Lovin' Blue

by Zuri Day

  Five hours later, except for one piece of bad news, Eden felt a lot better. The first thing she’d done after leaving her brother’s house was to drive to Santa Monica and meet with the contractor. The good news had been that the job was progressing smoothly; the contractor was confident that the mold specialist had found the cause of the mold and that he, the contractor, would be able to fix it. The bad news was that there was no way the job would be finished sooner than the two weeks the contractor had originally estimated. Eden had hoped to be out of Michael’s house and away from Jansen in seven to ten days. Now she felt it may indeed be two weeks, if not longer.

  That was when Eden had employed the words of one of her favorite motivational speakers, Wayne Dyer: When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change. As she’d relished an absolutely divine vegan dinner at Real Food Daily, the Santa Monica eatery she’d already deemed a favorite spot, Eden had changed her point of view, decided that the best defense was a good offense, and had come up with a plan. After all, she wasn’t the shy, pimply faced girl with braids anymore. She was a woman who’d stood side-by-side with giants as they’d battled on Capitol Hill; who’d married, divorced, and lived to tell the tale; and who’d just driven over twenty-three hundred miles cross-country alone. So you think you’re a player, player, Eden thought as she climbed the steps to Michael’s house, juggling bags of groceries from her favorite store. She placed the bags on the table in the foyer and caught her new and improved image in the mirror above it. “Well, get ready, Germy Jansen. It’s about to be ‘game on.’”

  5

  Jansen’s stomach growled as a tantalizing scent from the kitchen wafted past his nostrils. It had been a long, grueling day—punctuated by a four-hour standoff with a bank robber. Fortunately, the incident had ended peacefully. Nobody had died. As Jansen was more than painfully aware, that was not always the case.

  He strolled toward the kitchen, determined not to go down memory lane. He figured nothing could get his mind off work faster than teasing his temporary roommate. “Hey, Garden of E—” The vision in front of him stopped him in his tracks. Damn!

  Eden had dressed purposefully but had no idea how effective the look would be. The hairstylist had barely turned under her thick, freshly permed hair, so its silkiness hung past her shoulders, begging for a strong male hand to run through its strands. She’d also taken a plunge and allowed the stylist to trim the front, creating a long bang, wisps of which teased her eyebrows and accented her eyes. She wore little makeup, but the bronzer blush and pink lipstick added just the right amount of shine. Kiss me, the glimmer beckoned. Here. Now. But the new hairdo and light makeup wasn’t even the heart-stopper. That came courtesy of the casual white T-shirt mini she wore, the one she knew showed off her badonkadonk to perfection and highlighted her skin’s deep tan.

  When she turned around, Eden’s face was a mask of innocence. “What’s up, Germy Jansen?” she asked casually and later would congratulate herself that she’d pushed the words through suddenly constricted windpipes. She turned back quickly before her eyes betrayed her. God, give me strength! Eden had never been one for a man in uniform. She was what people like Jansen would call a “tree-hugging hippie”: anti anything violent—guns, war, guns, military, guns, police . . . Oh, and she hated guns, too. It wasn’t like Eden was naive. Having lived in DC for the past sixteen years had taught her that sometimes police being around was a good thing. But, more than those times, she remembered when she’d felt the police, military, and government entities had overstepped their bounds with artillery muscle and had hidden extreme and unusual punishment behind the badge. These thoughts had deepened behind such cases as Amadou Diallo, the unarmed immigrant fatally shot by four officers, and Sean Bell, the unarmed fiancé who was killed by NYPD days before he was to marry his child’s mother. They had hardened into a mindset after a friend’s brother had been shot and killed by police. For these reasons, Eden’s panties should not be wet right now. But they were.

  “Hey, little garden,” Jansen said from about a foot away

  Eden jumped. She hadn’t heard a thing as he’d walked up behind her.

  “Dangit! Do you want me to spray sauce all over this kitchen?”

  “No, I want you to spray it all over that little white dress so I’ll have a legitimate reason to take it off you.”

