An Evening at Joe's

by Gillian Horvath

  When they had been delayed on their journey, he was afraid they had been deprived of this place, of this moment. His disappointment had turned to anger, and his anger had nearly driven her away. But Alexa was strong, he'd seen that strength before he'd ever even asked her name, and she'd come to him and healed him and purified him. They had discovered wonders about each other that even he, after so many years, had never imagined. Last night was a night of exploration and learning, a night when two people became fully whole after living half empty for too long. Today, those two would become one.

  He sat on the bed beside her, picked up a single white rose from the nightstand, and handed it to her. "I hope you like roses," he said, a bit of a shy grin playing around his mouth.

  Alexa's eyes were bright with unshed tears which reflected the glow of the candles. "I hope you removed the thorns," she said, trying to keep the moment light.

  He held her close and looked into those eyes. "I promise you, every thorn that it is within my power to remove." And then he kissed her. He could feel the warm path of her tear on his face, then another as they glided down her cheeks toward her lips, where both he and Alexa tasted their bitterness in shared communion as their tongues sought each other.

  His first taste of Alexa, his first taste of a woman in years, had been an explosion as senses he had thought long dormant reawakened and fired into urgency. Now, though his senses still thrummed, he could savor the moment. He held her close, drinking deep of her essence, enjoying the feel of his tongue as it rubbed against her teeth, delighting in the tiny sounds Alexa made in the back of her throat. Bodies unmoving, their entire lifeforce focused into their lips, their mouths— he was content to remain that way forever.

  But Alexa, not having forever, was hungry for more. Without breaking the kiss, she reached behind him and began to pull the Irish fisherman's sweater he wore over his head. She succeeded only in getting it hopelessly entangled around the two of them. The kiss finally broke as they began to giggle, the sweater caught over both Adam's head and Alexa's.

  "Whoa, whoa, Tiger, not so fast," Adam laughed as he freed them from the tangled wool.

  "And why not?" she asked, taking the sweater and tossing it at the nightstand, leaving Adam shirtless.

  He smiled, pleased at the changes he could see in Alexa after only one night of affection and attention. A closed blossom, ashamed of her body and afraid of intimacy, was slowly beginning to flower. "Because the night is still young, and I'm an old man," he teased.

  "Old man, my ass," she laughed, tracing the definition of his biceps with a finger. He stood and reached for his duffel, and she watched the movement of his sinewy torso in the candlelight. "Guess I must just have a thing for older men."

  Adam removed a green jar and a small box from his duffel and set them on the nightstand, then kicked off his shoes. He stood before Alexa clad only in his jeans. "Besides, this isn't about me. It's about you."

  "Sounds ominous." Alexa looked at him with mock wariness. "Should I be afraid?"

  "Never be afraid of me," he said, reaching for the clips that bound back her hair. He carefully unclasped them and Alexa shook her head, allowing the hair to tumble down, long and loose. He fingered a long, silken strand, let it fall, then kissed her on the top of the head. Her head against his chest, she reached out to clasp him around the waist, but he stopped her. "Not yet," he admonished, a twinkle in his eye.

  "Tease," she accused.

  "Wouldn't have it any other way," he said, reaching for the hem of the oversized tunic which concealed her body from the light. He pulled it up and over her head and dropped it on the floor behind him, and her flowing hair framed her milky shoulders like a painting. She smiled her encouragement as he sat beside her, but her eyes crinkled mischievously when he reached behind her to unfasten her bra. He was thrown for an instant when he found no fastener whatsoever, until Alexa reached around and guided his hands to the front. He had encountered and conquered countless variations on women's undergarments, from chastity belts to corsets, but this fastener stymied him. He gave her his best hurt puppy look and she relented, raising her arms, allowing him to pull the offending garment off over her head.

  "You did that on purpose, didn't you?" he said.

  She laughed and said, "Moi?" as she pulled off her shoes and then looked up at him expectantly. "What next?"

