by Lea Santos
Iris melted into the caress, closing her eyes. So much for her resolve. How could she possibly turn Torien loose when she was the one who’d become so ensnared? Unable to stop herself, Iris reached up and grabbed Torien’s hand, pressing her palm against her upper chest, holding it there, wanting to pull Tori inside her heart forever. Locked. No key. The pad of Torien’s index finger dipped into the hollow at Iris’s throat, an utterly sensual touch, and Iris allowed her eyes to flutter closed for a blip of a moment.
“I am a stubborn woman, Irisíta.”
“And I am a pushy woman.”
They shared an apologetic smile.
“Can we start over?”
“Always. But what does that mean, start over? Nothing has changed, Tori. We still come from different worlds.” Iris blinked back stinging tears, just as the storm cloud mirrored her emotions and began to patter the earth with raindrops.
“I know that more than anyone. But we can be friends, no? Weren’t we always friends?” The rain came harder, seeming to enclose them in a curtain of safety.
“Yes.” If that was all she could have of Torien, she would take it. She brushed rivulets rainwater from her face, then Torien’s. “You still want that?”
“More than anything.”
Shaky with relief, she released Torien’s hand and banged the back of her fist playfully against Torien’s soaked shoulder. A wobbly half-laugh, half-sob escaped before Iris could control it. “Damnit, Tori, you make me crazy. I came here to tell you good-bye, you know. To quit the project.”
Torien laughed softly and pulled her into a gentle embrace, tucking Iris’s forehead into the crook of her strong neck. Around them, the storm intensified, battering the lilac bushes, releasing their sweet scent into the air. “You cannot. The men work harder when you are there, probably hoping to impress you. And so do most of the women.”
“As if.” Iris only wanted to impress Torien. Didn’t she know that by now? Chilled, half drenched, Iris shivered and nestled closer. “I don’t want to keep at it if it bothers you.” Thunder rolled above them, followed by a single, iridescent bolt of lightning.
“Everything about you bothers me, querida, but that’s not always a bad thing, and I don’t want you to go.” Torien lifted Iris’s head, cupping her cheeks with softly curved palms. Her lips slowly raised into a smile that glittered in the depths of her eyes. “Okay?”
Iris bit the corner of her mouth to keep it from trembling. “Okay,” she whispered. “Tori?”
“Yes?”
“It’s really pouring out here. And my tank top is silk.”
They laughed. “Come.” Torien took her hand. “Drink wine with me, mi ángel, until the rain passes. And then we must both sleep. Our day will start early.”
“Yes, it will.”
“And beginning tomorrow, Irisíta…you work with me.”
Chapter Seven
Initially, Iris had yearned to prove to Torien and the others she wasn’t some pampered, high-maintenance woman, which was how she and Madeira had come up with their ill-hatched plan in the first place. But the longer she worked with El Proyecto de Arco Iris, the more it became about the project and the less about proving a rather pointless…point. She loved the mission of the group, believed in it. Gardening was satisfying in itself, but creating an oasis of beauty in a place where she knew people would really appreciate it—yeah, that was indescribable. She knew, as she dug in the earth, that this was the feeling she’d been missing in her life. The sense that what she did with her days truly mattered.
After the initial excitement of her arrival, no one seemed to question her presence, even those who weren’t working on the project. The volunteers were grateful for every helping hand, of course, and the area residents were more curious and excited about the flowers, trees, and benches than the volunteers planting them.
She glanced around as afternoon sunshine gilded the houses surrounding the square. Little sun-browned children played in the yards and cul-de-sacs, their voices rife with excitement and joy, while whichever parent or adult was present watched them. Truly, the village raised the children here. Dressed-to-impress teenagers joked and bumped shoulders as they walked around the square, iPods firmly in place.
Women sat on front porches together, head-and-tailing their green beans or cleaning pintos. Old, proper men, wearing slacks, freshly pressed guayaberas, and fedoras, claimed porch benches and lawn chairs facing the garden. Their skinny legs crossed, gnarled hands resting atop their canes, they tracked the volunteers’ progress with expressions that sent the clear message that they were accustomed to being in charge.
