Monique, who was in the choir at her Baptist church, sang “Amazing Grace.” Grace’s husband told dentist jokes, “Thus ensuring,” he said, “that I’m never asked to provide entertainment again.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Myles Hoffman countered. “My turn’s next, and you haven’t heard anything yet!”
Myles’ act was to take suggestions from the audience and construct incredibly horrible puns. Within five minutes, he had everyone groaning, and when Randall criticized his awkward combination of cheerleaders and cults (he’d finally come up with the Hoo-Ra Girls) and he replied, “Well, religious jokes are so hard to work into a convert-sation,” he was forced off the stage.
“I think that leaves you, Josh,” Sachiko said.
“And may you be better than the last act!” Danny, an accountant and another of Sachiko’s biker friends, added as Joshua moved his keyboard into place.
“Anything’s better than the last act,” Brenda added. When her husband feigned heartbreak, she gave him a playful shove. “The real question is: Are you good enough to drive the memory of those awful puns from our minds, dear?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Joshua played a few notes, warming up his fingers. He adjusted the volume, then asked, “Anything in particular?”
“Oh, my! What do you know?” Monique asked.
“Try me. I’m in a band at home. We’ve played at proms, churches, quinceañeras, even the State Fair.”
“Quit bragging and sing one of your favorites,” Sachiko called out, so he picked Ricky Martin’s “Shebang.” Encouraged by the applause, he sang another current song, then a third. When he paused, a couple of people cried, “more, more!” so again, he asked for requests.
“Do you know anything other than love songs?” Randall asked.
Joshua blinked. He hadn’t thought about the content of the songs, just sang whatever had come to mind. Now he paused, changed the settings on the keyboard to a country-western theme and started with a twang, “Oh, Lord, it’s hard to be humble—”
“Self-love song!” Myles shouted over the laughter.
“Ow! You’re right!” He changed the settings again, this time to woodwinds and flutes and Native American drums. “My best friend Rique is our lead singer and songwriter,” he explained as he let his fingers play over the keys, filling the room with the mysterious, haunting tones that always made him think of the prairie and buffalo. “He’s Mexican and Pojoaque Pueblo Indian, and very into his heritage: the sounds, the themes, the struggle of tradition and lore with modern myth and contemporary society. Anyway, this summer, he’s working at the Pojoaque Pueblo in Santa Fe and writing music based on their songs and stories, and the challenges they face balancing old and new. He just sent me this one a couple of days ago…” He sang a ballad about a young dancer: Tired of what he feels is the hypocrisy of performing ceremonial dances for photo-mad tourists, he leaves home and disappears into the desert, where he stumbles upon an ancient ruin. He sleeps there and is haunted by dreams of his ancestors, who urge him to go home, take up the dance, and keep their memory alive.
“Take up the dance/the song must be raised/One God unites the spirits we praise/take up the dance/the world is renewed/by efforts of muscle, bone and sinew/Take now the chance/Take up the dance.”
The last notes faded into a silence that was more rewarding than the most thunderous applause. Joshua ducked his head and tried not to grin too much.
Finally, Monique broke the silence. “Wow. So when are you going to record it?”
“Actually, we’re meeting with an agent in New York next month. Rique writes a lot of mainstream stuff, too. Including love songs.”
“Play something else he wrote,” Sachiko urged.
So he sang “Where the River Flows and the Eagle Soars,” a love song of sorts. It was, he explained afterward, for a contest for the Pueblo Economic Development Council, and so the boyfriend tries to convince his girlfriend to stay with him by singing the virtues of their great hometown. “Of course, no one ever completely loves his hometown, so to offset all that saccharine, we got together and wrote this.” He sang “Where the Mill Workers Strike and the Birds Crap,” a look at the less pretty side of his home.
It was actually a rather funny song, and with laughter and applause, he was allowed off the “stage.” Sachiko put on some music and people broke into groups, talking. Joshua wasn’t particularly good at small talk, and found himself returning again and again to the dessert table. He wasn’t alone; soon, many of the plates were empty.
