The Taste of Lavender (2 page)

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M
aribel had been right; we had become
practically inseparable. Over the last month we had gone from lunch dates every
couple of weeks, to Saturday afternoon movie matinees, and finally to seeing
each other or speaking on the phone at least once a day.

Today we had made plans to do a little
last minute Christmas shopping. Maribel had come up with the idea while we were
complaining, uh, I mean chatting about the awful gifts we'd received over the
years from our respective spouses.

"We should buy our own presents, 
then we would get something nice and not insulting like a Dryer or toaster
oven." she had said.

It was then that we decided to go
shopping for ourselves while taking advantage of the holiday sales going on. If
we were feeling generous, we might actually pick up some gifts for others as
well. But at the core, this day was about us. We were going to pamper ourselves
for a change; commit to being girly, shopping-till-we-dropped Divas for the
day.

We stepped out of our respective houses
at the same time, like mirror images locking the front doors, prancing down the
steps and meeting at my car. Maribel didn't drive very much, claiming that
American drivers were too crazy and unpredictable. I had the sneaking suspicion
that she'd never learned to drive over five miles an hour, but who was I to
judge. I avoided plenty of things myself, like the laundry, crickets and
pickles.

"Do we have time to stop for
coffee?" Maribel eased herself into the passenger seat of my car.

"Sure, there's a cafe about twenty
minutes from here. And it’s on the way. They have amazing Majorca sweet
bread."

"Perfect. I'll be sociable in
thirty minutes then." She smiled and clicked her seat belt in place. I did
the same even though I'm ashamed to admit I often forget.

I backed out of the drive and motioned
toward the radio. "Find us some tunes?"

Maribel fiddled with the dial for
several minutes before settling on one of my favorite stations. Adele crooned
of love lost and I sang along, softly and in my own head of course. I liked
Maribel too much to subject her to my singing.

After stopping for fuel, both the kind
for the car and the kind for us, we settled into an easy silence for the
remainder of the drive. While our town wasn't exactly off the map, it was
somewhat removed from modern conveniences like shopping malls.

I watched as she took in the surrounding
countryside, savoring the natural beauty of the bay area. It reminded me that
I'd gotten so used to my hometown that I rarely bothered to take in the details
anymore. I resigned to change that about myself. I'd stop and smell the roses
more if it killed me, dammit.

Perhaps that is why I was so drawn to
Maribel right from the beginning. She lit a fire within me, made me participate
in my own life and live with creative purpose. Around her, everything was vivid
and memorable. She made my previous life seem like a grainy black-and-white
film.

We arrived at the mall in record time,
probably because I'd been paying more attention to her than the speed limit.
Deciding to start at one end and work our way through the dozens of stores, we
only had one rule: indulge ourselves for a change.

And so we did.

My first purchase was a deep plum
Pashmina wrap. It would go with my gray pea coat perfectly and my neck always
felt cold without something around it. It was a practical purchase, but also an
impulsive one. Maribel had draped it around my neck, lifting my hair to arrange
the silky fabric. Her fingers brushed back an errant hair from my face and I'd
blurted, "I'll take it!" to the sales person before even thinking. I
justified the expense to myself after the fact.

Maribel wasn't quite as practical. In
the first hour she'd purchased a stunning pair of knee-high black leather
boots, an evening clutch covered in tiny crystals, a clunky amethyst ring and
three identical cashmere sweaters, in varied shades of autumn.

"Slow down," I teased her.
"You're putting my one little bag to shame already."

We linked arms as she laughed—a lilting,
breezy sound. "Come now, we've got to catch you up." 

She pulled me into an expensive boutique
and from the look of it, their target market was anorexic teens. I didn’t see a
scrap of fabric big enough to cover the important bits of myself.

"Oh, I don't think..." I
started to protest.

"Nonsense. Stay, I will select some
things for you to try." She pointed at the floor, effectively rooting me
to the floor.

The look on her face was pure
determination and I didn't want to argue, so I waited for her choices and hoped
that I didn't look utterly ridiculous trying them on. I was right to be
concerned. Fashion must have translated to "skimpy" where she was
from.

"Here." She handed me a
half-dozen monochromatic selections on silk covered hangars and practically
shoved me to the curtained dressing rooms.

I sighed and headed to make a fool of myself,
feeling more and more butch with every step I took. I didn't even glance at the
clothing. I wanted to spare myself the agony of even considering how I'd look
in them.

The first dress, a silky blue number
designed by the Marquis De Sade himself, took me a full five minutes to figure
out. It had numerous woven-things that were meant to pass as straps leading
into a low back with a tiny zipper. I managed to get it on, but no way was I
flexible enough to fasten it all the way.

It was probably just as well. I was one
Super Bowl away from a wardrobe malfunction. I even tried tucking the girls in
better, but no luck. The dress was clearly meant for someone with a developed
chest.

