Three years later
The hot pink vibrator hit the wall with a thud, then raced to the floor, still humming. There went another hundred and fifty-nine dollars. Plus tax. At least the damned thing was durable. Useless but durable. The last one had cost even more and it had cracked on impact and then huddled by the baseboards, a wheezing shell of the dildo it once had been.
I dragged a blanket over my unsatisfied form and glared at the ceiling. Sex therapists, regular therapists, intimate massage. High-end escorts, low-end prostitutes, a host of regular men. Toys expressly designed to tap every pleasure point in a woman’s body. Chemical compounds for stimulation, sensitivity and release. Every natural remedy and old wives’ tale known to man. A goddamn ashram on a rippling stream in the freaking Colorado Mountains.
Nothing.
Well, not exactly nothing. I still got turned on, no problem. My body still made its way through the various stages of arousal and excitement. I still rode the great pleasure tide to its peak. And there I hung, like a surfer caught just before the crest of a radical wave, unable to fall over the edge into blissful, erotic oblivion. No Big O. No little o either. Not since that fateful day in Abuela’s kitchen.
Apparently, taco seasoning was a highly effective hexing agent. Who knew?
A familiar series of raps sounded on my door. Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock. La Cucaracha. My roommate.
“Come in, Livi.”
She toed open the door, a giant mug of coffee in each hand. “Dude! Can’t you turn them off first? Our apartment sounds like Attack of the Killer Bees.” I followed her glance to where my newest waste of money lay buzzing merrily against the hardwoods.
“Damn, look at it go,” she said. “And you pitched that one hard, too. Might have to get one of those for myself.”
She set the mugs on my dresser, picked up an oversized purple umbrella and poked at the shivering toy’s buttons until it went silent. She dropped the umbrella back in place, retrieved our mugs and crossed the room to hand one to me. She plopped into a deep-cushioned scarlet chair nearby and sipped at her agave-sweetened coffee, eyeing me critically all the while.
“You,” she pronounced at last, “look like shit.”
“No, really?” I ran a hand through my blonde mop and tried not to look in the mirror. I knew what I’d see. A mess of tangled yellow curls, weary blue eyes with dark smudges below, cheeks with no glow. The same thing I’d seen every day for the last few months.
“I don’t mean I-just-woke-up-and-masturbated shit, J.J. I mean I-haven’t-slept-in-days-and-my-stress-level-is-through-the-roof shit.”
“You try holding on to an orgasm for three years. See how awesome you look.”
She made a face and shuddered. “No thanks.” She took another few sips. “You can’t keep on like this, you know. What are you going to do?”
I drained my mug, hoping the caffeine would give me some kind of energy. “I have no earthly idea.” In addition to the failed sexual solutions, I’d already carted myself to every known kind of supernatural practitioner. Voodoo, hoodoo, spiritualism, psychics, past-life regression and hypnotism. Plus a handful of random folk medicine specialists, including my Chicana roommate’s own abuela. There was no sign of a curse in my aura. In fact, a “powerful, bright light” apparently surrounded me. One and all, they insisted the hex was in my head.
All except Livi’s grandmother. According to her, the ingredients in the seasoning were powerful blessing agents. According to her, I was under strong magic indeed, and my conflict arose from my hardheaded refusal to fall in love. Much to my frustration, my therapist agreed. Oh, not about the hex. But she thought I was subconsciously punishing myself for Tonio’s death, both by refusing to let love in and to let the orgasm out. Livi, equally dedicated to her heritage and her master’s degree in psychology, thought it was probably somewhere in between. Secretly, I was starting to agree with her.
My best friend since college, Livi was the only person I’d ever met who could pause loudly. I’ve heard her pause so loudly in class that the professor stopped speaking. I’ve seen her pause so loudly on a date that people at nearby tables turned their heads. Sitting curled in my favorite chair that day, her small, dark hands wrapped around the oversized mug, the cacophony of her hesitation nearly shattered my eardrums.
I didn’t really want to know, but I had to ask. “What?”