“Bring a couple of those over here,” Sachiko called to him from the kitchen. He brought in one empty plate and one with a single brownie left, which he took for himself on the way. He started to put them into the sink, but she gave him a “You’ve got to be kidding look” that made his heart skip.
“You don’t think that’s all I made, did you? Look in the oven.”
He pulled out the pan of warm brownies, and she handed him a bag of biscotti. While he cut the brownies into squares and loaded the plates, she uncorked another bottle of wine. He couldn’t help but admire how the fabric of her dress shimmered over the curves of her body as she twisted the corkscrew.
She must have mistaken his gaze, for she held up the label so he could see it: a shark with the title “Great White.” “Another local, but it’s won international awards. A very nice white. What’d you think of the Gemini?” she asked, referring to the red wine they’d had with dinner.
Joshua shrugged. “I’m not much of a connoisseur. It didn’t taste much different from the stuff in church,” he admitted.
“Maybe you didn’t taste it right,” she said as she filled a glass. “Now watch and learn.” She held the glass under her nose, then took a lazy sip, eyes shut, and let it move slowly over her tongue before swallowing. “First, you want to smell the wine, let its bouquet tease your senses. Then you take a slow, easy sip, not too much, just enough to let it wash over your tongue and make sure it stimulates all those taste receptors. Got it?”
Oh, he had something, but it didn’t have much to do with wine. He was very glad his dark skin didn’t show a blush. It had taken all his effort just to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. “Sure. Really.”
She handed him the glass, and he did as she’d instructed. It tasted better then the heavy red, but the real surprise came after he swallowed. He blinked. “That is nice,” he said as he handed the glass back. “There’s an aftertaste, like a mist, just kind of washes over you.”
She smiled. “You noticed, too? I just love afterglow. Do you want some?”
It took him a moment to realize she was talking about wine, and once again, he had to smash his lips together to keep his jaw from dropping. He seemed to do a lot of that around her. “Well, really, I’m not legal—”
She snorted. “We’re talking one glass of wine, not a six-pack. I won’t tell.”
“You’re not the one I’m worried about. Dr. Malachai, on the other hand, talks with my father regularly.”
“And this concerns you, how?” Dr. Malachai asked as he walked into the kitchen. He was apparently after the biscotti, for he grabbed one and leaned one elbow on the counter as Sachiko answered.
“You’re not going to tell on him if he has a glass of wine at my party, are you?”
Randall spoke sternly. “He is underage, Sachiko. You shouldn’t tease him that way.”
“I’m not teasing,” she said as she handed Joshua the glass she held.
“I’m not teased,” Joshua replied as he took it.
Randall gave them both a disappointed look and left. Sachiko took the plate of biscotti in one hand, the bottle of wine in the other. “He’ll tell,” she said ruefully.
Joshua grabbed the brownies. “That’s OK. He’d have to bring it up in casual conversation during the week. I talk to my parents tomorrow. I’ll tell them first.”
Sachiko laughed. She dropped off her plate, then went over to where Monique was admiring her collection of Japanese wo
oden dolls. Joshua lingered by the table, munching on a cooling brownie. He took another sip of the wine, but it didn’t taste nearly as good as it had at first, so he set the glass aside.
“Finished it already?” Randall suddenly appeared by Joshua.
“No, sir,” Joshua showed him the nearly full glass before setting it back on the counter. “Doesn’t go very well with brownies,” he explained.
Randall nodded. “You know, you do not need to drink in order to fit in.”
The idea was so preposterous and the tone so much like his mother’s that Joshua couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Sorry, sir,” he said, partly choking on his brownie, “but if you think that about me, you really don’t know me very well.”
“Hm, perhaps not,” the senior psychiatrist said in a tone that, for a moment, made Joshua doubt himself. Why had he accepted that glass of wine?
You were flirting, he told himself. Any excuse to touch Sachiko, even just a quick brush of her fingers, is reason enough.
