by Lea Santos
Iris’s abdomen contracted with shock and horror. She reached across the little table and laid her hand on Torien’s knee. “God, I’m so sorry.”
Torien covered Iris’s hand and squeezed. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. After a sip of wine and a deep swallow, she said, “I realize it was an accident. But I was…I was so very angry for a long time, Iris. Papá and his big dreams, and we were all made to suffer.” A sigh. “I’m not proud of those emotions. But…I felt them.”
Wow. How to comfort a woman whose entire life had changed due to one careless action of a parent? The action of a man who was supposed to take care of Torien? Of the whole family? “Where were you when it happened?”
“Home. Getting ready to go…” Torien clamped back the statement, raked fingers angrily through her hair.
“Where, Tori?”
Torien clicked her tongue as if the topic epitomized idiocy and selfishness, all the things she was not. She met Iris’s gaze, a rueful, grim half-smile on her face. “To college. That was my big dream, and I had finally earned an opportunity. A scholarship. Then Papá died, and I was needed at home.”
“Oh…honey, that’s awful. Did you lose it? The scholarship?”
A beat passed. “Yes.”
Iris let her eyes drift shut. She ached for Torien’s lost dreams and chances, for her shortened youth. She reeled from the depth of what Torien had shared, the insight it provided into this strong, honorable woman. Iris knew how modestly the Pacias family had grown up. Surely Tori resented her father…and felt guilty for doing so. How could she not harbor resentment for having had to relinquish a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for college? How could she not feel guilty for the resentment? Iris couldn’t even imagine. She bit her lip, studying Torien’s serious profile. No wonder Torien took her responsibilities to heart. She’d learned the hard way how failing those you loved rippled through generations like a stone dropped in a pond. But it wasn’t over. Torien’s dreams weren’t dead. “You can still go to college, you know,” Iris said. “You’re young.”
“So are the twins, and they depend on me. Mamá as well. College doesn’t matter for me. It’s about them now.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Did you go to college, Iris?” Torien’s expression was both wistful and…rife with challenge.
Iris paused, then shook her head, no longer ashamed of that fact. “I went to New York, Paris, Hong Kong, Rio, Milan, South Africa, Australia, London.” She shrugged. “I started modeling when I was in high school, and when they want you, they want you. No rain check in modeling. Either you show up, or they find another pretty face.”
“Was that your big dream, then? The modeling?”
Tilting her head side to side, Iris twisted her mouth and truly considered this. With Torien, no words were rambled, and no question was a toss-off. Iris’s answer shouldn’t be either. “It was. Back then.”
“And now?”
Their gazes tangled for a moment, and Iris felt transparent as a dragonfly’s wing. Her heart gave one big thud. What could she tell Torien about her dreams when she hardly had a grasp on them herself? The timer dinging cut through the moment, saving her the trouble of answering honestly. Thank God. Instead she raised her brows and said, “Now? I just want you to like my chicken.”
Iris stood, but before she could enter the small cabaña, Torien grabbed her wrist and tugged her slightly off balance. Iris teetered, then landed with a whump on Torien’s lap, facing her. Her sundress scrunched up at the hips, exposing a good portion of her thighs, well-tanned from all the time she’d spent in the gardens.
Surprised, Iris went still, drowning in those dark, haunted eyes. The heat of Torien’s body warmed her inner thighs and throbbed at her center. She inadvertently tightened her legs around Torien’s—pure feminine reflex.
Reflex or not, Torien didn’t miss it. Pulling Iris closer, Tori’s hands slid slowly around to span her waist, to caress her curves. Her thumbs traced the lines of Iris’s rib cage. After a single breathless moment, Torien ran those hands up the length of Iris’s back and eased her closer until Iris had to brace her hands on the wall at either side of Torien’s head. Her hair fell forward in a sweep, strands of it resting on Torien’s shoulder.
Torien searched Iris’s face. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Iris whispered, shaky with need.
“For…”
“Listening?” Iris suggested.