Real life. Burgeoning, pulsating, breathing real life.
The neighborhood might not be a wealthy one, but it overflowed with pride, brimming with the quick laughter and simple passions of people who didn’t need much to be happy. The new garden would only help the community grow closer. If it was up to Iris, she would bring community gardens into less fortunate neighborhoods everywhere, work in the soil alongside Torien and the others. Ah, heaven. The stuff of dreams.
Dreams for people who haven’t signed three-year modeling contracts overseas.
With a pang of envy for the regular volunteers, Iris wished she belonged to this landscape instead of just visiting it. She felt more at home there than she had anywhere else in a long time, yet she was an outsider and always would be.
The ironic thing was, if she told most Denver suburbanites she yearned to be a part of the Círculo de Esperanza community, incredulity would abound. A poor neighborhood. A bad neighborhood. A dangerous neighborhood. El barrio. God…they had no idea how wrong they were.
Torien had kept her moonlit promises of starting anew, a fact that pleased Iris no end. They had worked together for two days filled with easy smiles, casual conversation, and spontaneous teasing. Gradually, Iris settled into this acceptance, into the sense that Torien appreciated her presence just as much as the others did.
A long, cool shadow fell across the soil bed where she’d been busily planting purple coneflowers for the last several hours. She looked up and cocked a brow playfully. Speak of the sexy devil. “You make a better door than a window.”
Confusion undulated over Torien’s expression. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a colloquialism, like one of yours. A saying. In this case, it means you’re blocking my sun.”
“Ah.” Torien stepped to the side, then smiled. “Doing okay?”
Iris indicated the half-moon pattern she had finished, proud of her work but striving for nonchalance. “You’re the foreman—you tell me.” She felt starved for Torien’s approval, though Tori handed it out freely to everyone on the project. Still, Iris couldn’t get enough. Torien might be stoic and super Type-A when it came to her responsibilities, but she had a kind, appreciative way with people that rang of sincerity and inspired everyone to work even harder.
Torien soaked it in and nodded slowly, as though deep in thought. “Looks good. There is only one problem.”
Startled, Iris retraced the path of Torien’s scrutiny. She thought she’d followed her directions to the letter. “Oh no. What?”
“The planting looks perfect, don’t worry. But…” Squatting before Iris, Torien quirked her mouth and lifted the tail of her own shirt to wipe Iris’s chin. “You manage to get covered in dirt every day, and I just can’t figure out how you do it.” Her voice softened to a purr that resonated against Iris’s chest and hardened her nipples. “It’s a soil bed, mi ángel, not a swimming pool.”
“Very funny,” Iris said, with feigned haughtiness. She pulled back, smearing her face with the crook of her elbow. An image of the Peanuts character Pig-Pen flashed in her mind. “I’m no dirtier than the rest of you.”
“Irisíta,” Torien said patiently. “You are dirtier than the dirt itself. Pretty soon you will sprout.”
Iris laughed. “I just have a passion for my work.”
“Yes, you do. And it shows beautifully all over you.” To
rien reached out and smeared mud off the tip of Iris’s nose with the pad of her thumb, examining it and then turning it toward her as if to prove her point. “What would those magazine photographers think if they could see you now?”
Iris grimaced, not wanting the ugly reminders of Real Life—which felt less real by the minute—to mar this picture-perfect day. Real Life, however, was flapping its vulture wings and swooping down to gobble up her happiness. Soon. She deftly coned up another plug of soil, then blinked at Torien through her lashes. “Would it embarrass you to be seen in public with me looking like this?”
“Depends. Would I take you dancing looking like a mud ball?” Torien shrugged. “Probably not.”
Iris knew she was teasing, but the thought of Torien taking her dancing fluttered her stomach. “Actually, it was an honest question.” She held out her forearms for inspection and, realizing they really did look super trashed, she brushed them off, without much success. The loamy soil just smeared, from her palms to her arms and back.
