Read How Stella Got Her Groove Back Online

Authors: Terry McMillan

Tags: #cookie429, #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Extratorrents, #Kat, #Fiction, #streetlit3, #UFS2

How Stella Got Her Groove Back (7 page)

BOOK: How Stella Got Her Groove Back
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“Yes, I am,” I say.

“Would you mind if I joined you?”

Well, how sweet, I think, and say, “No, I don’t mind.”

He pushes his chair back and stands, picking up his plate, and when I look at him I almost have a stroke. He is wearing baggy brown shorts and has to be at least six three or four and he is lean but his shoulders are wide broad and as he walks toward my table all I can think is Lord Lord Lord some young girl is gonna get lucky as I don’t know what if she can snag you. He sits down right across from me and when he looks at me he is looking me directly in the eye. Bold little sucker, isn’t he, and I feel a little uncomfortable, to be honest, but I stick my fork inside my waffle which for some reason I don’t want now.

“So how are you today?” he asks in his Jamaican accent but it sounds as if it’s tinged with a little bit of British. His voice is husky yet soft dreamy and wet kind of smooth and when he speaks it sounds like it’s coming from some honest place inside him, you can actually hear it.

“I’m fine. Just came back from a run so I wouldn’t get too close to me right now.”

“I saw you when you left,” he says.

This kind of surprises me. “You did?”

“Yes,” he says and once again those eyes are looking right inside me. I wish he would stop this. Sort of. “How long are you here for?”

“Eight days.”

“Got in last night, did you?”

“How’d you know?”

“I got here yesterday and I certainly would’ve noticed you.”

“Oh really.”

“Really,” he says as if he means it.

He is too cute and ought to just stop this little flirting action right now if that’s what he’s doing. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Winston Shakespeare,” he says. “And yours, young lady?”

He is being facetious. “Stella,” I say and then think: Did he just say Shakespeare? Yes, he did. And he looks serious. I wonder if this is a common surname in Jamaica. And of course he knows who the guy is. He has to know. But what I’m more curious about is if he relates to understands or enjoys tragedy.

“Nice to meet you, Stella,” he says and this time when he smiles he shows off a beautiful set of straight white teeth that’ve been hiding behind and under those succulent young lips. Stop it, Stella. He’s a child. A tall handsome sexy maple-syrup-colored child, but a child nevertheless. Why come they don’t come in this make and model in my age group is what I’m wondering.

“Where’s your husband?” he asks.

“What makes you think I have a husband?”

“I’m just assuming. Perhaps I shouldn’t assume.”

“I don’t have a husband.”

He seems pleased when I say this. But then again maybe it’s just my imagination.

“Did you come with your boyfriend?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions.”

“Isn’t that the only way to get an answer to something you’re curious about?”

“Well, of course it is. But why do you want to know?”

“Well, first of all most of the people here are usually couples and most of them are usually white and they’re either here to get married or they’re on their honeymoon. I thought you might fit in one of those categories.”

“Nope,” I say and take a sip of my coffee.

He sort of nods his head as if to the beat of some slow music and he then says, “Okay,” and he begins to delve into the mountain of confusion that is a mixture of rice eggs hominy and at least five different kinds of meat. As I watch him eat from one pile at a time I am somewhat amazed at how he seems to be savoring each distinct taste and yet he still dabs his mouth with his linen napkin in between bites and slowly returns it to his lap. He also blushes after he puts a little more in his mouth than he should’ve, and it is clear that he is hungry—he eats like a college student who’s come home for the weekend. I am watching him without realizing that I am actually staring but I can’t help it because what I see before me is a kind of tenderness and innocence I haven’t seen in a man in a long time. It is refreshing and sad at once because he is so young and I am wondering when do men lose this quality? And how do they lose it?

“Are you on vacation?” I ask.

He shakes his head no. Chews and swallows. “I just finished my classes at the university in Kingston and I’m here hoping to land a summer job as a chef’s apprentice, something in food preparation or whatever I can get, really. And what about you, where are you from in the States?”

“California.”

“Wow,” he sings in a very low tone. “California. Where in California?”

“Northern. About forty minutes outside of San Francisco.”

