Life Is A Foreign Language (22 page)

Moved by the appeal in his voice, she slid close to him on the sofa. “Hold me, Michael, please.”

He enfolded her, the embrace comforting. He stretched to his full length on the couch, taking her with him, holding her near. In his arms she dared trust that he wouldn’t harm her.

“Words seem so trite. What can I say to reassure you?”

“Nothing, Michael darling. I have to make the decision—do I have the courage to risk trusting you and perhaps be hurt again?”

Surprised, he raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

“Not deliberately, you wouldn’t, I know that. But sometimes we act in hurtful ways without meaning to. That’s the risk I have to take.”

While they’d been talking the sun had set. Over his shoulder through the window Nina saw tiny lights twinkle in the garden, like stars on the ground. She leaned on an elbow, hand supporting her head.

“I appreciate your understanding. And patience.”

He playfully ruffled her hair. She was glad he didn’t speak, only kissed her, slow, lingering kisses.

“What would you like to do, sweetie?” he asked. “Tour the house? Have dinner? Here or in a restaurant?”

She thought for a moment, and made up her mind. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy or provocative, but I’d like to take a shower.”

“What? A shower?

“It’s as if the words I just spoke stick to my skin. I need cleansing.”

“Well, why not. Come, I’ll show you.” He stood and switched on a light by the sofa and helped her stand. Then he pulled her into his arms, pressing the full length of his body against hers. “No more running away?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m tired of running. I want to feel safe enough to love you.”

“I’ll do what I can to help. You’re not alone anymore.”

In response she kissed his closed eyelids, caressing his neck. She planted small kisses along his hairline, inhaling the smell of his skin, his very own smell; she would always remember and recognize him by his scent.

Breaking the embrace, he led the way to his large bedroom. A low, king-size bed set against the wall opposite the panorama window dominated. Some trick of the artificial illumination seemed to bring in the garden through the window, like an Impressionist painting, alive and colorful.

“This is awesome,” she said. “What creates the illusion that the garden hangs on the wall, like a painting?”

“The mix of tiny neon and solar lights. Like it?”

“Love it.”

Tall brass floor lamps bracketed the head of the bed. When he lit them they cast large pools of light on the bed.
Wonderful light to read by.
A recliner covered in textured fabric, the color of eggshell, stood in the corner. It held a small cushion the shade of ripe wheat. She walked to the chair and picked up the cushion. A wine red and toffee brown “Winnie the Pooh” was embroidered on it; the stitched lettering spelled “Home Is Where Your Honey Is.”

She hugged the cushion. “How cute! I used to read the story to my children—it was their favorite bedtime reading. I’m still fond of Winnie.”

He showed her the bathroom, pointing out towels and other necessities she might need. “Take your time. I’ll start dinner. Just call if you need anything.” He kissed her on the neck, just under the ear, giving her tiny chills of pleasure.

His bathroom was wonderful. Private and restful with deep-pile scattered rugs and floor heating. She dawdled and took her time in the shower. The water cascaded from tiny holes in the rounded walls, above her head, and spurted from the floor. She stood in and under the warm water, lathering her body with lavender soap to rid herself of the feeling of contamination. She washed her hair and rinsed it till it squeaked against her fingers. Turning off the water, she stepped out of the shower stall. With a towel she wiped the steam off the full-length mirror and looked at her body, trying to see it with Michael’s eyes. All she saw was her familiar body, neither attractive nor ugly.

She left the bathroom dressed in Michael’s midnight blue T-shirt. It reached to her knees. She rolled up the sleeves that drooped past the elbows, making her feel like a little girl. On the outside she was clean. Inside, she was so mixed up, but the emotional storm had settled somewhat.

The aroma of olive oil and garlic drew her to the kitchen. Michael was busy frying fish; the smell of food reminded her she hadn’t eaten since morning.

Closing the distance to him, she wanted to say so many things. Not knowing what or how, she stopped, watching him stir the food. The carpet muted the steps of her bare feet, so he hadn’t heard her, but he must have sensed her presence. He turned, a broad smile on his lips, his eyes twinkling.