Torien cocked her head questioningly. “¿Qué? Is something on your mind?”
“Nothing major. Errands, to-do lists. You know how it is.”
“I do. Anything I can do to help?”
“Actually…my car is due for service. I’m supposed to leave it at the garage down on Broadway this afternoon.” Iris bestowed her best winning smile. “What would it take to get you to follow me, then drive me back to Geraline’s? They’ll drop off the car when it’s done.”
“What would it take? Hmm.” Torien crossed her arms, sunlight shining through the sparse hair that dusted them to the smooth, bronze skin underneath. “Here is a free tip. Never ask a red-blooded Latina that question.”
“I’m a red-blooded Latina.”
“Hmm.” Torien conceded the point.
“Plus, you are a red-blooded Latina with honor, right? So you don’t count.”
“Well, hijole, since I don’t count—”
“Tori…you know what I meant.”
Torien flashed a quick grin. “It isn’t a problem. When must we leave?”
Iris warmed from the inside out. God, it felt good to know she had finally broken through some of Tori’s carefully erected walls of propriety and duty. A week ago, Torien would never have shared a car with her. How would that look? What would people think? Pros. Cons. Risks.
Iris figured she’d go for the gold since Tori had been so amenable to the first suggestion. “Whenever. How about if I repay you with dinner?”
“Not necessary.”
“Since when does necessity have anything to do with a dinner invitation?” Iris’s desire for Tori to accept morphed into raw determination. “Let me do it anyway. Please?”
That old bedfellow, doubt, drifted over Torien’s expression. “I have much work to do…I don’t know.”
“At the estate? I can help.”
“Iris,” Torien said in a gently warning tone.
Her arms spread in an open shrug. “What? You said I could help when you were there.”
Torien gave that one to Iris, inclining her head. “I still don’t have time to go out to dinner.”
“No problem.” Iris began to plan the menu in her head. “You have a kitchen in the cabaña, don’t you? I’ll cook.”
“You cook?” Skepticism played like a tattoo on Torien’s face.
“Hey, don’t look so doubtful.” She glared, albeit playfully. “I come from a long line of women who cooked three meals a day, every day.”
“And I come from a long line of vaqueros, but you don’t see me on the back of a horse.” Torien’s delectable lips quivered with amusement. “When was the last time you cooked?”
“You know, it isn’t every day I offer to cook for a woman, Toro.” Reaching out, Iris smacked Torien’s sculpted shoulder with the heel of her hand, leaving a dirty smudge. “You should feel honored.”
Torien laughed lightly. “Tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Are you going to wash your hands first?”
The clump of dirt she scooped and threw hit Torien square in the side of the neck. “You’re so funny. Not. Let me prove to you I can cook,” she said, with an arched eyebrow of challenge. “I’ll even bet you something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it. If you like my food, I win. If not, it’s all you.”
Torien stared at her for several moments, then nodded once. “Okay, it is a deal. My kitchen is open to you. I will even clean up,” she added, magnanimously.
“Whoo-boy, you’re an easy mark.”
“What does that mean?” Torien stood, then offered a palm and pulled Iris to her feet.
Iris brushed off the seat of her shorts with both hands. “It means, if I had known you were a gambling woman, I would have wagered a hell of a lot more than dinner.” She turned and flounced toward a water hose, feeling Tori’s gaze burning into her back the whole way. God, that felt good. Score one for Iris.
*
Squeaky clean, and dressed in her most comfortable, ankle-length red sundress, Iris bent to open the stove and pour topping over the buttermilk baked chicken. It was her favorite recipe, passed on by her friend Cyn—a prominent runway model with decidedly down-home Texas roots. She had considered preparing a specialty Mexican dish to remind Torien of home, but the truth was, it had been a long time since she’d cooked. Buttermilk baked chicken was nearly impossible to screw up, and even when you did, it still tasted great.