He must have been grinning, because Randall gave him another of those disappointed looks and wandered away. Yep, he was definitely going to have to catch his dad first.
He hadn’t realized how late it was until the first of the guests were saying their goodbyes. Sachiko directed everyone to the counter, where she had set out the dishes of leftover food along with a tall stack of carryout containers, and told people to help themselves. Those with kids or those who had to get up early for work or church the next morning made their exits first, with Randall somewhere in the middle of that wave. Others remained and offered to help set Sachiko’s apartment back in order, and since she needed to study the next day, she gratefully accepted the help.
*
Joshua stuck around, helping to put back furniture and load the dishwasher. Sachiko didn’t comment when the last guests left, just asked him to dry the larger serving dishes and hand them up to her as she stood on her stepladder to put them away on the high shelf. When the last one was done, she carefully turned to hop down—
Only to find herself grabbed by the waist and swept off.
She yelped in surprise, then laughed as her feet touched the floor. She was about to say something teasing and cutting, but she looked into his eyes. He had that same look of awe and desire as when he’d first seen her tattoo. Up close, it took her breath away, and her words died in her throat.
Then his mouth was on hers and his arms tightened around her back.
They kissed until she was dizzy in the head and weak in the knees and warm in between, and she found herself thinking how they might be more comfortable somewhere else, like the couch, or maybe the bed.
Maybe he was thinking along the same lines: suddenly he broke the kiss and breathed into her ear, “Sachiko, I really, really—”
With her tongue, she teased his earlobe, the one with the earring.
“I’ve really got to go!” He pushed away and all but ran to the door. He snatched up his keyboard; then, with one hand on the doorknob, turned and gave her a longing, starry-eyed look. “You are the most…incredible…woman I’ve ever met.” Then he was gone.
Sachiko stood there, blinking at the closed door.
Then she leaned over the counter and laughed.
CHAPTER 17
She was still laughing as she stood in a hot shower, washing away her make-up and the residue of adhesive left from the body tape. She hadn’t gotten that kind of reaction from a guy since…
I’ve never had a guy react like that. He’s so intense sometimes.
She thought about that kiss, the way his hands played over the tattoo on her back, the way his tongue just caressed the inside of her lips. Oh, yes, intense was a good word for Joshua Lawson. She had to admit her own reactions were pretty intense, too.
“It’s just been a while,” she told herself and turned the hot water to cool until her thoughts cooled, too. Then she left the shower, slipped into a silk nightshirt and snuggled into bed. She had turned up the air conditioning for the party and it was still a little chilly, but she didn’t mind. She loved the weight of blankets on her. Tonight, it got her thinking about other weights. She rolled onto one side and stroked the other half of the bed, remembering when Randall used to share it with her.
Randall had insisted they conduct their affair in her bed, saying it was much more romantic than anything his apartment could offer. She had always found his bachelor’s condo cold and impersonal, so she hadn’t objected; but when it ended, especially how it ended, she hadn’t wanted anything to do with this bed. She couldn’t throw it out—it had been her grandmother’s, brought from Italy and handed down to her when she got a place of her own—so she’d finally settled on changing the mattresses, sheets and blankets, and re-arranging the furniture. It helped bury the memories, but sometimes her traitorous body would call up those old feelings and she would run, crying, to the shower, as if she could wash them away with soap and hot water. Maybe it was the wine, more likely it was Joshua’s kiss, but tonight, she was able to look at those old feelings more objectively.
Randall had had a talent for knowing exactly how to touch her, had made her feel the most amazing things, and had always been ready with pillow talk afterward. They never revealed their romance to anyone at work—a fact that had bothered her at the time, but for which she was now grateful—but when they were together, he had been charming and witty, attentive to her needs. He’d always bought her “love trinkets,” as he called them, many of which were quite expensive. By all objective standards, he was the perfect lover.
