The Cult of the Black Virgin

by Serena Janes

  He snuck a peek at Jo as he walked beside her. She didn’t meet his gaze and her expression was grim. He began to feel uncomfortable.

  But there was nothing he could do.

  In a loud voice he began to relate the history of Martel as they approached its outskirts.

  * * * *

  After a few moments Luc distracted the sports fans in the group by introducing the subject of European football, which Jo understood as soccer. Over the previous few days, the men had already discussed the relative merits and weaknesses of various FIFA and international teams. Ron was a diehard Chelsea fan, Edward was attached to Manchester City, rather than United, for some reason, and Duncan, as a Glaswegian, supported either Rangers or Celtic, as long as one of them was winning. The Aussies’ Soccer’oos were highly touted by the Evans, and Luc, although he feverishly supported the Hibernian while he was living in Scotland, now sang the praises of Olympic Lyonnais.

  Soon, all of the men, except for poor Thomas, who hated all sports on principle, were talking football as they walked. Jo was grateful for the common ground established by the topic. At least the male half of the group, she hoped, could momentarily forget whatever it was that was making them shun her. Of course, all this sports talk left the women to their own devices, but Jo just plugged her earbuds back in and trudged on alone.

  Her walking holiday had hit a bump in the path. Over the next few days she had to salvage her damaged reputation. But she suspected that there was little she could do. Luc was the only one who could make the repairs. Everyone respected him—or at least they had until she entered the equation—and they would likely do as he asked. He would have to tell them he was not married, and therefore free. As she was.

  He wouldn’t like it—his privacy was at stake. But she had to ask him. She could see no other way to stop this poisonous environment from getting worse.

  And the next time she came together with him—for there was no question of ending this now—she had to be more discreet.

  While the men were talking, Carol caught up to Jo on the path, causing Jo to groan silently. She found Carol the most irritating person in the group. But Carol seemed oblivious to anyone’s likes or dislikes, unable to read any but the most obvious of social signals. Out of politeness, Jo had questioned her about Australia a few days earlier. She said she would like to visit Australia and New Zealand one day. Subsequently, Carol’s descriptions of Australian culture took up the better part of the next hour.

  Now, Carol hadn’t said a word to her all day, but for some reason she broke free from the other women to heap unsolicited information on Jo.

  “Did you know,” she said as if she were confiding a great secret, “that Luc is the main cook in his house? He says he does almost all the cooking, and most of the shopping. Can you imagine? What a lucky woman his wife is, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Um, well, yes. I guess so,” offered Jo, reluctantly.

  She wasn’t going to tell Carol that she wasn’t much of a cook herself. If it weren’t for the fact that she lived within walking distance of the Pike Place Market, she would never shop for groceries. She hated supermarkets.

  Carol carried on, “I mean—imagine! Married to a strapping fellow like that, who not only brings home the beef roast, but cooks it too! Some women have it all, don’t they just?”

  “I know what you mean, but I don’t think roast beef is on the menu much in this part of France.” Jo realized she sounded petty when she said this, but she just wanted to change the topic.

  “Oh I know, dear, but just look at him. He’s just so well built that I couldn’t help thinking of beef. He doesn’t much look like a little lamb, now does he?”

  She threw her head back and brayed at her own wit.

  Although Jo was amused by this, she was also annoyed that Carol felt that her lover’s size was a subject open for discussion. Her privacy at stake, she tried to steer the conversation to something less sensitive.

  “So Peter doesn’t cook, then?”

  “Peter? Ha ha ha—ooh noo. Not him. He eats, though. Can’t you tell?”

  As Carol was laughing at the idea of Peter cooking anything at all, Jo confessed that her boyfriend James was quite a good cook. He even had a small collection of cookbooks.

  Carol was amazed. “Your boyfriend’s a cook? Well really! Do all the men in the United States know how to cook, or are you just one of the lucky ones?”