  She was radiant as she sat under the canopy of her rose-covered marriage bed, her face a gentle pink in anticipation. There had been many marriage beds, of different cultures and different faiths, and many women, more perhaps than one man should be allowed—perhaps five thousand years were more than one man should be allowed. But he had loved each one as much as he could, for as long as he could, whether it was one year or eighty, and he cherished the memory of each in his heart forever. But in this time and in this place, Alexa outshone them all. He reached for the box on the nightstand, knelt before Alexa on both knees, and handed it to her. "I want you to have this."

  As she opened the box, he once again glimpsed her look of wonder and awe, until she reluctantly closed the box and handed it back to him. "Adam... I couldn't... you've done so much already."

  "Please. For me."

  She looked into his eyes as he knelt before her, and relented. He opened the box and pulled out the necklace, its gemstones twinkling in the candlelight reflected by its golden bangles. It took her breath away. She couldn't imagine what it might be worth. "Adam, how could you—?"

  "It's an old family heirloom," he interrupted her. "Please wear it."

  "Now?"

  He got up from his knees and sat on the bed behind her. "Please," he said simply. He placed the necklace around her neck, fastening the clasp in the back, then turned her toward him, admiring how the bangles and stones caressed her throat before dipping down to end in a flawless crystal perfectly positioned between her breasts. A young bride's parents customarily bedecked her with whatever gold and jewelry the family could afford in preparation for her union. But Alexa had no family, no one to escort her to the bridal chamber, no one to give her away. No one, now, except Adam.

  "It's lovely," she said, a bit breathlessly.

  "You're lovely," he corrected, the barest hint of a catch in his voice, for she was beautiful indeed, and he knew how fortunate he was to have found her. He stood and offered her a hand to stand as well. He reached his arms around her tiny waist and unzipped her billowy gauze skirt, which fell in soft folds around her ankles. She stepped out of the skirt, her body covered only by her silken panties, and Adam scooped her up in his arms once again.

  "Ad-am," she scolded in jest.

  "Last time," he grinned. "I promise," and he carried her to the center of the bed and laid her carefully down in the midst of the rose petals.

  She arched in pleasure at the cool touch of the gentle petals and settled onto the bed with a sigh, her hair spread out in luxurious waves behind her. Adam gazed at her, arranged across the pillows like Venus come to earth, veiled only by a narrow strip of palest silk, and he suddenly wanted her more than he had ever dreamed. The urge to take her, then and there, was stronger than any he'd felt in centuries.

  But he didn't. Couldn't.

  This was her marriage bed, and he would never give her cause to fear him. As he'd assured Alexa earlier, this wasn't about him and his needs, no matter how strong. This was about her.

  He picked up the green marble jar and sat close to her on the bed. She reached out for him, wanting him as much as he wanted her. He took her hand and kissed it, savoring for a moment her scent mingling with that of the roses. Then, summoning the discipline of a monk, he placed her hand on her tummy.

  Alexa rolled to one side to look at him. "Adam?" she asked, half in frustration, half in fear. "Is something wrong? Did I—?"

  He placed a calming finger to her lips. "Shhh, it's okay. You'll like this part. Trust me."

  "Don't I always?" she said, a bit halfheartedly, and he realized she was retreating to that place she went when he scare
d her, her refuge when she thought she'd angered him. He'd have to work to rebuild her trust. He held out the marble jar and twisted the lid free. He took a little of the ointment inside and rubbed it into his fingers. He allowed the fragrance to waft over him, to envelop him and enter him, and for a moment he was lost in the memories the fragrance stirred up in him, memories of life and pleasure and pain and death. He dipped the tips of his fingers into the precious liquid again and gently but carefully, with long deliberate strokes, massaged the oil into her temples, across her forehead, around her eyes which had closed at the first touch of his hand to her face, and into her cheeks, which grew rosier as the warmth of the oil penetrated her skin.

  She took a short, tentative breath and her eyes opened and grew wide at the unfamiliar scent. In Alexa's world, sense of smell was the least useful of the five senses, handy for letting you know when the milk went bad. She'd never encountered a smell that claimed you, possessed you, tried to make you one with it. Involuntarily, she inhaled deeply and allowed the almost living scent to fill her. She held her breath as long as she could bear, then exhaled slowly, trailing off into a little sigh.