“What, what?”
“What are you thinking? I recognize that silence. It means I’m not going to like whatever’s skipping through your fertile imagination.”
Her gaze shifted from the dresser to the foot of the bed, to the vibrator. Everywhere but to my face. “I think you should go home.”
“What?”
“Just for a while.”
“What about the shop?”
“Close up for a week.”
“I can’t.”
“So let your assistant run it. Homecoming’s over. You said yourself it’ll be nothing but ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘get well’ bouquets for the next few weeks. How complicated can it be?”
“There’s nothing for me there.” And there wasn’t. Abuela had died just weeks after our now-memorable conversation. She was buried in the town’s only cemetery, a few plots away from her grandson.
“There’s your mother.”
“Because she’s oh so proud that her only child wasted a microbiology degree by becoming a florist.”
“She may be prouder than you think.”
“I doubt it.”
She paused again, this one not quite so deafening. “There’s also your past. It may be the key to your future.” I shot her a skeptical glance, but she just shrugged. “Face it, J.J. Going home is about the only thing you haven’t tried.”
And it was.
* * * * *
Two weeks later, I found myself driving down the primary artery of my very small, very Southern hometown. Main Street hadn’t changed much. Old men still sat on the bench in front of the hardware store and watched the occasional car drive by. Old dogs still snoozed in the beds of pickups parked along the sidewalk. Old memories still floated by on every breeze.
To my surprise, Abuela’s restaurant still dominated the intersection of Main and Monroe. A right at the light would take me to my mother’s house, just a few blocks off the square. On impulse, I pulled into a space, got out of the car and pushed open the front door.
The restaurant hadn’t changed much on the inside either. It was the same in-between hour as the last time I’d been there and a similar quiet hovered over the neatly swept floor and well-polished oak tables. Canned mariachi music played softly in the background, just as it always had. The mingled scents of spiced meat and baking tortillas wafted enticingly from the back. I half expected Abuela herself to come bustling through the saloon-style doors from the kitchen but a tall, well built, thirty-something man popped up from behind the bar instead, his gleaming smile at the ready and a clean beer stein in one strong hand.
I jumped a foot in the air. “Shit!”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I was counting glasses…”
My pulse quickened as I registered broad shoulders and bright-green eyes that contrasted sharply with classic Hispanic features and silky dark hair. For one brief, electric moment, sexual tension crackled in the air, unexpected and disorienting. Then the shock of mutual recognition short-circuited our connection and the atmosphere cooled as the sparks between us fizzled and died. His full, sensuous lips closed over perfect teeth as his smile disappeared. He cleared his throat and set the stein on the bar with exaggerated care. “Hello, Julia.”
Wariness rolled off him in waves and the chill in his tone seemed to seep into my soul. I wished heartily I’d made the turn onto Monroe, but it was too late, so I took a deep breath and let my mother’s etiquette training kick in. “Hello, Taylor.”
Pure, unmistakable desire blazed in his eyes but before I could react he tore his gaze away, snatched up a rag and began wiping down the already sparkling countertop. The muscles in his forearms rippled as he worked and I felt a tiny responsive tingle deep in my core. Great. That boded well. I’d come here on a mission to face the demons of my past, to come to terms with Tonio’s death and my part in it and to stop obsessing over sex and remember how to open my heart. Five minutes into my great quest, I was getting wet over Tonio’s cousin’s forearms. I ignored the tingle and searched for something to say. He beat me to it.
“I don’t use that name anymore.” His tone was bitter and no wonder, considering the way his lily-white father had run for the hills after Tonio’s death. He watched me search my memory for his first name, then shook his head in disgust. “Javier,” he supplied finally.
As soon as he said it, it clicked. I should have remembered. Just one year older than Tonio and me, he’d been his cousin’s best friend. “Yes. Javier. I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Big surprise.”