“How is it coming?” Maribel pushed back
the dressing room door and leaned in.

Instinctively I crossed my arms over my
chest, frowning. “Not well.”

“Turn, let me zipper you so we can get
the full effect.” she said.

“No need. It's not my style. And where
would I wear something like this anyway?”

“Nonsense. You look ravishing. And
remember, we are pampering ourselves. You deserve to feel as beautiful as you
look. Now, turn. Turn”

Maribel entered the dressing room as I
faced the mirror. I suddenly felt even
more than
naked in the tiny
dress, if that was even possible. She smiled over my shoulder and I felt
Maribel’s hand on the fabric at the base of the zipper, precariously close to
my butt. I stiffened as she finished zipping me up, feeling slightly
claustrophobic and a little bit nauseous.

“Relax, you look stunning.” Maribel
rested her hands on my shoulders. “Now let me see the dress.”

I let my hands fall limp at my sides and
prayed my boobs didn't fall out from their precarious perch, while closing my
eyes. I couldn't look at Maribel as she looked at me in the mirror.

“Yes, this dress was made for you,” she
said, tugging at the fabric here and there to test the fit. She smoothed the
dress over my hips. Adjusted the straps so they lay flat. Then pulled my hair
up and twisted it into an up-do. Long after she’d stopped touching me, I could
feel the faint trail of her fingers over my body.

What the hell was wrong with me? Why did
Maribel affect me so? As I pondered the extent of my reaction to her touch, my
flesh raised in goose-bumps.

“Cold?” Maribel laughed and nodded to
the mirror, where my headlights were a’flashing.
Perfect, way to make things
awkward
.

“Now, I find shoes!” Maribel swept out
of the tiny changing room with a flourish, which is to say she was just being
herself. I was the one acting abnormal.

I studied myself in the mirror while I
waited for whatever neck-breaking shoes she would return with. If I crossed my
eyes just the tiniest bit, I could almost see the beautiful woman Maribel
claimed to see. But almost didn't quite count.

The door swung open, knocking me off balance.
I reached for the wall to steady myself as Maribel appeared at my feet. “Oh!” I
sputtered.

“Put these on.” She held out a stunning
pair of spiked heels toward my feet, totally ignoring the fact that she'd
almost knocked me on my ass. She set them down and stood while I stepped into
the dangerous footwear. I was instantly four inches taller, putting me at
Maribel’s height. God bless the inventor of high heels.

Shoes on, I straightened up and faced
Maribel, waiting on her appraisal like an eager student.

She looked me over from head to toe,
grinning widely. She had that cat-and-canary look about her which scared me
just a little.

“Well?” I asked, my stomach in knots. I
wanted her to say I looked beautiful, or something equally ego-boosting.
Pathetic, I know.

Maribel hesitated for a moment longer,
checking me out once again. She was trying to torture me to death, I was sure.
I could practically feel her eyes roving over my body and it made me all tingly
and hot.

“Beautiful. Just let me fix this one thing.”
Maribel reached for the front of my dress, but held eye contact with me. I felt
her fingers skim my breast as the fabric brushed over my left nipple, which
stiffened from the slow, drawn out contact. Fire spread to my belly and then a
little further south I'm ashamed to admit. What the hell was happening to me?

My breath hitched and my face felt like
it was on fire, but I couldn't break eye contact with Maribel as she covered my
errant boob. I'd gotten my own wardrobe malfunction after all. No Timberlake
needed.

I was mortified, but she didn't seem
flustered at all. She just smiled at me with her easy-breezy trademarked look.
We were just two friends shopping, so why was I trying to make it more awkward?

I managed to stutter out a “thanks” as
she pulled her hand away. I felt the absence of her touch immediately, and I
had to stop myself from taking a step towards her.

“You buy it and I will find you
someplace to wear it.” Maribel bargained before ducking back out of the room to
shop for herself.

I bought the damned dress knowing I'd
never wear it in public. That made it (and the shoes) very expensive
dust-collectors. And two very good reasons to hide the next credit card bill
from the Hubs.

So why did I waste my hard-earned cash
on something I’d never wear? Maybe I just wanted something that made me feel
sexy for a change. Or maybe, just maybe, I bought them because I wanted
something to help me remember that day, and how I felt when Maribel touched me.

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T
he day had slowly declined from the
minute I clamored out of bed twenty minutes late. I had a conference call with
a popular crime novelist and his publisher at nine sharp, which left me no time
for anything but a quick run to the restroom. Thank God it wasn't a video
conference.

At least one thing had gone in my favor.

First, the call had stretched into a
long debate between author and publisher, neither of whom knew exactly what
they wanted from me. One said copy-editing only (author) while the other
insisted a more thorough content edit was required. After forty-five minutes of
roundabout bickering, I'd firmly suggested that we reschedule the conference
after they reached a plan of action.