“No,” Torien said, her voice a velvet rasp. “For hearing.” She touched her lips to Iris’s. Softly, gently. Tender and wine-flavored and wrapped in the drunk summer sweetness of honeysuckle in unrestrained bloom. Then once more, with a controlled jolt of urgency. Torien’s tongue traced Iris’s bottom lip, ending with a single nip that held a lifetime of promise.
Iris sighed into Torien’s mouth, acutely aware of their breasts touching, tingling, aware of desire pooled, deep and throbbing in her body. Before she could recover from the dizzying onslaught of sensation, Torien pushed both of them up out of the chair and set Iris apart from her at arm’s length.
Every vein, nerve, muscle in Iris’s body screamed out for more. She blinked several times to regain what little composure she had around Tori. “Jesus, w-what was that for?”
Torien looked apologetic, flipping her hands over in an almost forlorn manner. “Forgive me. I simply did not wish for our first kiss to be blamed on a bet. Or the chicken.”
First kiss.
Iris sure liked the sound of that.
*
The next several days working alongside Torien at the Círculo de Esperanza site flew by for Iris. Her buttermilk baked chicken was the talk of the worksite. Torien had loved it. Iris feigned nonchalance at the compliments and happily fulfilled requests for the recipe, but inside she lit up with pleasure. Easy, normal, everyday stuff, this.
As they worked, she stored up memories of laughter and deepening friendship, mud fights and wickedly hot, meaningful glances. Everyone seemed to accept that she and Torien shared something special, but no one probed for details or lobbed innuendo-laced comments their way. For that, she was grateful. Now that she’d earned Torien’s friendship back—even shared a few kisses—Iris didn’t want anything to scare her away. As Paloma had advised, Iris needed to crawl before she walked.
Instead of focusing on her growing feelings, Iris did her best to contribute to the never-ending work. She arrived early each morning, dug in immediately, and stayed until usually only she, Madeira, and Torien remained. After eight days, she knew she had earned the respect of the other volunteers when Rubén, a man who had initially suffered from a bad case of idol worship and infatuation, had beckoned to her from the back of the truck, “Oye, Iris! Make yourself useful as well as ornamental. Grab the other end of this bench, will you?”
The other women working on the site had accepted her, too, shyly asking for makeup tips and probing for tales of her so-called exciting life all over the world.
She crawled home utterly exhausted each evening, blisters on her heels and calluses on her palms, but woke up feeling as though her days finally had meaning. Now, if only she could build a callus on her heart, she might be able to leave this world and honor her contractual obligations in Paris.
The day of reckoning rushed toward her like a prizefighter’s right hook she couldn’t quite block. Paris. Ostensibly, the City of Lights would be her home for the next three years. She had committed. She was expected. But not only was the thought of spending thirty-six months a continent away from Torien unbearable, the mere thought of heading to the airport was something she simply couldn’t face. She had put off flight reservations and pushed the looming departure date out of her head, but finally she could avoid it no longer. She’d learned a lot about responsibility from Torien, and it was long past time to place the overseas call she dreaded.
One scant week before she was scheduled to fly out of Torien’s life forever, she dialed Geraline’s number in Milan with cold, shaking fingers. As the o
ddly unfamiliar telephone rings buzzed in her ear, her heart fought to break free of her rib cage. She paced to the edge of the stone terrace and leaned on the railing, staring at the gray, cloud-crowded sky as if it were the enemy. The regular spring thunderstorms had come to Colorado, and several more were expected over the next few days.
Come on. Answer.
The continual ring felt like a reprieve, and Iris released a long, slow breath. She knew Gerri would be annoyed and scrambling once she heard Iris’s request, but Gerri would do well to remember that she worked for Iris, not vice versa. Iris had promised herself she would take steps to change her life, and she meant to honor it. As soon as Geraline answers the damn phone.
Iris sighed.
Nothing like bolstering your courage for nothing.
Just as she was about to hang up, the call connected.
“Hello?”
She licked her dry lips, her body going rigid with tension. In a falsely jovial voice, she said, “Hi, Ger. It’s me.”
