by Lea Santos
Geraline’s right eyebrow arched. “So what’s happening in forty minutes, then?”
Iris toyed briefly with lying, but decided against it. She hadn’t done well fabricating stories so far. “I’m just going to celebrate finishing the garden with the other volunteers, that’s all. It’s like a wrap party.” She needed a little time with Torien, a chance to explain, to warn her about a possible impending storm.
Slate skies.
Flipped leaves.
The rumble of Gerri’s thunder.
Iris flicked a glance at the giant marble wall clock. “I have to get ready and…Torien’s going to drive me there because I don’t know the way. Please, Ger—”
“Fine, Iris. I’m well-versed in the whims of…your type.”
What?
“Go get ready for your little celebration with the hired help. But we’re going to talk later,” Geraline said. “And I’m not happy.”
Little celebration?
Hired help?
Your type?
What the fuck was that all about? If Iris hadn’t been sure of her decision before, this conversation solidified it. Fuming, Iris fought to hide it. She clasped her hands together in front of her and forced an encouraging smile around her clenched jaw. “I know you aren’t, Gerri, but it will work out for the best for all of us, I promise. I won’t be too late. And we’ll talk it out when I get back.” You had better bet we’ll talk it out later.
Have it out was more like it…
*
Footsteps. Torien glanced up from the most current issue of La Crónica de Hoy, which she had been reading in the gazebo while she waited for Iris. She smiled, anticipating her first glimpse, but instead a baby-faced hombre rubio sauntered up the steps. His clothing looked arrogantly expensive, out of place in the gardens, and his attitude matched. But beneath the bluster, the boy had mean eyes and a weak chin. Not to mention, he was far too pretty for his own good—and that wasn’t a compliment.
Stuffing the newspaper aside, Torien stood, no longer smiling and not even wanting to. Something in her gut put her immediately on guard. “Buenas tardes, señor.”
“Hey,” the man replied. “You Tori, the gardener?”
The man made it sound like an insult. “I am Torien Pacias, sí.” Wait a minute. This was the man from the terraza, that first night when she’d met Iris. Torien vaguely remembered that Iris didn’t seem to like him, and if first impressions meant anything, she didn’t blame her a bit. “May I help you with something?”
“You? Nah. I’ll probably be staying here now and then.” He raked Torien with a scathing glance. “I just wanted to meet some of Geraline’s servants.”
Torien struggled not to bristle at the term.
“I’m Antoine,” he said, pausing as though Torien should recognize him.
No such luck.
He bugged his eyes, waiting.
She remained still.
“Hello, the model?” he added impatiently, flipping his soft hand as though the details of his life should be common knowledge.
Torien’s gaze dropped briefly to the man’s mixed drink, then back up. Perhaps he was only this obnoxious when he got borracho. Torien did not quite know what sort of response Antoine expected after this announcement of his apparently illustrious career.
“Surely you’ve seen my pictures. They’re everywhere.”
“Yes. I am certain I have,” Torien lied.
“Right. Well, I’m more difficult to recognize with all my clothes on, maybe.”
Torien fantasized about dumping a bag of manure over his head.
Antoine strutted around the gazebo with long, slow strides, his hard-soled Italian leather shoes echoing on the wooden floor. Finally, he sat on the bench across from Torien, legs spread wide, cunning eyes narrowed and watching over the rim of the glass as he drank. The ice against the crystal jangled unusually loud.
Torien sat, too, but cautiously. This man had an agenda. Until she found out what it was, her guard was up.
After swallowing and wiping his lips against the back of his hand, Antoine asked, “Shouldn’t you be…gardening or something?”
The implication was clear. This cocky hombre afeminado might as well have come right out and accused her of neglecting her work. Torien itched to punch him in the face for the unfair accusation, but of course, she held back. The idiot was a guest of Señora Moreno, which afforded him a measure of respect whether he deserved it or not.
“I am finished with my work for the day,” she managed not to snap, wishing to add that it was none of his goddamned business. Torien tried for casual, but her words still came out with an undercurrent of snide. “Señora Moreno lets her servants have their own lives, too.”