Then, before I'd had a chance to start
the coffee brewing and throw on some clothes, the power went out. Further
investigation found that a transformer up the block had blown. I couldn't work
without electricity and the house began to grow cold, so I decided to knock out
a few errands while the power company worked on things.

It was between picking up the
dry-cleaning and dropping my Christmas Cards in the mail that my car battery
died, stranding me on one of the coldest days we’d had so far. After realizing
I'd left my cell at home, I had to fight the winter winds to the end of the
block to use the pay phone. But I had my husband’s number programmed into my
phone and hadn't direct dialed it in so long that I couldn’t remember his
number.

Smart technology had made me stupid.
Perfect.

I dialed the only number I could easily
recall while trembling in my too-thin clothing. Maribel answered on the third
ring. I explained my situation and she said she’d be there in twenty minutes.
Those were the longest twenty minutes ever—which I spent shivering in my dead
car. Finally, mercifully, Maribel rescued me from certain popsicle-fate.

“Oh, thank goodness! Thank you so much.
Really, you don’t know how much this means to me.” I babbled, pulling open the
car door and sliding myself into its heated glory.

“Nonsense. You saved me from an
unbearable writing session. I was stuck and paddling in circles.” Maribel
mocked herself while pulling back onto the road.

“Oh, okay. So then you actually owe
me
?”
I flicked on the seat-heater and rubbed my hands together.

“Yes. Of course.” Maribel patted my leg,
letting her hand linger for what felt like a split-second too long.

I flicked the seat heater back off, my
body warm beyond comfort in an instant. I didn’t understand what was going on
with her, but one thing was for sure, I didn’t want it to stop. I was going to
let the path take me where ever it may. And I wasn’t going to analyze it
either. Thinking led to worrying, and worrying made me break out. Not to
mention the extra groceries I’d have to buy.

“So, hard day writing?” I attempted to
bring the conversation around to familiar and comfortable territory.

Maribel sighed “You have no idea how
hard it is to create
something
out of nothing.”

I’d never looked at it from that
perspective. I was always editing a body of work already in existence. Sure, I
may influence the final outcome, but the embryo already lives. I couldn’t
imaging taking a blank page, or empty screen, and filling it up with words,
sentences... a whole goddamn story... carefully constructed and logical, with real
people that have their own thoughts, problems and issues. I have a hard enough
time ordering take out.

We pulled into my drive within a few
minutes. It was then that I discovered that I’d left my purse, with my house
keys, back in the car. I just wanted one thing to go my way. Maribel took pity
on me and took me back to her house to wait until my car, purse and husband
showed up later that afternoon.

“Are you sure that you don’t mind the
company?” I followed her up the steps to her porch and waited while she
unlocked the door.

She gave me a look that had to mean
you
are kidding, right
?

We entered the house and slipped off our
shoes. As always, I was taken aback by the inside of her house. It reminded me
again of how cultured and worldly Maribel and her husband were. Tapestries hung
on the walls, sculptural art was displayed on shelves and the house always held
a bouquet of exotic scents, like the markets of Marrakesh were right around the
corner.

“I can sit here and read if you want to
get back to writing?” I asked, gesturing to the sofa in the living room.

“No.” She shook her head. “I owe you,
remember?” She took my by the hand and pulled me into the kitchen.

She pointed to the stools behind the
counter and I sat. I watched while she pulled down a sauce pan, two mugs and
random things from her cupboard. I guess she was making some sort of hot
chocolate for us, but I didn’t see any store mix in sight. I didn’t even know
it was possible to make yourself. I hated how inadequate I felt around Maribel,
but at least it spurned me to do more with myself. Or at least
think
about doing more.

While she worked (and hummed a haunting
little ballad) I let myself zone out a little while my body tried to warmed up.
Winters here are erratic and unpredictable, so on the day that I end up
stranded, I’d grossly underestimated the weather. I knew that, given the fact
that forty-five minutes later, I was still shivering.

Maribel touched my arm, pulling me out
of my own mind.

“Drink, you need to thaw.” She pushed a
mug toward me. It was hand-thrown and glazed in the most amazing shade of blue.
I wanted to ask her where she got it, but she disappeared before I could ask. 

I heard her doing something down the
hall behind one of the doors and a faint scent of lavender permeated the air.
Maribel returned a few moments later with a plush towel draped over her arm.

“Come, grab your mug and we’ll get you
warmed up.”

She took my by the hand and led me down
the hall to the bathroom. The heat had been turned up and the faucet was
running into the claw-foot tub. In some ways it was a typical bathroom with a
sink, toilet and tub. But in one way it was odd—the tub was free-standing,
sitting in the middle of the room. I’d never seen a tub you could walk all the
way around. Maybe it was a European thing?