  Jansen hadn’t touched her, but Eden’s body was on fire. Once again, she found solace in the sauce, turning around to stir it vigorously and forcing her body to follow her mind. But wait a minute. Where is my mind? And what’s on it? Because, for the life of her, Eden seemed unable to form a coherent thought. Every fiber of her being seemed tuned to the close proximity of Jansen’s body and the slight muskiness emanating from his skin.

  “You really need to move,” she said, proud of herself for managing to sound chagrinned. “I know you think you’re the F word, and you are.” She glanced at Jansen and was pleased to see that cocky smile. “Funky, my brothah.” She was equally pleased to see the smile disappear. “Oh,” she continued, turning around to face him. “You thought I was going to say fine?” Eden deemed her legs steady enough to put some distance between herself and temptation. She walked over to the refrigerator and retrieved a bowl of cut vegetables and fixings for a hearty salad.

  “Where’s the meat?” Jansen knew he should go take a shower but wondered if the water would be any more refreshing than the vision of loveliness he was drinking in right now. “That sauce smells good. But where’s the ground turkey or beef that’s going in it?”

  “This is going to be a vegetable sauce filled with squash, corn, eggplant, green and garbanzo beans, onions, served over whole-wheat pasta and topped with a soy-based, vegan cheese sauce.”

  “That sounds all right for a side dish. But, woman, when I get back down here, I want to see some meat on my plate.”

  The sound of his voice, let alone choice of words, got Eden’s attention and, as Jansen had intended, crept a little under her skin. “Who said I was cooking for you?”

  “I did. My grandmother believes the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Looks like somebody else’s granny may have said that, too.”

  Eden took a deep, calming breath. Jansen was pushing her buttons, but she was determined not to let it show. “The way to good health is through one’s stomach as well,” she calmly replied. “And cooking is a wonderful way to be creative, productive, and to relax. I’m cooking for me. But you’re welcome to have some, as you probably can’t boil an egg.”

  Jansen made a sound as if air had been punched out of his stomach. The same grandmother who’d spouted sayings had also taught him to cook. No one had to tell Jansen he could throw down. He knew for a fact that this was true. And he knew something else, which was why he’d crossed the kitchen and once again invaded Eden’s space.

  “What?” he asked when Eden put a hand against his chest, preventing him from coming closer. “I was just going to give you a hug. That’s the least two good friends could do after not seeing each other for over ten years. What, you scared?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Good.” Jansen closed the distance between them and wrapped Eden in his arms. He squeezed her gently, drawing a lazy circle on her back with his thumb. “It’s good to see you, girl,” he whispered, placing a kiss on the rim of her ear.

  Eden quickly pulled back. “Okay, hug over. Gotta check the food.”

  “Ha!” Jansen slowly backed out of the kitchen. “I don’t know about eggs, but I bet something else is boiling right about now.”

  His quick reflexes were the only reason the onion Eden threw at him missed its target—his head.

  6

  Eden awoke to the sound of birds chirping from the tree near her second-story window. Amazing what some good food and a solid night’s sleep could do. She felt like a new woman. She raised up, enjoyed a good, long stretch, and then flopped back on the pillow. Immediately, thoughts of the previous night flooded her mind. She tried t
o stop the smile that threatened to spill across her face at any moment, but after a few seconds of quivering lips, she broke into a grin, crushed a pillow to her chest, and remembered. . . .

  “Ugh! Don’t tell me you’re getting ready to cook meat! Really, Jansen, I’ve cooked enough to share, and the protein is in the spinach pasta. You won’t even miss that . . . cow you’re holding.” What Eden was trying to miss, with her sarcasm, was that Jansen looked as good in the gray T-shirt and sweats he’d donned after showering as he had in his policeman’s uniform.

  “Mmmm,” Jansen replied, raising the T-bone to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Smells good, and look how thick it is—rich ruby red. This cow is going to taste good! I’m going to make you want some of it.”