“Iris? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just wanted to check in.” Lie number one. “Did I call at a bad time? I can’t ever keep the time difference straight.” Lie number two.
“No. I’m glad you called, actually. It saved me the dialing. Hang on a sec.” Geraline sounded harried as ever. Iris heard her shuffle papers. “Okay, here it is. Fair warning, babe. Antoine will be in Denver sometime in the next week or so and I’ve told him he can stay at the house.”
“That’s fine,” Iris said, distracted. Small talk was a good deflector when you wanted to drop a bomb on someone. “How’d his Klein shoot go?”
Static-crackled silence swept over the line. “‘How did his Klein shoot go?’ Wow, Iris. You were right. This vacation has done wonders for your attitude.”
You have no idea, Iris thought.
“Whatever happened to, ‘Gerri! He’s a twit. How could you?’” she asked in a playful falsetto.
“I don’t know.” Iris smiled, filled with benevolence and peace. She wrapped one arm across her torso and rested her other elbow on it, then turned to lean her back on the railing. As if she’d been slapped, she was struck by how austere this Italianate mansion seemed when compared with the modest but love-filled homes in Círculo de Esperanza. Blatant displays of wealth had never been her vibe, sure. Her two indulgences had been her Mercedes roadster and the sprawling ranch house she had bought for her parents out near Brighton. “I guess I just…don’t care one way or the other about Antoine. Anyway, listen, Gerri. The reason I called—”
“First, tell me you’ve gotten your plane ticket,” Geraline said, all business, as usual.
Iris rolled her eyes. Tunnel vision. Money, money, money.
“Time’s running out, you know. This time next week, you’ll be in Paris.”
Iris’s heart clenched so painfully, it took concerted effort to sound casual and assertive at the same time. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Actually…ah…that’s why I called.”
“What? What? Don’t tell me something has happened.”
“Gerri, chill. Nothing happened.” She flailed her free arm out to the side in exasperation. “Let me finish a sentence, for God’s sake!”
“Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just that I have all these plates spinning in the air—”
“Same as usual,” Iris deadpanned.
“You’re right. I’m all ears. Go ahead.”
It took Iris a moment to formulate her thoughts, and she uttered the words with her eyes squeezed shut, bracing herself against Geraline’s explosion. “I need an extra month before I leave, Ger. I got involved with—”
“What? Iris! No. No way.”
“Just listen to me for a minute,” Iris countered, steely determined now that she’d jumped the first hurdle. “I’ve gotten involved with a really worthwhile volunteer project here and I don’t want to leave it in the middle.” Lie number three. Okay, so it was partially true. She did love her time working with the organization.
“Volunteer project? What? When?”
“It’s called the Rainbow Project, but that doesn’t matter. Just hear me out.” She sucked a deep breath for courage. “Those awful tabloid stories about me are still circulating. You’ve seen them, I assume?”
“Yes. So? Any publicity is good publicity. Get to the point.”
Iris paced, increasingly psyched about her shoot-from-the-hip explanation the more she embellished. She supposed she could have mapped out this conversation beforehand, but no matter. The ad-libbed version was turning out to be divinely inspired. “Those articles cast an ugly shadow on my character. Working on this project will generate some good press to counteract the bad.” When Geraline didn’t argue, Iris surged forth. “You know how scathing the foreign press can be. I think the Jolie people would prefer to have a spokesperson known for donating her time to worthy causes rather than trading sexual favors for new boobs, don’t you? Not that I actually did that,” she added in a low, rapid tone.
“Fuck,” Geraline snapped, punctuating it with a frustrated sigh.
Iris winced, then pressed the heel of her free hand to her forehead. “Please, Ger. I need this. I really—” An unexpected fist of emotion punched her in the throat, and she clamped her lips together to keep from begging. “I need a month.”
Geraline’s dubious sigh carried over the line. “One month?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll ask them, Iris. That’s all I can do. I suppose they’ll probably go for it. I mean, what choice do they have?”
Relief drained through Iris, so acute that it made her thighs shake. She wobbled to the chaise and sank into it, reclining. “Good. Thanks.”