“Mmm. Big of her. So, why are you still here?”
Torien jerked her chin toward the cabaña that held so many good memories now that Iris had come along. “I live here.”
“Yeah?” Antoine lurched around and swept a disinterested glance over the small structure. “Huh. I thought that was a storage shed. Better than the back of a truck, though, eh?”
Rage shot through Torien. How dare this asshole assume—
Enough. She had taken all she could stand from this man. Boy, she amended. A petulant, imbecile child. Torien stood, nodding as politely as she could manage. “Excuse me.” She started down the steps, intending to wait for Iris on the porch of her cabaña, but the man’s statement stopped her.
“She’s good, isn’t she?” Antoine called out.
Everything inside Torien’s body went ice cold. Slowly…ever so slowly so as not to lash out, Torien faced him. The pulse at her neck pounded, anger rushed in her ears. “Pardon me?”
“Iris. Sweet…hot…Iris.” He swirled the ice clockwise, then counterclockwise. Languid. Calculating. “Bet you’ve never been inside something that rich before.” Flat eyes raised slowly, taunting.
Torien’s hands wound into fists. “Watch your mouth.”
“Perhaps you should watch yours, Tori. Where you’re putting it, that is.” He drained the glass. “Geraline Moreno is a powerful woman. She doesn’t like her models to tramp around with the illegal household help.”
Something inside Torien snapped, and the picture before her blazed red as though in flames. She would not listen to anyone speak of Iris as if she were a common street whore. Antoine could assume whatever he wished about “the illegal household help,” but when he dragged Iris into it, that was the breaking point. “You’re a weak, pathetic liar. Iris would never be with a boy like you.”
“Yeah? You think she would rather be with you? The goddamned gardener?” He leaned his head back and laughed, the action seeming choreographed and false, like everything else about him. “Big damn dreams, eh, amigo? Face it. You never will fit in our world. Iris knows it. I know it. And you’ve known it all along, haven’t you, Tori?”
Torien’s bravado faltered.
Antoine smirked. “Iris might want a little piece, like a tacky souvenir to remind her of vacation. But she belongs in the limelight, not stuck with you.” His tone went from snide to threatening, just like that. “You’re just holding her back.”
The shake started in the pit of her stomach and worked its way out toward her extremities. “Get the fuck out of my gardens,” Torien growled.
Antoine gaped as though watching the antics of a child. “Your gardens?” He glanced around dismissively. “Let me tell you something, Juanita Valdez. You might pull the weeds here, but this little flower patch belongs more to me than it will ever belong to you, and don’t you forget it.”
“Go to hell,” Torien bit out.
“Now, come on.” He raised his arms in a gesture of surrender, but something vengeful and bitter shone in the cold ice of his hollow blue eyes. “I’m just trying to do you a favor, save you some embarrassment before Moreno gets hold of you.” A beat passed. “She’s here, you know,” Antoine added casually.
Torien’s stomach lurched and she flicked a glance at the big
house, surprisingly caught off guard. Was Señora Moreno really here? Why?
“But say no more,” Antoine continued. “You want me out of your gardens, I’m gone. I’ll be sure to tell Geraline what a…nice job you’ve done with her…property.” He set the crystal bar glass sharply on the polished teak bench, stood, then flicked a manicured hand toward it. “Take care of that for me before you leave. Will you, amiga?”
Chapter Nine
A popular dance band from Corpus Christi pumped cumbia rhythms through the familiar darkness of El Tío Feo. Bass reverberated across the polished wooden floor and up through the metal legs of Torien’s chair as she sat with the others around two long tables shoved together.
The club, which had been empty when they arrived two hours earlier, had filled with women. Tucked away in a semi-private corner and oblivious to the other patrons, the volunteers sipped beers and shared loud laughter and exaggerated stories. Torien could see in their eyes how proud they were for having once again accomplished something many skeptics had said was impossible. The Círculo de Esperanza site marked their fifth success without steady funding, and all the gardens were thriving. Once the group had finished, each neighborhood took on the responsibility for upkeep of the garden as if it were one of the local children, theirs to nurture.