  "Like it?" he asked with a grin, already seeing the answer in her face, in her eyes. His fingers, warm and throbbing from the oil, danced along the contours of her face, massaging the ointment into cheek and jaw and chin. He lingered around her mouth, tiny careful strokes, kneading the skin, the lips, knowing each pass of his hand set nerves atingle, brought those lips to life. She opened her mouth as he drew a long finger across her lower lip and she caught the finger between her teeth in a delicate nip. "Hey! You don't play fair."

  She released his finger with a laugh and spoke between deep cleansing breaths. "Me? You! My God, Adam, what is this stuff?"

  He showed her the green marble jar full of milky yellow liquid and spoke a word in a language already dying when he was young. Switching to a tongue more recently dead, "Olibanum," he said. "Frankincense."

  "Frankincense?" she repeated, incredulous. "Like the Wise Men?"

  "Like the Wise Men."

  "‘Gold, frankincense, and myrrh,' frankincense?"

  "With a little oil of jasmine and a few other surprises." He poured some of the mixture into his palms and began rhythmically kneading it into her throat, her neck. "Believe me, you wouldn't like myrrh. Nasty stuff." Myrrh was reserved for the anointing of the dead. They would both know myrrh soon enough. Reaching under her hair, he rubbed the ointment into the join of head and neck and spine until he felt it relax and he guided her head gently back to a pillow.

  Alexa was lost in her childhood Bible lessons. "Thou anointest my head with oil. My cup overfloweth." Not some dry words on a page, it was beginning to make her feel warm and vibrant and alive.

  "Exactly. Although if you think I'm going to stop with your head, you're sadly mistaken." He poured a dollop of oil directly in the well between her breasts, under the crystal necklace. The cold oil made her gasp as it touched the tender skin, but almost immediately she could feel its warmth start to reach into her chest. Using firm, deliberate motions, he began to work the oil and where his hands went, fire reached into her soul.

  In Canaan, the women gleamed like the sun as they approached their bridegroom. In Egypt, the scent was darker, muskier; the priest's unguent thick and rich. In Babylon, the mother of the groom anointed the bride in preparation for her son, but he had had no mother and so the queen herself prepared his chosen one. He massaged the precious oils into Alexa's tummy, and then, even more tenderly, into her scars. Modern medicine, so quick to reject the remedies of the past—over time the ointment could have softened them, made them less noticeable, and the simple act of touching them would have helped Alexa accept them as part of herself. The Babylonians had used a different ointment for this nearly sacred area of a woman's body, consecrated oils to promote fertility and ease the pain of childbirth. But both he and Alexa were doomed in their separate ways to never know the joy of children.

  Standing, he moved to the foot of the bed and, covering his hands with oil, carefully rubbed it into her feet. The Chinese believed pressure points in the feet had power over the heart, the mind, the emotions. Even the Christians, with their deep hatred of the human body, considered anointing the feet sacred. The feet were second only to the hands in sensuality and Alexa's, in addition to being sensitive, were apparently also ticklish, but her sudden "Hey!" quickly settled into something not unlike a quiet purr as his thorough massage continued.

  Finally, he could stand it no longer. He pulled her to him and kissed her deeply once again, relishing the taste that was so uniquely Alexa. He could drink her soul, sample her essential lifesblood. It spoke of strength and passion and goodness. It mixed with the frankincense and jasmine coursing through her veins. And there, subtly, almost imperceptible, another taste all too familiar—the bitter tang of death, waiting. It flavored her body like it flavored her life. As his lips crushed hers perhaps more forcibly than he'd intended, as if to prove he would not be driven away by the taint of death, Alexa cried out and, tangling both hands in his hair, pulled him down with her onto the bed of roses.

  Not one scribe in a hundred generations could convey the sweet sound Alexa made as the two became whole, husband and wife, bound together. His own voice rumbled in the base of his throat, the deep trill of meditation, as he felt her protect him with her body. Time seemed to stop as he savored the oneness with Alexa, two souls sharing a single body, united forever in the moment. And, as one, they became aware of the rhythm of the earth and sky and sought together to match it.