More shuffling of papers. “What did you say the name of that project was?”
“The Rainbow Project. El Proyecto de Arco Iris in Spanish.”
“Oh, so it’s like some cultural thing?”
A twinge of annoyance struck her, but she swallowed thickly. “A little ethnocentric, Ger, but I guess you could put it that way.”
“Whatever. What’s the whole point of it, anyway?”
Iris had to take three deep breaths before she could answer without sounding snippy. “It’s mostly people from Mexico, building community gardens in disadvantaged neighborhoods,” she added, in a monotone. Then, with more feeling, “Anyway, thanks, Gerri. This means a lot to me. More than you know.”
“Okay.” A pause. Iris heard Geraline tapping away at the computer keyboard. “How’d you get involved in this volunteer thing, anyway?” she asked, rather as an afterthought. “Last time I talked to you, you didn’t have plans for your vacation.”
Danger. Iris froze briefly, but recovered just as fast. “Yeah, I uh…they had a thing about it in the Denver Post. It sounded like a worthwhile way to spend my time.”
“You’re wearing sunscreen, I hope? Your skin needs to be impeccable.”
“Of course.” Iris’s entire soul lifted, soared. A month. Four glorious weeks to get her head straight, to figure out the rest of her life. Four weeks with Torien. “Convince them I need the time, Ger.”
“I’ll do my best. You know I want to keep my favorite model happy.”
Iris’s laughter sounded tinny and forced in her ears. “I bet you say that to all your models.”
Geraline chuckled, too. “Yeah, you know, I probably do. C’est la vie.” A small pause stretched. “You’re sure nothing else has happened?”
“Positive.” Lie number four. “Everything will be just fine.” The rain started, and Iris closed her eyes and lifted her face to the cool, fresh glory of it.
New beginnings.
Wasn’t that what Torien had said about rain?
Chapter Eight
It had been grueling work, but the day finally arrived when the garden at Círculo de Esperanza was finished. Wide expanses of dark, rich soil still showed beneath the newly set and spaced plants, but the volunteers were done. They just had to wait for Mother Nature to do her part to make the garden thri
ve, for the plants themselves to reach out to one another and cover the ground in a riot of color and life.
The community members had planned a celebration for the day after tomorrow, and the volunteers bustled about, cleaning, laughing, hugging—drunk on the pleasure of their massive accomplishment. From a trash-strewn dusty field to an apex of utter beauty, the true nucleus of an already tight neighborhood, and all because one woman—Torien—envisioned more for the wasted space.
As the long, golden fingers of late afternoon reached into the square, Madeira and Natán left to cart a load of refuse to the dump. Natán’s wife, Judit, and her sister, Maria, relaxed on the curb, watching children drawing flowers on the sidewalk with chalk. Torien had gone into her house for a quick shower, and Iris crossed over to Torien’s front stoop to indulge in a wide-angle view of their creation. She could scarcely believe the transformation.
A crisscross of slate stepping stones met in the middle of the square, where two half-moon wrought-iron and wood benches sat in a comfortable conversational grouping that the old men would love. Small dogwood trees, their fragile trunks braced with plastic-covered chains, set roots around the benches. The triangular garden areas between the paths contained carefully choreographed flowerbeds in a bevy of heights, textures, and colors. Lavender and pink creeping phlox contrasted with cheery white and yellow windflowers. Brilliant yellow goldenrod complemented the tall, fuzzy stalks of purplish gayfeather. Patches of daisies, sweet william, sneezewood, and Iris’s favorite—purple coneflower—edged the entire magnificent array.
Iris’s chest swelled with the kind of pride and pleasure she hadn’t felt in years. They had cemented the community, energized the residents…with plants.
Plants, of all things.
And she had helped.
Sweat, tears, laughter, sore muscles—she had donated all of it.
Behind her, the door opened. Iris spun toward the sound. Torien stood on the other side of the screen, surprise widening her eyes. “Did you knock, Iris? I did not hear you.”