  Just what I need, the smell of meat cooking to ruin my appetite. Eden had been surprised the first time her body had reacted to the smell of meat. It was Christmas about a year after she’d become a vegetarian, and months after separating from her husband, Gregg. Rather than spend it with friends in DC, and be reminded of things she and her husband usually did together (even passing the White House would make her think of happier times), she had come home to Los Angeles. The day after arriving, she’d awoke to the smell of bacon cooking. Seconds later, her stomach had flip-flopped, and she’d felt nauseous. She hadn’t given it much thought until the same thing happened when she’d visited her grandmother, and again when she’d walked into a friend’s kitchen where chili simmered on the stove. It wasn’t so bad when the meat was already done, but at the height of it being cooked? Yikes!

  Jansen whistled as he liberally seasoned the inch-thick cut, dredged it in flour, and then placed it in a piping hot, cast-iron skillet.

  Well, there’s another thing to add to my shopping list. All pots and pans, but especially cast iron, retained the essence of whatever was cooked in it. In that moment, Eden came to a realization, a welcomed barrier to the feelings for Jansen she was trying to ignore. I could never date him. My next husband will be a vegetarian!

  Eden left the kitchen until Jansen finished preparing his steak. He liked his medium, so, fortunately for her, it took less than ten minutes to brown after he’d placed it in the oven. By the time she’d gone upstairs, checked her messages and e-mails, washed her hands, and come back down, Jansen was fixing his plate.

  “I’ll let it slide that you didn’t fix my plate this time. But don’t make a habit of it.” Jansen walked to the fridge and pulled out a beer. “Want one?”

  “If you wait for me to fix your plate, you might get pretty hungry. And no, thanks. I’m going to have a nice sauvignon with my meal.”

  “I should have known you’d prefer a sissy drink.”

  “Wine?”

  “Real men don’t drink that stuff, girl. C’mon, I don’t want my meat to get cold.”

  “You don’t have to wait on me. Who said I was eating with you anyway?”

  “Of course we’ll dine together, darling. You know you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  They took their plates to the dining room table. Jansen dug right in, cutting off a large chunk of steak he’d smothered in steak sauce. Eden poured herself a glass of wine, took a couple sips, and then began her meal with a dainty bite of salad.

  “No wonder you have no meat on your bones, girl. There’s a good reason they call that rabbit food.”

  Instead of answering, Eden took a bite of her pasta dish, closed her eyes, and savored the taste. The fresh herbs she’d used fairly sang in the sauce mixture, and the pasta was perfectly al dente.

  “Ah, you know it’s not that good,” Jansen said after he’d enjoyed watching Eden lick sauce from her lips and admitted he wanted to lick them, too.

  “Taste it.” Eden would never admit to anyone, including herself, how important it was that Jansen like her food.

  Jansen placed a forkful of pasta in his mouth, his eyes never leaving Eden’s as he chewed. Like her, he slowly licked his lips when he finished. “That’s good, girl.”

  “Told you.” Eden picked up her fork, acting nonchalant. But inside she was doing the happy dance. “So,” she continued after they’d eaten in silence a couple moments, “what have you been doing, oh, the last ten to fifteen years?”

  “That’s more than a one-meal conversation.”

  “So give me the mini version.”

  Jansen took another couple bites of steak and then wiped his mouth with a napkin as he leaned back in the chair. “You know I joined the service right out of high school, right?”

  Eden nodded, finishing a bite of salad. “I was so surprised, Jansen. I thought for sure you’d take advantage of an athletic scholarship, maybe even try your hand at the NBA.”

  “Granted, I could ball—still can. And, yes, I got a couple scholarship offers from smaller colleges. But a conversation with my uncle changed my direction.”

  “How?”

  “Uncle Jeff is a career military man, a marine to the core. He shared with me what the service did for his life, laid out both the advantages and the challenges.” Jansen shrugged, took another drink. “After looking at the big picture, I decided that path worked for me.”

  Eden studied Jansen—tried to decipher the unreadable expression as he toyed with his fork. “Do you still feel that way?”

