“Well, I guess that about covers everything.” Doc commented dryly. “When are they gettin’ married?”
Kat ignored her husband’s comments. “She told me she doesn’t have any plans this weekend; so, I took the liberty of arranging this dinner for the four of us. Now, boys, please no arguments. Mother knows best.”
Deacon looked over at Doc and shook his head.
When the tall blonde entered, she captured Deacon’s attention, along with everyone else in the restaurant. The room seemed to grow quiet as she threaded her way through the closely set tables. She, Deacon thought, cuts through the conversational din as neatly as Moses must have parted the Red Sea.
At five feet ten inches in black four-inch closed-toe pumps, she towered over the sitting patrons. Her tight, black skirt stopped six inches below her knees. A side-split, which was at least eighteen inches in length, broke with each delicate step revealing a muscular tanned leg. A large golden buckle on a wide patent leather belt, loosely counted each step. Long shapely arms protruded from a short sleeve sculpted white sweater, which outlined statuesque breasts. Natural-blonde locks spilled over semi-bare shoulders. Big, blue, intelligent eyes sparkled, jeweled accents to a refined nose, high cheekbones, and full red lips.
Without hesitation, she walked to their table. By the time she arrived Kat was already on her feet. They hugged. Deacon’s heart pounded. A magnetic field swept through him; dizzied by emotion, his breathing stopped.
“You must be Deacon,” she said in a raspy, sultry voice.
Their connection steamed over Deacon like a freight train. He attempted to stand, but his knees were rubber. It was much more than animal attraction. It was a supernatural bond. Deacon had always hoped that magic existed; in that moment he was sure it did.
After an embarrassing silence, he found his voice. “Yes, yes, I am, and you must be Estrella.” He strived to pronounce her name correctly. “I am very happy to meet you.” The train left the station; there was no getting off. It did not matter. Escape was the last thing on Deacon’s mind.
Before that Saturday night in May of his twenty-ninth year, Deacon Jones did not believe in love at first sight, or the absolute connection between two people, which can transcend time and space. In the span of a breath, one he had not expected to take, he felt as though he had always known Estrella. Everything she said made perfect sense.
By the time dessert arrived, Deacon was convinced she was the woman with whom he would spend the rest of his life. I want to take this slow, he told himself. I’m sure of the outcome, but this is the time when memories are made.
Deacon gingerly kissed her cheek, a cautious, good night kiss. They stood, toe-to-toe, in front of the battered door of her apartment. Kat and Doc waited in the car with the engine idling. His lips touched her skin; electricity ignited his whole being. It’s going to be even better than I imagined. He thought.
“May I call you tomorrow?” He hoped his question was rhetorical.
“You, my dear, may call me always. Deacon, I believe I know what you’re feeling. I just want to say, I feel the same.”
He kissed her again, sweetly, on the other cheek. He backed away, reluctantly, holding her hands until they could reach no further.
Estrella remained in the open doorway; she waved as the car pulled away.
Deacon held her in his frozen gaze for longer than he could see. He faced forward, oblivious to his mute friends. A few blocks from their home, Kat twisted in her seat, and looked knowingly into his eyes. He smiled. “Kat, you were right.”
*****
After the taillights disappeared, Star backed into her drab apartment. She kicked off her heels, laughed aloud, and admired her flawless image in the hallway mirror. “Perfect.”
Estrella and Deacon were inseparable. They were only apart during the workday. The first week was gradual and sensuous. Deacon’s courtship pleased Star very much. It was Shakespearean, like Bridget’s hero, exactly what she had planned and expected. He bought fresh flowers every day; every meal, in or out, was eaten by the light of flickering candles.
The first time their lips touched, she felt him tremble. That’s It, doll, she thought conceitedly. You’re all mine.
*****
A week to the moment had passed since they met, Deacon collapsed on the tan fabric sofa in Estrella’s tiny living room. It had been a joyous day in the blistering sun with the wind in their faces. Widowmaker did not miss a beat. They returned exhilarated from the ride, still tingling with the phantom vibration of the machine.
When Estrella returned from freshening up, it was as though an angel entered the room. Her thick blonde hair, piled atop her head, looked like a natural crown held in place by a golden bow. Gold rope earrings reached her shoulders. She wore only a white diaphanous silk blouse with long sleeves and tails. Backlit, by a light in the bedroom, the silk appeared to glow. Scooped sides framed a white satin garter. White silk stockings disappeared into red-soled white pumps.
With seductive steps, she glided across the room, and stretched out her hand. Long perfect pink nails beckoned. He took her hand; it felt as though he levitated to his feet. Her silk veil fluttered, and resettled on erect nipples.
Without a word, she thrust him lovingly back, straddled him, and formed her body to his. Her delicate scent was intoxicating. She loosed her hold, leaned back, and captured his eyes with hers. Penetrating blue orbs floated in an ocean of passion. With her palms on his cheeks, she drew him into a long, sensuous kiss.
Deacon labored to breath; every muscle tensed. He looked up, searching for firmer emotional footing. He closed his eyes. His mind went blank. Her delicious lips parted. Her tongue explored.