Torien shared the group’s sense of achievement, but couldn’t muster enthusiasm to match, nor could she focus on their celebration. She was there in body, but not in mind or spirit, thanks to the confrontation with that asshole, Antoine. Blinding fury had slowly given way to sobering resignation. In many ways, much as she hated to admit it, Antoine was right.
Iris Lujan had merged into Torien’s world just fine. Everyone had warmed to her immediately and Madeira was clearly half in love with Iris herself. Sí, Iris fit so perfectly it was as if Torien’s life were a nearly finished picture puzzle with Iris as the only missing piece.
She fit. But she didn’t belong.
Her presence was like an unexpected visit from an angel. Something to be enjoyed fleetingly and tucked away as a memory. Iris had a great big life outside their little insular world, a fact everybody except Torien seemed unwilling to face. Torien, however, had no other choice but to face it, because like an idiot, she had gone and fallen in love with Iris. And just as Antoine had pointed out so harshly, Torien should never have fooled herself into believing this could be more than a once-in-a-lifetime affair with one of the most world-famous Chicana models.
Torien had tried to protect herself against wanting more, but sweet Iris simply…inspired love. She was a white light that drew people to her, surely as moths to a bulb, and Torien had dropped her guard and been sucked in by the glow. No big surprise. Half the world was in love with Iris Lujan. Torien? Merely one of many.
But last time she checked, “Tortilla Flats” was short on world-class modeling agencies and cosmetic empires. Though Antoine had stated it more cruelly than necessary, Torien knew she had nothing to offer Iris Lujan.
Nothing.
Once Moreno learned of their inappropriate relationship, none of it would matter anyway. Torien would always be grateful they had become friends, flattered that Iris had extended her vacation in order to help them finish the garden. But her time here was still nothing more than a vacation from her real life. Torien knew, eventually, Iris would go, leaving the puzzle of her own crazy life unfinished forever.
Why was she the only one willing to admit that?
With any other woman, Torien might welcome the brief distraction, but a sane woman did not love Iris Lujan and then simply move on to someone else. Ridiculous. Yet Torien’s gut told her she had to move on. Not to another woman, but on with her life.
So…she would not have Iris.
Small sacrifice to save her own soul, she supposed.
Thank God Madeira had interrupted them when she had. Making love to Iris would have been a fatal error. Letting her go, period, would be hard enough. Already, the taste of her skin, the sound of her passion, were branded upon Torien’s brain. If she ever managed to erase the sensual images, it would be a miracle. But if they’d made love, ridding her mind of Iris would destroy Torien with its impossibility.
She clutched her beer bottle, wanting to be angry with herself, but too depressed to pull off any emotion more passionate than listlessness. The fight-or-flight instinct kicked in with a vengeance, and she wanted to leave the bar. Escape her pain. Run from Iris before she ran to her.
You were a damned fool for thinking it could last, Toro.
Judít finished a joke she’d been telling and the table erupted into laughter. Iris’s hair—smelling of coconuts and sunlight, sleek as satin—brushed Torien’s arm as she bent her head forward to laugh. Iris wore loose-fitting jeans, a silky black tank top, and flat black sandals. Her slim fingers were twined around the neck of the brown beer bottle from which she had peeled the label, inordinately proud because it had come off in one piece. Her eyes had sparkled when she held it up for Torien to see.
The entire tableau appeared so damn normal—deceptively so.
Two women.
A bar.
Desire.
But it wasn’t normal. It was a lie. All of it except the love she felt for Iris, the crushing desperation when she thought about losing her.
Inevitable.
Feigning nonchalance she did not feel, Torien hooked the beer bottle between her fingers and lifted it to her mouth. Taking a deep swallow, she watched Iris’s reflection in the mirrored wall. The yellow and red bar lights danced over her features, burning instantaneous erotic images in Torien’s mind. Her body responded almost violently. She closed her eyes for a moment of silent self-reproach. This was Iris Lujan, for God’s sake. What was she doing with Torien at a ratty little local bar in el barrio?