  “Oh I’m one of the lucky ones, all right.” She forced a small laugh. “I don’t know of many men who can cook as well as James. He’s much better at it than I am. Omelets are about all I can do well,” she finally admitted.

  “Really? Well I just don’t know about you career girls these days. I think you should marry that lovely boyfriend of yours. Then you’ll have a right nice life, you will.”

  “I already have a very nice life, Carol. I’m very happy and grateful for what I have. And I just might marry him after all.”

  Liar!

  Jo had meant these words to deflect attention away from what was really being discussed. But as she spoke them she felt their falseness. She wanted Carol to go away.

  But then the real subject was raised. Carol asked, “So tell me, what does your young man think of you running loose and free in France on your own? In Oz our blokes wouldn’t stand for it. They keep us Sheilas on a pretty tight reign, they do.”

  Jo turned to give Carol a pointed look. “I’m not quite running around loose and free. I’m with you lot, aren’t I?”

  Feigning a loose shoelace, Jo stopped suddenly at the side of the path.

  “You go on ahead, Carol. I need to fix something.”

  She’d had enough, and plugging her earbuds back into her head she let the music shut everyone out for the rest of the walk.

  In Martel, a busy little town of commerce, Jo ran into a huge problem. Their accommodation was a gîte. This was quite different from the small hotels they had been accustomed to, for a gîte was an economical, but charming, way to save a few Euros. The idea here was that the married couples each had a private room, but the singles slept in dormitory-style rooms, one for men and one for women. This meant that Jo, Iris and Sarah shared, as did Luc and Duncan. There would be no sneaking into Luc’s room over the next two nights, Jo realized immediately after checking in. Or vice versa.

  Oh great! Sharing a room with Iris is not high on my list of fun things to do. I might be strangled in my sleep.

  The gîte was housed in a very old building, with low, beamed ceilings, and a rustic flagstone floor running throughout the main rooms downstairs. There was a garden in the back, graced with some ancient gnarled fruit trees and a lawn, of sorts. As Jo unpacked her bag, she could hear the sound of a panpipe floating up through the open windows into their room. Someone in the garden was playing a beautiful melody, which embellished the charm of the old stone building. But these details didn’t improve her mood.

  After she got over the shock of having to share a room, she remembered to think about James. She hadn’t actually spoken to him all week and he’d be worried about her. And rightly so. But she really didn’t want to talk to him.

  Perhaps an email would suffice, she thought, and she resolved to find an Internet cafe before dinner.

  All she wanted to do was think about her new lover, the one she might not have a chance to be with again before she had to fly home.

  When could she see Luc alone again? Tonight was out of the question. Where could they go? There were only three more days before their walk was finished. Surely they could manage at least one more tryst? But how? Was he already making a plan? Shouldn’t she just trust him?

  She grew tired of wrestling with the problem. It would sort itself out. Somehow she knew he would sort it out.

  But then the fact the tour was ending very soon caused her to panic. In a few days she’d be on her way back to Seattle. Right now, her home, and the life she lived there, seemed millions of miles away. She wasn’t ready to go back.

  N
o. Luc had moved in and pushed everything else out of her mind. She’d let him virtually take over her life. She didn’t want to go home. All she wanted was more, more, more of her French lover. She felt disgusted with herself, as if she had eaten too much rich food, heavy with the lethargy of being over full. But even though she felt sated, she still craved more.

  And she was so tired, she realized as she sank into the narrow bed in her shared room. Not up to the task of thinking about anything much at all, she would let her body direct her now. And Luc. She would let him determine what she would, or wouldn’t, do over the next three days.

  Without really speaking to each other, Iris and Sarah settled into the room, spacing themselves out among the dormitory-styled beds. Jo was too exhausted to try to break through the armor of their silence. After changing clothes, Sarah announced to the floorboards, “I’m going downstairs for a game of chess with Edward,” leaving the two enemies together. Iris left abruptly afterwards, not bothering to say a word as she banged the door shut behind her.