Yet how many times did those little “perfections” leave her feeling somehow less loved? How many times, after a night of passion and intimate talk, did she lie awake feeling more empty than before, and then guilty at her feelings of emptiness? Why had those expensive gifts left her feeling cheap? He had given her that tennis bracelet after their first night together. “To celebrate the deepening in our relationship,” he’d said. She’d worn it, many times, but it always made her feel like a whore. Later, it had paid for her entire tattoo.
At the time, she thought something was wrong with her, and had been grateful for his understanding patience. When she realized she was pregnant she felt no joy, just horror over all the careful plans she’d ruined. Her first impulse had been to run crying to her parents, but shame held her back. She had been a 27-year-old nurse. How could she have been so careless? So she had run to Randall without thinking about what she wanted, only seeking his comfort and his answer.
He’d had the answer, all right. And cold comfort afterward.
Even when he was so horribly callous after the abortion, she’d defended him. Even though she’d tried to kill herself—thank God, Ydrel had stopped her—she stayed silent, and took Randall’s offer of a few days off. She didn’t tell her parents, or even her twin cousins when they happened to drop by just as she was heading to the trash with the first box of things he’d given her. She only told them that it was over, and that she didn’t want anything to do with him. She was even ready to quit school and her job, but her cousins quickly put a stop to that.
“You’re going about this the wrong way, ya know what I mean?” Liz said. Vinny took the box out of Sachiko’s hands and returned it to her apartment. “He’s already treated you like dirt. Why you gonna go punish yourself? Sit down. We’re gonna give you a little lesson in revenge, Luchese-style.”
They’d spread everything out on her living room rug and sorted it according to value and how easy it would be to sell. Over pizza and wine, they brainstormed how to get rid of each item in a way Randall would hate. Sachiko remembered him complaining about an abandoned building that had been taken over by squatters, not far from his parents’ home in Boston; all the clothes and linens would go there. Liz wanted to give the lingerie to some streetwalkers, but Sachiko had a better idea: they spent half an hour cutting the fine silks and satins into rough squares for the quilting guild at Liz’s church.
“I’ve never understood the lure of quilti
ng,” Randall had said to Vince and Liz’s mom once when she’d shown him her prize-winning quilt. “Spending hours over scraps when modern manufacturing produces superior products. Simply a matter of needing an excuse to gossip, I suppose.”
It was late at night, and the wine had made her mellow and drowsy. They’d convinced her to stay in school, but switch her degree from psychology—chosen so that she could go into private practice with Randall—to medicine, which was what she really wanted. And they kept her laughing for hours with their outrageous ideas for getting rid of her stuff. Somewhere past two, they’d got to talking tattoos and she’d known what to do with the bracelet.
Lying in her bed, she smiled, remembering Randall’s horrified expression when she’d let it drop just how she’d used that particular “love trinket.” Revenge, Luchese-style, was sweet.
Yet there had still been times, when she had wondered if maybe, somehow, she’d just read him wrong.
Now, she knew different. The problem was in Malachai, not her. One kiss from Joshua had convinced her of that.
Randall was an accomplished lover. Accomplished. That was a good word for him. Sex was just another goal, and I was some kind of long-term—semi-long term—project. Joshua, on the other hand…She lay on her back, reliving that kiss. Physical feelings aside—and it was pretty difficult to think past those physical feelings—that kiss left her feeling happier, more whole, than she’d felt in a long time. She could get used to kisses like that.
Then again, maybe I shouldn’t. He’s only here another, what? Two months? Then, he’ll be back in school, surrounded by all those beautiful undergrads, and I’ll be—hopefully—finishing med school and working 36-hour days in my residency. Two months isn’t long enough to build a relationship. Is it really fair to tease him?
Then she remembered the wine and Randall’s accusation. And Joshua’s words: I’m not teased.
All right, Mr. “I’m-Not-Teased,” we’ll just play this by ear and see where it leads—as long as it doesn’t keep leading out my front door. She chuckled, remembering his hasty exit. He was so pitifully cute!
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