Enough! Her bottle hit the table with a sharp clunk.
All at once, Iris’s lovely wide eyes lifted to the mirror, meeting Torien’s in the reflection. The snapshot moment was too ironic to ignore. Two women from different worlds, staring ahead, not at each other. They walked parallel paths through a life that had crossed by sheer accident, not some destined twist of fate. Couldn’t Iris see that?
Clearly not. Her full lips curved slowly upward, lighting her luminous green eyes with the warmth of promise. Iris turned from the mirror to face Torien for real. Torien kept her gaze trained on the mirror, memorizing the soft, feminine angles of Iris’s profile, the proud nose, the sensual long line of her neck.
“Hey,” Iris said. Low. Intimate.
Torien felt the soft puff of breath against her jaw. She forced herself to face the woman she loved…her lovely flesh-and-blood Iris. My dark garden angel, come to life.
For a long moment, Iris searched Torien’s face, as if to ferret out clues about her silence. Before Torien knew what had happened, Iris ducked forward almost shyly and nipped at Torien’s bottom lip with her teeth, finishing with one small caress of her tongue.
Torien stiffened and lurched back, heartbeat rough, painful, like jagged glass.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“We haven’t even had a chance to talk yet and…we really should talk.” Shadows moved across Iris’s expression.
Bleak resolution sank in Torien’s gut. Moreno was back, real life beckoned its crooked, demanding finger. This…fantasy between the two of them was truly over.
A small frown dimmed the light in Iris’s eyes. “Tori, what’s wrong?”
Torien’s mind warred with what to say, what would be easiest? The kindest? Truth, Torien decided. Painful, yes, but the easiest route. “I don’t know,” she said carefully.
Iris pulled her chin back. “That doesn’t sound promising.”
“I know. It isn’t.”
“Honey, sometimes you are too honest for your own good.”
No answer.
“I’m just kidding.” Iris tucked her hair behind her ear and jostled against Torien’s shoulder. When Torien remained mute, Iris’s expr
ession sobered. “Okay, now I’m worried. What’s weighing so heavily on your mind?”
Torien huffed, shaking her head and staring glumly into the mouth of her beer bottle. “Why do women always ask that question?”
“I guess because we want to know. Besides, you’re a woman, too, albeit the strong and silent type.” Iris’s tone came off light, but Torien could feel the undercurrent of worry beneath her words. “Truthfully, I’ve come to realize the only way to get inside your head is to ask, since you sure aren’t one for offering the information.” She was teasing.
Still, Torien couldn’t form words around the tightness in her throat. A long, uncomfortable moment yawned through the chasm separating them.
“Hey. Talk to me.”
Torien met those green eyes directly. “Sometimes it is better not to know what a silent woman is thinking.”
All vestiges of humor and passion dropped from Iris’s face. “Something happened.”
Sí, Irisíta. I have fallen in love with a woman I cannot have. Not forever and not completely. So not at all.
“No. I…” Torien scrubbed a palm over her face, buying time, strengthening her resolve. “The long days are catching up with me.”
The fire of intimacy returned. Iris leaned in, her tone like a cat’s pleasured purr. “Take me home and I guarantee I’ll make you forget how tired you are.” A pause. “Then we’ll talk.”
Tacky little souvenir.
Despite the ugly image, desire pierced Torien like an arrow and she could not steel herself against the assault. She couldn’t seem to escape the images of that afternoon, the tactile memory of Iris’s breasts pressed against hers, her hands spanning Iris’s rib cage as if they had done so a thousand times before…would do so a million times again. Forbidden softness, so sweet and lovely. The scent of need clinging to her skin as she’d moved against Iris, the taste and heat of her flesh, the rumble of her moans.
Torien was no Madeira, but she had enjoyed her fair share of women. Despite her sister’s taunts, she had no desire to attain sainthood when it came to such pleasures. But this afternoon with Iris had been different. Torien hadn’t yearned to possess Iris, to partake of her body like a hungry woman faced with a full feast. She had ached to connect. To show Iris with her body what she failed so miserably to say with mere words.