“And you like it there?”

“It’s okay.”

“And what made you come to Jamaica?”

“Now that’s a pretty loaded question but it’s safe to say that I just really needed a vacation and I figured why not Jamaica?”

“Do you like it so far?”

“Yep. Everyone’s really nice.”

He is gazing at me again with those dreamy eyes and even though he isn’t looking through my jogging top it feels like I am sitting here completely naked and he is admiring me and why he isn’t trying to hide the fact is beyond me. I mean I don’t get it. What exactly is going on here? I lean forward and spread my fingers against my chest and I say, “How old are you, Winston?”

And he says, “How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty-two, twenty-three at most.” His arms are covered with a sheath of curly black hair. The hair on his head is thick and black and shiny and cut close on the sides. His mustache appears to be still growing in but the rest of his face looks like that of a man who shaves on a regular basis. He certainly smells like a man, sounds like a man, and looks like one too.

“I’ll be twenty-one on my next birthday.”

I nod. God bless the girl who gets to feel those long brown arms around her and those beautiful thick golden lips. Stop it, Stella. Now stop it! “That’s nice,” I say.

“And you?”

“I’m forty-two.”

He puts his fork down. “You’re not.”

“Oh don’t even go there,” I say.

“Seriously! You’re telling me the truth?”

“I’m forty-two. Why would I lie?”

He’s showing me those teeth and shaking his head. And then he looks at me without saying anything and starts nodding his head up and down as if he knows something about me that I don’t. “You’re being straight with me?”

I nod again.

“You take very good care of yourself, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I try. I exercise a little.”

“Well, more women should,” he says and I feel myself being seduced right here in the middle of this room. This is really starting to get on my nerves. I mean I don’t need to be at a breakfast table on my first day here with a twenty-one-year-old boy feeling aroused and what have you, because there is something downright inappropriate about this shit. Sort of.

“Well, look. Winston, is it?”

“Yes. You’re leaving already? You haven’t even finished your breakfast.”

“Well, I ate a little something in my room earlier. And I need to shower and then I’m going to hit the beach and read a little.”

He looks as if he wants to ask me something but doesn’t exactly know how and then he immediately says, “Are you going to the pajama disco tonight?”

“The what?”

“Well,” he says and sort of starts with that sexy blushing business again that is starting to wear me out and I mean like it is kind of driving me a little crazy. “You’re supposed to wear bed clothes—you know, something that you sleep in.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Very. It’s fun. I’ve heard some people get a bit risqué and wild but you can wear whatever you feel comfortable in. The DJ’s great. You should come,” he says and boy do his eyes have some kind of magic power or what? The way he is looking at me like he is hypnotizing me or something, I don’t think I
can
say no. “It should be fun,” he says and he is smiling at me again but this isn’t one of those regular on-your-face smiles. This young man is smiling about something else. And I’m trying to figure out what it is.

“I don’t know about any pajama disco. . . .”

“It’s your first night here. What else are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it yet.”

“Come on. I’d love to dance with you.”

“Oh, you would, would you?”

“Yes. You look like a good dancer.”

“How can you say that and I’m sitting down?”

“I can tell,” he says and now he’s looking at me like maybe he’s in a trance or something. “I can tell.”

Is he flirting with me? No. He couldn’t be flirting with me. I’m old enough to be his mother! And what could he possibly want from me that he can’t get from some young chicks around here, like that fox over there, for instance? On the other hand, he’s right. I came here to have some fun, so why not have some? “What time does it start?” I ask.

“About ten. So you’ll come?”

“Maybe.”

“Would you meet me there?”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“Why? What’s wrong?” He honestly looks perplexed.

“Nothing,” I say and feel myself blushing as I stand up. I can see that he’s trying not to stare at me and when he stands up I almost lose my breath and this is scandalous just feeling like this over a young boy but as I back away from the table I do hear myself say, “I’ll see you tonight, Winston,” and he says, “Please don’t change your mind. I’m only coming because I want to dance with you,” and when I look at him he is doing the smiling stuff at me but this time he has an incredible look of wonder on his face. It is so sweet.

As I begin to walk away I hear him say, “Thank you for letting me join you for breakfast.”