She responded to the stirring in his jeans. Her movements centered on the bulge. He tried to concentrate, to control overwhelming desire. Elusive yellow light, from legions of burning waxen strings, danced on white walls, and illuminated luscious skin.
Deacon struggled to slow the natural ascension to ecstasy. His bodily need grew, geometrically, beyond mental control. He ached to be one with the love of his life. He grasped the silk with both hands. Her firm grip covered his; she took control and slid the fabric down.
“Let’s wait.” She whispered urgently. “I want you, doll, but I want to wait.” She kissed him, and resumed a slow, sensuous gyration.
“Estrella,” Deacon gasped, “I want you, now.” Her intensity increased. She kissed him again, more deeply than before. It washed over his entire being, like a tsunami. He arched his back and tightened his grip. “Estrella,” he whispered hoarsely.
With a single powerful movement, she pushed away and lifted herself off. She spread her muscular legs, placed her hands on her hips, and looked down upon him. Perfect white teeth sparkled. “Oh, doll, you are so good.”
“Wow,” he sighed.
The complex aroma, of chocolate and macadamia nut Hawaiian coffee combined with bacon, permeated the air and dragged Deacon from a deep sleep. Estrella, wearing only a short cotton bathrobe decorated with tiny pastel flowers, was busily turning bacon.
Deacon quietly slipped up behind her and wrapped muscular arms around barely covered shoulders. Using only his nose, he pushed aside her straight damp hair, and sensuously kissed the back of her neck.
They did not go outside that day.
“How’d you hurt yourself?” She asked as she traced the edges of the large bandage on his upper arm.
“It’s a long story,” he answered dully.
Deacon stretched out on the sofa; Estrella curled up beside him on the floor. “I have all day,” she whispered between wet kisses.
“For you to understand what’s under this bandage, I must tell you all the dirty secrets of my life. Are you sure you want to know?”
“Doll, I want to know everything. Trust me. We’re going to be together always, no matter what. Your story is just that, your story. It can’t—nothing can—change how I feel.”
“Okay, but I have to go slow. A lot of this I haven’t
thought about for a very long time. I should start by telling you about the Reverend.”
It took hours for Deacon to tell the story of his life; he cried often. When he spoke of his mother, his voice softened. Not a single memory was funny. He never smiled in the telling of the emotionally draining details.
“But, I don’t understand, it sounds like your parents tried to give you a good life. There are a lot of people who would give anything to have two parents, or even one, especially parents that love you.”
“If my father loved me, he certainly had a strange way of showing it. I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, but I never felt like I was a part of them. I never really felt like a son.”
He saw sadness and understanding in her concerned face. Estrella dropped her watery eyes and turned away. “Show me the tattoo,” she whispered.
She gently caressed his painted skin.
“I have already told you. I lost my parents a long time ago,” Estrella said as she traced the atrocity on Deacon’s arm. “I don’t want you to misunderstand my reaction to your story. It’s important that you know, and understand, what it’s like for people who have no family. After my mother died, I was alone. I lived with people who didn’t want me. At least your parents loved you, even if they didn’t know how to show it.” She paused, padded off to the kitchen, and returned with glasses of Coke.
“Here,” she handed him the glass, “get comfortable. Let me tell you my story. I’ll begin at the beginning.”
Deacon propped himself up, and took a sip from the glass. “Is this old?” He frowned.
She took his glass and tasted it. “It’s just Coke, plain old cola from one of the little bottles. I think they’re stronger—where was I?
“My mother was a Mexican, and my father was American. He died fighting in Vietnam not long after I was born. The only memories that I have of him are from the wonderful stories my mother used to tell. He was so kind to her. Their life together must have been like a dream, the great American dream.
“Then, he was killed, and with him, they buried a huge part of her happiness. But, you know what, she never showed her sadness to me. She only talked about all the marvelous things from their life together.
“Mother was a vision. She was so beautiful, and delicate beyond description. She spoke perfect English and Spanish. She was the bilingual assistant to the president of a large import-export company.
“She used to tell me that when I was born, I was like a little angel sent to save her. Not a day passed that she didn’t remind me of what a precious part of her life I was. She named me Estrella, which is Spanish for Star. She always called me, mi Estrellita, which means my little Star.
“Our house was really small, but she decorated it with beautiful Mexican things. She said all of our treasures would help me to know, and appreciate, my proud Mexican heritage. My favorite souvenir from Mexico was a big hand-carved obsidian-glass ball created by volcanic eruption. For me it was magic. It was probably about four inches in diameter, but it seemed huge. We kept it on a basket-weave stand in the center of the coffee table in our living room.
“Every afternoon, after school, I would sit on the floor next to that table at eye level with that beautiful black ball. When the sun was low enough, the rays would capture my ball and mystically illuminate an otherwise invisible band of gold. Pure gold, I always thought. It ran completely through the center of the sphere. In those moments when that gold band glowed, I would make one wish, always the same one. I wished that my life would never change, that my mother and I would be happy, and we would be together for the rest of our lives.