  Jo breathed a sigh of relief. She tried to nap, but found no solace in rest. After a few minutes she got up and spent an hour bathing, washing and drying her hair, and lightly making up her face. There were unfamiliar dark circles under her eyes. As she tried to cover them with make-up, she noticed that her face was looking thinner.

  Almost too thin. I’m going to have to eat more if I’m going to be getting so much exercise.

  It was true—her clothes were getting a bit loose on her. A little more flesh would probably do her good.

  Well, today was not a day to play the shrinking violet, she decided. If people were angry with her, and if Iris and Carol were going to be sending evil glances her way for the next few days, and if the Evans were so bloody concerned about something that wasn’t anywhere near their business, then she would dress appropriately. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out the splurge outfit she’d bought in Paris. It was too dressy, so she hadn’t worn it earlier in the week. It was also too sexy, and too absolutely gorgeous.

  The slender silk skirt cut on the bias with a flirty little flounce at the knee had fit perfectly two weeks earlier, and although it was now a little loose around the hips, it made her ass look fabulous, she knew. She slipped on a flesh-colored thong, which worked perfectly. She paired the skirt with a snug-fitting sleeveless knit lace top with an elegant high neckline. Its classic ivory color picked up the darker tone of the skirt, and complemented her tanned complexion beautifully. Simple gold jewelry finished the look.

  The formality of the dress required a hairdo, she decided, so she spent time carefully pinning her thick hair up in pretty twists and turns. When she was done she stepped into her strappy sandals and assessed her image in the mirror. She was ready.

  Armed with her beauty and the happiness that flooded her body every time she thought of her lover, she walked regally into the bar. Everyone was sitting with a drink at hand. Luc immediately caught her eye, but she looked right through him, a plastic smile pasted onto her face.

  “Ah, so here’s our American beauty, at last,” crooned Peter as she sat down beside him. He, at least, wasn’t shunning her. If anything, he was more flattering, bolder in his leering.

  Jo ordered a drink, which she intended to nurse through the next hour. She had to avoid getting tipsy. She knew she needed all her faculties to keep things from falling apart over the next few days while she schemed how to get what she wanted.

  A few minutes later, their hostess, Madame Guillmont, hobbled into the room, leaning heavily on her cane. She was a funny duck. A true eccentric, she enjoyed meeting new people and trying to shock them by confessing the most intimate details of her personal life. Surviving three husbands, she was now widowed for the last time. She swore it would be the last time, too, as if anyone would doubt her. After all, wasn’t she getting too old for such nonsense, being in her seventies?

  Luc introduced her to everyone but she seemed to take special interest in the lovely Mademoiselle Clifford. The old woman pushed her way into Jo’s face and monopolized her attention. She asked Jo all about her love life. And despite the directness of the old woman’s questioning, Jo warmed to her and began to loosen up a little. She told her all about James, making him seem some sort of super-human boyfriend, the kind most girls could only dream of. She noticed that Luc was straining to hear everything she said.

  When Madame asked how she and James had met, Jo began to tell the story, noticing that all of a sudden everyone in the room was her audience.

  “Well, it was fortuitous, you could say. I was invited on a Seattle harbor cruise to watch a fireworks display one night last spring. I didn’t know the owner of the boat, but I joined my parents and my aunt Marcella and a few others for a little champagne and some sightseeing. After awhile my aunt, as usual, embarrassed me by calling out across the deck, Oh Joa-nn-a! There’s someone here who wants to me-e-t you. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you for the last hour!

  “Of course I turn red and look over to see who she’s put on the spot this time—besides me, I mean.”

  Jo laughed as remembered her favorite aunt’s habit of cutting through social niceties to get to the meaty stuff.

  “And I saw this handsome and rather over-dressed man who should have been blushing even more than I was. But he wasn’t. That was James.”

  “And what did he do then?” asked Glenda, obviously enjoying the story.

  “Cool as can be he just walked over and introduced himself, first to me, then to my aunt, and that was that. We’ve been together ever since.”