She’d told Torien what she—Iris—would win in the bet if Tori liked her dinner, and she wore a vivid reminder of what was at stake. Big, red letters spelled KISS THE COOK across the chest of her black apron. As she basted, Iris smirked. Torien’s discomfort with the situation was worth the whole evening.
After scrubbing her hands, Iris turned to Torien, who wore crisp jeans and fitted black T-shirt. Iris hadn’t realized how breath-stealing-hot such simple garments could look on a woman who needed no embellishments. Oblivious to Iris’s blatant admiration, Tori pawed through a drawer for a corkscrew. Locating one, she wound it into the top of the wine bottle with strong twists that flexed her triceps and the finely honed muscles in her upper back.
A question had been on Iris’s mind since that afternoon, and staring at Tori’s physique brought it to the fore. “Do you really come from a long line of vaqueros?” She’d fallen in love with many a fictional cowgirl, with their sensually rugged faces and rough hands. The Mexican cowgirls were the sexiest of the sexy, and she had no doubt Torien could have a bit of that blood in her veins.
Torien glanced over her shoulder at Iris, one side of her mouth lifted in amusement. “I am Mexicana. We all descend from the vaqueros.”
“Ah, so it’s one of those kinds of tales.” Iris accepted the glass of wine Torien had poured, then said, “Tell me the real story. I’ve heard about your mom and the twins. What was your father like?”
Tori’s focus drifted to that faraway place for a second. Shaking it off, she pointed toward the door. “Shall we sit outside? I noticed the honeysuckle in full bloom earlier. The air will smell like magic.”
Iris nodded, and when they’d settled onto the porch, the chicken timer ticking on the small table between them, Iris looked at her expectantly.
Torien said, “Papá was a dreamer,” in a disapproving tone. She might as well have said, “Papá was a murderer.”
Odd. Iris had always admired people who aimed high and set goals. Was this not the case in Torien’s world? She watched the hummingbirds visit the honeysuckle, caught sight of a few small bats swooping down to rid the air of mosquitoes. Somewhere in the hedge, crickets had begun to chirp. Gorgeous evening. Gorgeous company. Tough conversation. “But that’s a good thing, right? To dream?”
Torien’s lips curled down at the edges, and she shrugged. “Not always. To Papá, the grand adventure was always just over the hill, around the next bend, hanging on the red gleam of the horizon at sunset. He never seemed happy with what he
had for too long.” Tori flashed a look of shame. “I do not mean to speak badly of my father. I loved him. Still do.”
“No, I understand.” Iris suddenly remembered Madeira saying the family called Torien “the dreamer,” and the parallel intrigued her. Tori had probably always been compared to her father. The father who had disappointed her. That would certainly explain a lot. “It’s clear that you love him. Look how you’ve taken care of the family in his absence.”
A sad smile played at the corners of Torien’s lips. She deftly brushed aside Iris’s comment by simply ignoring it. “Papá would find a job and work hard for a while, but the better job, the more exciting offer, the get-rich-quick scheme would draw him, like…” She lifted her chin toward the golden spill of honeysuckle over the wrought iron fence. “Like the flowers draw the bees. Over and over.” She scoffed quietly. “Never mind the wife and four children at home.”
“But he was a good man, right?” Iris asked, softly. “Didn’t he die in a work accident?”
“Sí.” A muscle in Torien’s jaw worked briefly as torment gleamed in her moist eyes. One foot began to bounce, as if Torien’s body was trying to release pent-up steam. “A factory he had only worked in for a short time. He didn’t like it there. I guess I can’t blame him for that. It was a”—she gestured an arc from one hand to a distant spot in the air—“puente…you understand? A bridge from one job to the next better one.”
“What happened?”
“Papá did not take the proper time to learn the safety procedures for the factory, since he did not plan to stay long.” Her expression deepened with pain, the scant lines bracketing her mouth tightening. “It was his fault,” Torien said, in little more than a whisper.
Iris blinked, confused. “What was?”
“The explosion.” Torien’s voice broke, and she paused, pressing her lips together. “Ten hardworking people died. And it was my father’s fault.”