  But after a short while, Adam also became aware of the rhythm of footsteps on the stairs, a niggling sensation on the border of his awareness. And when the footsteps stopped just outside their door, he was jerked roughly back to reality.

  "Yes, mother?" he asked of the Hopi woman he knew was standing outside the suite after a moment of awkward silence.

  "Is something wrong?" Alexa whispered to him urgently.

  Mary Crow's voice was obviously embarrassed. "I, um, it's almost dinner time and I was wondering if you kids were hungry yet."

  "Not for food, no," Adam answered, a bit exasperated, and Alexa giggled into his chest. He liked the way that felt against his skin. But it was obvious to him that was not Mary's primary reason for interrupting them. "And...?" he encouraged her to continue.

  "And... Garrett just called. I'm sorry, Adam, but you're not going to get to see the Canyon. Congress adjourned 'til after the holidays. They've called out the National Guard to keep trespassers away." Alexa may not even have noticed the shadow that crossed Adam's face, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. "I'm so sorry," Mary continued, outside the door, "I know how much it meant to you... for Alexa... "

  Alexa, though disappointed by the news, told her, "Don't worry, Mary. It's okay, really."

  Adam dismissed Mary with a bright "Thanks for the news. No need to hold dinner on our account." Then, after he was sure he heard Mary start back down the stairs, he gave Alexa's ear a quick tug with his teeth. "Now, where were we...?" he teased, as rose petals fluttered to the floor around them.

  Mary Crow found Alexa later that evening curled up in a tight ball on the bed covered by a woven Indian blanket. She could tell Alexa had been crying, but the Indian woman tried to put on a bright face, knowing the cause. "On his way out, Adam said he thought you might want something to eat." Mary put a tray next to her on the bed.

  Alexa didn't look at her or the tray. "That was nice of him," she said, all inflection drained from her voice. "I don't suppose he told you where he was going? I woke up and he was... gone."

  "He just said he had to run into town to get a few things." Mary saw Alexa's shoulder shake as she choked back a sob. "Honey, is everything all right?" she asked.

  "No," Alexa said, turning to face her, "no, it's not all right." She sat up on the bed, still wrapped in the Indian blanket. "I just... there's just no pleasing him. Everything I do... everything I say... it just turns out
all wrong. I tried to make him happy... and now he's gone. He hates me, I know it."

  Mary put a hand on Alexa's shoulder. "He doesn't hate you. I've seen a hundred young couples come through here, and there's always some awkwardness and doubt at the beginning. It's natural. I'm sure he's feeling just as scared and vulnerable as you are."

  "I'm not the one who disappeared as soon as we'd... as soon as..." Just thinking about it brought more tears, and she couldn't get the sentence out. Mary put her arms around her and held her close.

  "There, there," Mary whispered, gently rubbing Alexa's back as she would a child's. "Is this the part where I give you the All Men Are Pigs speech?" She could feel Alexa laugh in spite of herself. "Why don't you eat something," she continued. "My cooking's not quite as good as sex, but it'll do in his absence."

  As Mary reached for the tray of food, Alexa sat up against the headboard and set aside the blanket, uncovering the demure satin negligee she'd put on when she woke up. Mary set up the tray across her lap and handed her a napkin. "We wouldn't want to get that messed up, now would we? It's very pretty."

  Alexa wiped her eyes with the napkin, then tucked it in around her. "My boss, Joe, he had a little party for me before we left. A couple of the bartenders gave it to me." Mike and Lou had called it her "trousseau."

  "Seems a little tame for bartenders."

  "Oh, no, they were like my big brothers. Everybody at Joe's, they were my family." Alexa grew quiet for moment. Mary suspected she was thinking about how she'd never see them again.

  "Now it's my turn," Mary said, breaking the silence. "Here's my contribution to the hope chest." She picked a figurine off the tray and pressed it into Alexa's hand. It was a small doll painstakingly carved from a single piece of smoky-red quartz.