative and unsure.
“I’ll be waiting. Good luck, babe. Or should I say, break a leg?”
He finally laughed. “Don’t say that! I probably will.” A long pause. “Take care of yourself till we see each other again, all right? Promise me.”
He was still being ridiculous. She’d be fine. She was always fine. Her mind wandered back to their night together. Sometimes she was better than fine. “I…promise, Arran.”
The noise level wherever he was went up till she could hardly hear him. “They’re calling for us. I’ve got to go. I…I love you, Leyla.”
Her lips worked to form words, her heart a little stunned at the deep sincerity she heard in his voice. She struggled, but nothing came out. She heard the connection close. “I love you, too,” she whispered, to no one.
****
Over the next few months, they both tried. The nature of this long-distance relationship challenged them both. Only a three-hour difference, but when he was finished with his day, it was the early hours of the morning for her. He wouldn’t call, saying he couldn’t interrupt her sleep. Conversely, when she was available in the morning before work, it was too early for him. Cutting that first album seemed to take forever, and all she had to hold were the memories of one night.
He warned her he was about broke, but the night she called his phone number and found it disconnected, it felt like a cold knife in her chest. He sent her postcards from up and down the California coast, but without a return address where she could reply. She even contacted the organizers of the Bele Chere Festival, to see if they had a number for one of the other guys in the band, but they only had the number Arran had given her.
As time passed, she wondered if she was setting herself up for a painful fall, the longer she held onto this hope they’d ever reunite. Arran had an exciting new life, and she had her hand-to-mouth existence at the chain restaurant. Maybe, if she was lucky, she’d move up to assistant manager. Wow. Didn’t seem like much of a goal, even if it might be more easily reached than that of a rock-and-roll musician.
After one particularly lonely stretch of ten days with nothing more from him, a vague thought to track down his neglectful parents crossed her mind. Now that’s desperation, folks. Surely those were the last people he’d tell of his whereabouts.
The patience of her friends, too, wore thin. She’d shared the story of the encounter with Arran—well, the public-appropriate parts of it—with her best friend, Jane. At first Jane had been wildly jealous of Leyla’s success, but the longer she went without hearing from him, the more Jane’s enthusiasm faded.
One night near the fountain area of the restaurant, when Leyla was feeling particularly moony and sad, Jane grabbed her arm and looked her in the eye. “Come on, Leyla. Why are you holding on to this?”
Leyla studied her pudgy pal, a few strands of nondescript brown hair trailing down into her eyes despite an army of bobby pins. Jane hadn’t had a date in three years. Was she just complaining so she could seriously buzzkill Leyla’s hopes?
“Why wouldn’t I hold on to this? He said he didn’t want to lose me. We were… Oh, Lord, it was amazing, Janie. When we—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Eleven on a scale of ten, fancy fantasy video, clothes floating off your bodies, fires lit. Yeah. You told me.” Jane’s brown eyes flickered in her direction. “You keep believing it if you want to. You’ll miss out on other opportunities.”
Leyla frowned. “What other opportunities?”
Jane cocked her head in the direction of Tim Grange, one of the new managers who’d just transferred in. “He’s had his eye on you.”
“I don’t need complications, Janie. I just need to be a little more patient.” She noticed Tim watching her from across the kitchen and bit her lip. “I’ll be fine.”
The days at work passed, bills arrived and got paid, her car developed a terminal engine condition and died. Nothing came from Arran. Had she made a mistake?
What did she have to go on, really, other than the night of Bele Chere?
It hadn’t been just a night, just another rendezvous. That she believed with her whole being. Her heart felt the connection with Arran, felt it strong and hard and real. Neither of them had been fooling around, she was sure. Those feelings were true.
So it wasn’t a matter of emotion or attachment.
Bad timing.
Fate.
Destiny.
Whatever it was, it had separated them, as sure as the miles and mindsets between them.
Her lonely life continued in shades of gray. As distraction, she went back to writing poetry. Bad poetry, maybe, but it let her release some of that pain, choosing the right words, imagining that she could write anything as strong as Arran’s songs. While she wrote, she listened to the radio for some proof that the gamble had been worth it, that she hadn’t lost him for nothing.
It took six months, but at last Copper Moon hit the airwaves, climbing fast up the iTunes rock chart with their original song “Glamour Girl” about a small-town girl who didn’t make the big time but was found all prettied up in an alley, dead. The plaintive tune echoed in her head, even as she wondered who the girl might be, or if she was even real.
Arran Lake was featured on the American Top 40 interview show, and she listened over and over to the p
odcast, hearing the little Southern twang in his voice, the softening of his tone when he talked about his music. When the interview host asked him if he had a message for his fans, Arran replied, “Sure, Ryan. I want to send my love out to that one special lady back home. Sorry I had to leave, and hope to see you again real soon.”
Though the host prodded him to give the lucky lady’s name, he refused. Leyla convinced herself he meant her. Jane told her she was an idiot.
“Really? ‘That one special lady’? What a great way to say to all the ladies in all the towns he traveled through that he was thinking of them, right? Gets him right off the hook.”
A sad chill ran through Leyla. She’d thought he meant her, but sure, he could have been referring to someone else. If he meant her, why hadn’t he used her name?
Maybe he was playing games, after all.
The reality she had to live with was that he didn’t call her, or contact her, or even show up unannounced on her doorstep. Trying not to feel desperate, she found the address for his recording company and sent a letter to him, hoping someone would pass it on. What she got back was a publicity photo with a stamped autograph. Holding that smiling face in her hands, she searched out the familiar sparkle in his eyes and hoped like hell he hadn’t sent it. Surely he’d at least have signed it himself. Must have come from some clerical minion in charge of publicity.
Or maybe he really had forgotten her.
After months of determined dreaming, her faith wavered. She let Jane’s nitpicking sway her. When Tim asked her for a movie-and-dinner date, she held out for a couple of weeks, then finally said yes.
His interest gave her something to hold on to, and she let him extract her from the lonely nights with her radio as companion. He liked to take her out, both of them dressed in their fanciest clothes, to places he could barely afford, just so they could be seen by people he wanted to impress. She found the outings entertaining—who wouldn’t like to be wined and dined at the best places? And Tim was nice enough. He tried hard. He cared about her. So, though she never connected with him the way she had with Arran, when he asked her to marry him, she actually considered it.