All I can do is nod You’re welcome, since I am now in a hurry to get out of here because it feels like thousands of eyes are on me and I know they’re probably all wondering why I’m not on the nude beach.

 

S
TELLA
,
YOU OUGHT
to be ashamed of yourself for getting all shook up over some young boy. I mean really. Get a grip, girl, is what I’m thinking as I walk back to my room, but as I nod and say hello to at least twenty different hotel workers I realize something very profound: I haven’t been this aroused on the spot in about three thousand years. It feels like a miracle, because it means I am still alive inside and not dead after all! You may think you’ve lost it but it’s really just lying around dormant, waiting for somebody to come along and reignite those flames you assumed had long since turned to cold white ashes. Apparently the fire is not out. You are not over the fucking hill yet, you can still twitch and flit and flirt. This is great, I think as I run up the steps toward my room, not bothering to peek over at the nudies, and when I put the key in my door, from my tape deck Mary J. Blige is blowing “I’m Goin’ Down.” I dance on in and as I take off my jogging gear I make a mental note to thank this young man somehow for whatever it is he has done which I hope I’ll be able to put my finger on before I leave.

I shower and lay out all seven bathing suits on the bed and try to picture myself in one in particular. Three of them are two-piece but I feel like a one-piece today for some reason, so I reach for the chartreuse with that magical Wonderbra stuff inside even though I really don’t need it but it gives you a real boost in more ways than one so I put this one on and pull all my braids up into a ponytail and I put on some sunglasses and slip into a giant lemon yellow T-shirt that is really a minidress and I grab one of the ten books I brought with me, my Walkman and my suntan lotion, and I’m off.

It is a scorcher. The beach is packed. It’s not a very big beach, not like a public beach where there are thousands of people and kids. It’s not like that here. First of all there are no children hallelujah because this is an adults-only resort. It is refreshing not to see little ones with their little pails and shovels ruining the shoreline with their big potholes and not to hear their squealing and wailing. I admit their laughter isn’t bad but the fact is if you don’t hear or see any kids you don’t really miss them, at least that’s how I feel after lying on my chaise for an hour or so.

I am almost two shades blacker and my skin which is normally an olive brown is getting a little reddish glow to it and I am feeling very tropical already. I would like to get as dark as possible because I’ve always wished I’d been born blacker, so black that I am almost Godiva-edible like the proud Africans I love to look at in my big photography books on the coffee table at home.

I am sweating and need something cool to drink and as I look around the beach I see a young woman with short braids and a tray full of drinks heading my way. I scan the entire beach to see if I can spot Win-ston but I don’t see him and I turn to look toward the swimming pool and because of his height I should be able to see him but I don’t. I drink the second of what will turn out to be probably close to forty or fifty virgin piña coladas over the next eight days and then gallop into the water which is nowhere near cold and I am really freaked when I see a school of at least a hundred tiny silver fish swimming around my ankles. I begin to run, looking down in the water to see if they’re following me but they’re not so I head on out toward the deep part and dive under.

I feel like a mermaid or something as I come up for air and go back and forth below until I’m tired. I’m grateful I spent the money and got human hair instead of that fake stuff like Vanessa did. When she went swimming, she said, she felt like she was sinking to the bottom because those fucking braids weighed a ton when they got wet. As I walk back toward the shore I look over at the snorkeling boat heading out. I’ve been told about the clothing-optional cruise that leaves every day at eleven but I’m not going on that cruise, not even considering it. Volleyball, which starts every day at eleven too, is more my speed. And even though I’m afraid of heights I’m vowing to try parasailing before I leave this island and maybe water-skiing and for sure snorkeling, but I have no desire whatsoever to scuba dive. I don’t want to go that deep.

I drink up and spend the next hour talking to a Canadian couple who are here for two whole weeks on their honeymoon. He is a very tall dark handsome Italian and she is almost cute and very voluptuous and as she lies on her stomach and he wipes her back gently with a towel I wonder what she must’ve done to get this hunkster. She’s French and can hardly speak a word of English. They are both very tanned.

BOOK: How Stella Got Her Groove Back
6.56Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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