I bit down my annoyance and tried not to notice how anger turned the line of his jaw to granite. The man had plenty of reason to hate me, after all. Yet a moment ago his eyes had burned with a passion more potent than hate, a passion that drew me to him, compelled me to keep the conversation alive. “I don’t use my name anymore, either,” I ventured, wondering if it was possible—or even wise—to establish some kind of common ground.
“Yeah?” Disinterest dripped from the word and I wondered if I’d misread the situation.
“I, uh, use my initials. J.J.”
“I know what your initials are.” He gave the counter a particularly vicious wipe. “Tonio carved them into every damn thing he could get his hands on.”
Tears stung my eyes. Walking in here had been a mistake. Coming home had been a mistake. I turned to leave, contemplating an immediate return to my safe Atlanta apartment. Who needed orgasms, anyway?
“J.J.” His deep, rich voice froze my hand on the door and buzzed along my spine, calling me a liar. My id sprang to life, waving its tiny hand in the air. Me, me! I need orgasms.
I glanced over my shoulder to see he’d come out from behind the bar. Dark jeans accented slim hips and a blue t-shirt stretched across the tight muscles of his chest. Desire still simmered in his gaze. It had been shoved to the back burner by caution, but was still present and oh so powerful. My body warmed in response and need bubbled through my core despite the stern warnings issued by my brain. Turning up the heat with this man could be a delicious adventure, but it was risky. Given our shared painful past, I didn’t see how either of us could escape without getting burned. Maybe badly. He was the last person in the world I should be attracted to—and the last person in the world who should be attracted to me. Yet the attraction was there and the indecision etched in his features told me he was as conflicted about it as I was.
“You going to be in town a while?” he asked at last.
“About a week.” Was he hoping I’d be gone sooner or….
“Maybe I’ll see you around.” A hesitant half smile tilted his lips.
I returned it, feeling strange and shy. And wet. “See you around.” I pushed through the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. The sun seemed somehow brighter and the town a fraction less lonely. I’d gotten through my first encounter with the past and it hadn’t gone too badly, all things considered. Maybe, just maybe, my quest wasn’t doomed after all. And maybe I’d find more than I’d ever imagined. I strapped on my seatbelt and edged up the radio volume. Drawing courage from Florence and the Machine, I headed for the next hurdle of my journey.
* * * * *
I didn’t grow up in a mansion, but it was imposing by small-town standards—one of those stately old two-stories with fourteen-foot ceilings, a second-story veranda and white columns marching across the front. And a carport my mother referred to as the porte cochere.
She was snipping blossoms in the front garden when I pulled into the drive. She looked up, automatically brushing off her spotless linen skirt, and settled the flower basket’s handle more comfortably at her elbow. My mother’s gardens were the most beautiful I’d ever seen—always a mass of vibrant color, always the perfect selection for a vast array of arrangements and bouquets. Why she found my choice of vocation strange and repulsive was beyond me. Flowers were about the only thing we’d ever had in common.
To my amazement, she refrained from criticizing my old jeans and t-shirt, though a momentary narrowing of her eyes confirmed that she noticed them. We hugged awkwardly, as we always did, and stood for a moment searching for something to say.
“Hi, Mama,” I ventured at last.
“Hello, dear.”
I glanced around at the early fall blooms. “The garden looks good.” It was an understatement. Dahlias, chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies abounded. Indian grass fuzzed along the walkway. The burning bushes looked just about ready to burst into their fall finery. It was, in truth, spectacular. But a compliment of that magnitude would only embarrass my mother.
“Thank you.” She shifted the basket again, then inclined her head slightly. “I’ve got lemonade and cookies on the back portico. If—”
“Sure, Mama. That sounds good.”
She looked relieved. An odd expression for a mother seeing her daughter for the first time in almost three years, but that’s the way it had always been. It’s not that she didn’t love me exactly. She just didn’t have a clue what to do with me most of the time.
We munched and sipped in relatively congenial silence, but I could tell she had something she wanted to say. Most likely about the inappropriateness of my attire.
Sure enough, about the time she refreshed our drinks, she cleared her throat. “Julia…” She paused and cleared her throat again. “I mean, J.J. You don’t look right.”