“Then, when I was seven…” Estrella’s voice trailed off. The color drained from her face, and her eyes welled up with tears. In a broken, halting voice, she continued. “She became ill. I didn’t really understand what it meant to have cancer. All I knew was that my mother spent too much time in bed. She stopped going to work. Our Christmas tree was still in the living room when she died. It was May, a few days before my eighth birthday.” She sobbed.
Deacon wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.
She sighed deeply. “Almost immediately, they took me to a foster home. I had no other family. They wouldn’t let me take any of our things. They didn’t even let me pack my own clothes. My foster mother packed for me. I remember that day vividly, as if it was yesterday. They took me away, half-dragging, half-carrying me. I remember begging for my magic black ball.
“I still have nightmares about that day, with my arms outstretched and my fingers helplessly grasping at air. It’s always the same. The closer I get, the further away the ball.” She rocked back and forth. “Then, it disappears into an open grave, and I’m falling, falling, and bam—I’m awake.”
“Oh, Estrellita, it must have been awful. I’m so sorry. You can tell me the rest another day. Let’s just be together. I understand why your mother thought you were her little angel because I think you’re my angel, too. Sent here to save me from myself; sent here to cure me.
“Before I met you, I was drowning in my own life, at my own hand, and my existence had no value. I was a lost soul, but from the first moment we met, I knew you were special. I knew you would become an important part of my life. I’m so drawn to you, so revived by you; all my problems seem like nothing.”
“I know,” she said, “I was sent here to change your life by something much greater than either of us.”
Sunday morning, shortly before daylight, Deacon fell, arms flailing, soaked in sweat, from Estrella’s bed. His impact with the well-worn pine floor made a resounding thud. The serpent had returned.
“Easy, doll, take it easy. It was only a nightmare. You’re okay. I’m here. I’m here for you.”
She knelt beside him on the floor, and massaged his back. After several minutes, she whispered. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Deacon leaned against the mattress, trembling, absorbing the therapeutic heat from the steaming stoneware vessel. A slice of lemon floated just beneath the rippling surface of the greenish-clear liquid. “What is it?” He asked weakly as he lifted the cup to his nose.
“It’s your cure, doll. Put your faith in me. You said I’m everything you need, and I’m going to prove you right. I’m going to take care of you from now on. Drink your toddy.”
He took a cautious sip. The bitter taste of bourbon assaulted his senses with an abstemious alarm. Perplexed, he looked first at the cup, then incredulously back into the innocent face of the woman he adored.
“This is whiskey. I can’t drink! I can’t handle it! Wait a minute, last night, the Coke. No wonder it didn’t taste right. It was rum, wasn’t it? I can’t do this. When I drink, I go out of control. I black out,” The cup slipped from his shaking hand.
“Estrella, darling, please, you have to help me not drink. It’s only been a few weeks since I went through withdrawal; it was horrible. When I drink, I do things I can’t remember. Worst of all, I have the same hideous goddamn nightmare.”
Deacon crawled to his feet and steadied himself against the second-hand bureau of drawers. From the mirror, an incredulous stranger examined him. Perspiration dripped from his disheveled hair; his skin was pale.
“Oh, doll, I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked. “I put a little rum in your coke last night, but only to help you sleep. I’ve known plenty of alcoholics and addicts, and they weren’t anything like you. Your only problem is drinking to excess. A little booze won’t hurt you. On TV the other day, they were talking about how a little red wine every day is actually good for your heart.”
“What about the nightmare?” He asked as he splashed cold water on his face. “I haven’t had it since I stopped drinkin’. Then, last night I drink some rum and coke, we uncover the tattoo, and it starts all over again.”
“Doll, those things are totally unrelated. It was just a coincidence. Listen to me, alcohol is not your problem. The tattoo is not your problem. Your problem is your parents, your childhood, and your past. I
t’s guilt, or unfinished business, or regret, or longing, or God only knows what else. Whatever it is, and no matter how long it takes, we’re going to work through it, together. Don’t push me away. I want to help.” Tears ran down both cheeks.
Deacon’s demeanor lightened; she slipped into his arms. After several minutes, she stepped back and took his hands in hers. “Why don’t we talk about your dreams?” She suggested. “I’ll tell you what I know about their interpretation.”
They dressed and sat together on the sofa. “I told you about my nightmare when I lost my mother’s obsidian ball. What I haven’t told you is that I used to have a lot of nightmares. They started right after my mother died, and they went on for years. There was one in particular about a man, a big ugly man who was missing part of his face. He had me pinned down on my back, and I was screaming at the top of my lungs, but no one heard me.
“In another one my father was dressed in camouflage fatigues and walking alone through the jungle. Small featureless men, dressed in black, were sneaking up behind him. I cried out, but he couldn’t hear me. The men were closing in, and he couldn’t see them. I tried to run to him. I could feel myself moving, but I wasn’t getting closer. The men started shooting; the bullets ripped through my father. He screamed. The rifle fire was deafening, but I heard nothing. It was deafening silence, if that makes any sense.”
“What did you do?” Deacon petted her. “Do you still have nightmares?”
“Those three are just a sample. There were a lot more. Some are just too hideous to discuss.
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