  “So when are you going to make it legal?” injected a slightly tipsy Marcie.

  Jo felt Luc’s glare burning into her. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe next year,” she mumbled as she took a deep drink from her wine glass.

  The crowd eventually went back to its own business and Jo looked at Luc. He was ignoring her, standing next to madame, his arm draped loosely around her bent shoulders. It was obvious he was one of the old widow’s favorite patrons. She was telling everyone how much she looked forward to Luc’s visits, and that she always had a special bottle of wine waiting for him.

  At eight, their hostess took Luc by the arm and ushered the group into the dining room, promising an excellent meal. As a result of hearing Jo’s story, the group’s dynamic had shifted. She seemed to have vindicated herself, at least a little. Everyone was more relaxed, she thought. Except her lover—she sensed a restrained tension in him.

  She tucked herself safely into a corner seat beside Thomas and Ellen and concentrated on being a model of virtue. A sexy model of virtue. She ordered the veal Provençal and drank only one more glass of wine. And she made a point of speaking to every single person as she ate, even Iris, who was forced to respond.

  Over dinner Luc was quieter than usual. Most of his conversation was in French, as he chatted up their hostess, who hovered behind his chair at the head of the table. This pleased Madame to no end. She babbled and fawned and giggled like a girl. It made Jo happy to see him behaving so generously. She suspected that, like James, he was a kind man.

  The meal restored Jo a little, and she was able to put the day in perspective. Not all was lost, much was won. Yes, she was scared, but she was also happy. So she had the morals of a Tijuana street dog. But life had never been richer. She had never been living so fully.

  And although everybody knows, they haven’t burned me at the stake yet. As long as I behave myself tonight, I might escape unscathed. Luc still wants me—I can see that—and God knows I want him.

  Edward, sitting across from her, ventured a comment. “You seem very gay tonight, Joanna. How do you think you’ll manage sharing a room?”

  She turned her shiny, happy eyes onto her neighbor and confessed that she had no problem sharing, and that she’d actually welcome the company. Lying was becoming so easy to her now that she didn’t feel a shred of shame.

  As Edward began to tell her of other parts of France that he and Glenda had visited, J
o’s mind began to drift back to Luc.

  Maybe tomorrow. In the afternoon, somehow. The schedule promised some free time then.

  After coffee, some of the diners, including Luc, lingered over a glass of brandy. Jo didn’t take the brandy, but she used the extra time spent at the table to look around the intimate, candlelit room, built of stone and enormous oak beams. Despite the precarious situation she’d placed herself in, life was so full right now, she was thinking. So rich.

  So full of sensual pleasures—the sights, smells, sounds and tastes of the evening were all beautiful. Had she ever noticed how much there was to savor in even the most ordinary of things? A candle’s flame. The shadows it created. The reflection of its light in Luc’s eyes. Off the side of his face. The sound of his laugh. She found she couldn’t stop smiling.

  When she shifted her body in the chair, still aching slightly from the pleasure of the last few days, she thought again of the secret she’d discovered about herself. She hadn’t known two people could be so complementary. She felt lucky, blessed even. Even if it was wrong.

  It was a harmony, a fusion, the Yin and Yang melding into one another, breaking free of their separating boundaries, if only for a few moments. And Jo knew that although this feeling of harmony—of a perfect connection—had begun a few days ago as something that was just physical, or chemical, it had somehow affected her more profoundly than the intellectual and emotional harmony she felt with James. Harmony was the only word Jo could find to describe what she felt. It certainly transcended the purely physical. Again she thought there was a spiritual aspect to what she’d experienced. She was sure of it.

  I’d call it love. Yes. Certainly. What other word could even come close to naming it?

  Did Luc feel anything remotely similar? Or was it just all about the sex? As she remembered the events of last evening, she felt a tingle begin between her legs, moving upwards into the depths of her body. Was that her uterus, her womb? Asking for more of whatever it was that Luc could give? She suspected that he knew more about her body than she did. And she was glad.