My eyes widened in surprise. She’d never before acknowledged my chosen nickname, let alone used it. I promptly abandoned my adolescent plan to wear my crummy jeans no matter her objections. One good faith effort deserved another, after all. “I know. I’ll change in a minute. They’re just so comfortable to drive in.”
She stared at me blankly, then waved a slim, manicured hand. “I don’t care about the jeans.”
Whoa. Another one for the record books.
“I mean your face, your eyes. Are you…well?” A quaver threaded through the question and into the next. “Is that why you came home? To tell me you’re sick? Is it… bad?”
I stared at her in disbelief. Her forehead was drawn and her mouth trembled. My mother—the original steel magnolia, the woman who hadn’t shed a tear since my daddy died twenty years before, the pillar of strength and Southern reserve—looked terrified and on the verge of crumbling to a sobbing heap on the sun-kissed cobblestone porch.
“I’m not sick. Not at all.”
She peered at me as if trying to assess my honesty. Her shoulders slumped. “Thank God.”
“Mama, I’m fine. I swear.” Without thinking I knelt in front of her chair and pulled her into a hug. Her fashionably thin frame felt fragile, almost frail, and the distinct scent of fear undercut the always-present Chanel. After a moment’s stiffness, she relaxed and hugged me back, the way she had when daddy was still alive. For long moments we clung together, making up for years of one-armed back-pat hugs, then she pushed me to arm’s length and peered at me. Her cheeks had some color again and a familiar glint returned to her eyes.
“What’s wrong with you, then? I’m very glad you aren’t sick, but you’re most certainly not all right.”
I rocked back on my heels, wondering how to explain to the garden club president that I was stressed out because I couldn’t come.
“You’re a lesbian, aren’t you?” Her tone was shockingly matter-of-fact, as though she’d had her suspicions for some time and made peace with the idea.
“Mama!”
“It’s fine if you are.”
I didn’t know which was weirder—that my mother thought I was gay or that she’d have been okay with it. “No, I’m not a lesbian. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Well you do go through men awfully quickly, dear. At least you used to. I thought maybe you were trying to hide something. Or fight it off.” My jaw dropped and she shrugged. “That’s what the lesbians had to do in my day, poor things.”
No way was this the mother I’d known and loved from a distance for most of my life. Don’t get me wrong, she was invariably polite to everyone, but she’d been horrified by my relationship with Tonio. I’d never expected her to be so nonchalant about alternative lifestyles.
Her voice broke into my thoughts, crisp and clear. “Close your mouth, for heaven’s sake. You look like a guppy.” That was better. Much more mama-like.
I snapped my jaws shut obediently and returned to my chair.
She picked up a second cookie and examined it as though it might hold the answers to the world. “All right. You aren’t sick and you aren’t gay. Is it the shop? I know this economy is rough for small business owners.” I’d heard her mull over the Sunday crossword puzzle in exactly the same tone and I almost laughed. This was one she’d never get.
“The shop is fine. Thriving, in fact.”
“Hmmm.” She took a thoughtful bite, then chewed slowly. “Money? No. You’re a better financial steward than I am.” Wow, and a compliment into the mix. A red-letter day for sure. She finished the cookie then dusted off her fingers on a monogrammed napkin. “Well, it’s got to be a man, then. I can’t think of anything else horrible enough to send you scurrying home.” She stared at me again. “That’s not right either. You don’t look like you’re in love. Unless he’s in the military or doesn’t love you back.” I shook my head, still mute, and she blew out an impatient sigh.
“I give up. You’re going to have to tell me.”
Fat chance. “I just have some things to think through and I needed to get away to do it.” Close enough.
She sipped the last of her lemonade and eyed me. At long last, she nodded. “All right, dear. Take all the time you need. Shall I plan on you for dinner tonight?”
“Sure. I’d like that.”
“Good.” She rose and patted my cheek. “Don’t come to the table dressed like a hobo.” She smiled when she said it.
I spent the rest of the afternoon staring into the back lawn.