The scent of lavender permeated wafted
in the air. Maribel had a bubble-bath running and I assumed it was for me. I
did need to get warmth all the way down to my bones... a good soak could do just
that. Still, I felt a little weird bathing in someone else’s home, especially
when mine was just across the street.

“Here are some towels. And I have a tray
for your mug.” She picked up a silver thing with little legs from the vanity
and carried it to the tub. It was the perfect length to span the width of the
tub. I wanted one of those for myself—what a great place to set a cup of tea
and a book! Though, I’d never want to get out of the bath if I had one of those
at my house.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” I asked,
knowing what her response would be.

Maribel smiled and stepped toward me,
her hands landing on the sides of my arms. She gave me a little squeeze.

“Of course. Take a nice long bath and
relax.” She swept out of the room, pulling the door softly behind her.

I wasted no time in getting out of my
still-cold clothing and stepping into that lavender heaven. The water was
almost too hot and the bubbles were stacked high against the sides of the tub.
I slid down until the water tickled my chin. Closing my eyes, I inhaled
sharply, letting the bath comfort and soothe me. I wasn’t sure if it was dumb
luck, or if Maribel somehow knew that I adored the purple-headed herb.

Whatever the reason, I was thankful.
Lavender calmed my spirit, elevated it, until I was floating in a cloud of
bliss. It was a scent that was near-divine to me and I wished that my other
senses could experience it as well. I imagined that if lavender had a texture
it would be soft, downy and light. If it had a taste, it would be mellow but
smooth, sweet but not cloyingly so—like home and fond memories. 

To me, lavender was peace and love and
light.

“Feeling better?” I heard Maribel behind
me, her footsteps nearing the tub. I was a little too blissed out on the
aromatherapy to react, so instead I just nodded and kept my eyes closed.

I sensed Maribel stop to my left, very
near, so I cracked open one eye. She was holding the small pot carefully.

“I brought you more chocolate.” She
smiled and topped off my cup.

I wondered how much she could see
through the bubbles. Did I have complete coverage or were bits of my body
exposed? Did I even care?

I opened my eyes all the way and looked
up to her to see if I could tell from her facial expression. “Thanks, but you
shouldn’t go through all this trouble.”

Maribel crossed the floor to the vanity
and set the pot down in the sink. She returned to the tub and sat on the edge
of it. A slight shiver went through my body. She reached back to the faucet and
ran more hot water. While heat began to snake up around my legs, Maribel
trailed her fingertips through the bubbles. She wasn’t touching me, but the
movement of the water let me know where her hand was. I could feel her near my
ankle. Then by my knee. Her hand neared my elbow, then pushed water over my
abdomen.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of her and
she never broke her gaze from me, so I wasn’t watching what she was doing, but
neither was she. My pulse quickened, wondering if she was playing some sort of
bubble bath roulette with me—seeing if I would flinch before her hand brushed
across something that would make our friendship awkward, at the very least.

“Maribel...” I whispered.

The moment was broken, popped like a
bubble by the sound of my voice. She withdrew her hand and put an easy smile on
her face. Then she pivoted on the edge of the tub, so that her back was too me,
and turned off the water. She lifted my left leg, and using a bar of expensive
looking soap from the tray, she worked up a thick lather as she massaged one
foot, then the other. I leaned my head back on the tub and shut my eyes.

I didn’t want to think about the way my
body reacted to her touch. I was normally the Queen of over-analyzing and for
once I was determined not to think this thing to death. So I made my mind
blessedly blank and enjoyed the foot massage. And a few minutes later, I
enjoyed the calf massage even more. As Maribel’s hands worked their way up my
legs, a heat of a different sort built up in my body. With every inch she
climbed, I willed her to go
just one more
.

Not thinking very far ahead, I didn’t
stop to acknowledge how far I wanted her hands to go, or what that would mean.
I could only think in
sensations
at the moment, not in consequences or
anything more tangible.

The water stilled as Maribel removed her
hands. I wanted to beg her to continue, but all I could manage were deep
breaths. I kept my eyes closed and my body still, hoping she might return, but
she didn’t. Instead, Maribel stood and leaned over the tub.

Her face was near to my own when she
spoke. “Come out when you’re ready. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

And just when I was about to protest,
she sidetracked me completely by kissing me softly, tenderly. My lips parted
slightly to meet the hers. I was drowning in the melding and even though it
only lasted a second, my world flipped upside down. Maribel pulled back, her
hand slipping from the edge of the tub and grazing my nipple—hard and
sensitive.

“I am hungry. I’ll make us sandwiches.”
Then she was gone.

After Maribel left me alone, I snaked my
own hand between my legs and relived the softness of her touch on my bare skin.
I remembered the taste of her lips upon mine. I imagined what I would do if she
came back in and did what I wanted her to do. I thought about all of that while
the room filled with the scent of lavender and longing—and my fingers pretended
that they were not my own.