  “Absolutely.” The moment of subtle vulnerability was gone as Jansen picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating. “I did my four years, came out and got my degree in criminal justice—fully paid for—great medical benefits . . . I think it set me up pretty well.”

  “Did you ever see combat?”

  Jansen nodded, and, once again, a shadow passed over his face.

  “Directly, I mean—shooting and everything? You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

  “So, what, you’re antiwar or something?”

  “I’m antiviolence—at any time, for any reason. And nothing personal, but I abhor guns.”

  “Oh, really? Well, check this, Ms. Give Peace a Chance. That ‘shooting and everything’ is why you enjoy the freedom you undoubtedly take for granted, and the gun I strap on every day is why the streets in which you walk are relatively safe.” Jansen didn’t try to keep the attitude out of his voice. His defenses regarding this matter had been up ever since she’d asked him to “put that thing away.”

  Eden finished her glass of wine. “You know what? We probably should change the subject. It’s obvious we’re of opposite opinions . . . on a lot of things.”

  They went to safer topics then, reminiscing about the good old days and the old neighborhood, talking about mutual acquaintances, recalling fond memories. By the time they finished their bowls of ice cream, the warmth that made Eden even more uncomfortable than the conflict once again existed between them. Jansen’s teasing and subtle flirtations were met with Eden’s witty sarcasm, mixed with sultry stares. When Jansen’s look turned predatory, she poured another glass of wine and retreated to Michael’s room, which she could now appreciate since she’d changed the sheets and cleared the clutter. To keep her mind off things she’d rather not think about, namely Jansen, she watched television until she fell asleep.

  “Yeah, you’d better run,” had been the warning that had followed her up the stairs, along with the deep, throaty laugh she already loved.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead! It’s time to work out!”

  Eden jumped at the unexpected announcement. Oh, no, Jansen’s here? She looked at the clock and saw it was almost nine-thirty. Then she remembered it was Sunday, obviously his off day. Eden had planned to lounge around the house, do laundry, and not much else. But there was no way she’d hang out if Jansen was going to be there.

  “Don’t make me come in there. Get up! We’re getting ready to run a couple miles.”

  “Are you prepared to join me for yoga and meditation afterward?”

  Silence.

  “Uh-huh—that’s what I thought.”

  “Yes, I’ll join you.”

  What? “You’re kidding,
right?”

  “No.”

  “I run with you, you’ll do yoga with me.”

  “Yep.”

  Eden’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have your fingers crossed, Jansen?”

  “Nope.” But there was an undeniable smile in his voice.

  Eden crept out of bed and across the room. She yanked the door open to find Jansen’s crossed fingers resting on his chest. He burst out laughing.

  “Aha! I knew it! I fell for that too many times growing up not to remember that little trick.” The laughter was contagious, and soon Eden was laughing, too.

  “Okay, for real. Come run with me, and I’ll do your little new-age stuff.”

  “Promise?”

  “Eden,” Jansen said, his eyes darkening with the sudden seriousness of the moment. “I’m a man of my word.”

  A mini shiver went down Eden’s spine.

  “Now get dressed. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  “You must have been a sergeant in the service, and you obviously think I’m a cadet.”

  Instead of replying, Jansen turned toward the steps. “You heard me. Don’t make me come get you.”

  Eden rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to like Jansen’s bold confidence but had to admit that his swagger was growing on her. Two hours later, she’d run one mile and he’d joined her for thirty minutes of Kundalini yoga combined with meditation. While he’d made fun of it at first, he’d finally settled down and participated fully in her daily ritual. Afterward she showered and was relieved that when she came out of the room again, Jansen was gone. She spent the rest of the day catching up on e-mails, reading, and watching TV. She researched various jobs in the holistic community—including administrator or management options at a holistic facility, yoga instruction, even becoming a massage therapist. Finally, she decided to go to the mall or the beach—maybe catch a movie. Anything to get her mind off the fact that, one, Jansen looked entirely too sexy while doing a siddhasana, the basic seated yoga pose, and, two, it had been less than forty-eight hours, and she already missed having him around.