“I like you in my T-shirt.” He handed her a glass. “Here, have some wine. If you want to be useful, the salad makings are on the sink.”

She took a sip of the wine, grateful he was at ease. With her back to him she started washing the salad greens. Then she felt his hands on her shoulders, his body warm where it pressed against hers. He leaned into her and kissed her on the neck. To hide the tears she bent her head, hands falling idle to the counter. A tear ran down her cheek. The dam broke—her body shook with sobs. Turning, she slipped her arms around him, pressing her face against his and let go.

He held her, whispering softly. “That’s good, Nina. Let them flow, let the tears come.”

When it was over he led her to a stool by the counter and sat next to her, handing her a tissue. Wiping her face, she blew her nose and emptied a glass of wine in a couple of greedy mouthfuls.

“Oh God, I’m sure you must be fed up with me crying all the time.”

“Not so. I’ve also seen you laugh, having fun, and you can be very amusing.”

“This must be a reaction—relief to finally share it with someone, I guess.”

“You’ve been through a lot. We both have, except your hardship is still fresh. You’re a survivor, a strong and courageous woman. You’ll get through this, and I’ll help you as much as I can if you’ll let me.”

She nodded, whispering. “Thank you. I’ll let you because I can’t do it alone.”

“I may be pragmatic, but food is going to do us good, so let’s eat.”

He’d set the table on the lanai with white lacey place mats, one next to the other, artfully folded napkins, and in the middle of the table candles in different lengths and sizes flickered. Next to both seatings, a narrow vase held a shocking pink rose; it was festive and inviting. Nobody had ever done anything quite this nice for her.

Nina savored the fish, fried with lemon pepper. Michael was right; after some food and another glass of wine she was able to relax and enjoy the present moment.

Chapter 23
 

Michael stood to clear the table. Nina made a move to help, but he touched her shoulder. “Just relax, and leave this to me.” He said it so firmly she didn’t protest.

She leaned against the plump cushion of the wicker chair and breathed deeply of the fragrant air.

He returned with their dessert on a tray, handing her a gift-wrapped pack
a
g
e
.

“I thought you’d like this,” he said.

Turning it over in her hands, she wanted to open it right away, hesitating from fear she would seem greedy.

He sat next to her again. “Go ahead. Open it.”

She did, revealing a book on orchids. The paper was glossy, text on one side and color photos on the opposite. Briefly, she pressed it to her chest and reached to squeeze his hand. “It’s beautiful. Just what I wanted. You’re so good to me.”

He smiled and held the palm of his hand against her cheek. “I saw it and couldn’t resist buying it for you. It has a lot of information without being too technical.”

“This is wonderful. I was in a bookstore the other day, looking around for something on orchids. The choices were so vast I didn’t know what to buy. So I bought a book of daily meditation instead.” She ate a piece of mango, perfumed, fresh from his garden.

Michael pushed back the chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Do you like the meditation book?”

“I read it every morning Spirituality is still new to me, so I thought I could learn more about it. You hooked me, the way you talked about it.” She glanced at him. “This morning’s reading said, ‘Do something right, and somebody may like it’.”

He smiled.

“Today I tried to do something right.”

“You did, and I liked it.”

“What did you like?”

“Your courage to share your pain.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Do you want to tour my house?”

“I’d love to.”

His home was a large, one-story dwelling, the rooms airy and spacious, the ceilings high. There were no doors, only tall arches, making the rooms flow one into the other. No pictures or mirrors covered the walls. Instead, there was the same window-garden effect she’d seen in the bedroom.

“These windows are spectacular, they dress up the entire room.”

“My only concession to extravagance.”

Flowers and potted plants were scattered around, some in a haphazard way, some to connect one group of furniture to the next. A low table held several orchids. Evidently, he didn’t keep plants only outside. There were pictures of his family. The likeness of his sons to him was unmistakable. In the den a photography study of an elderly lady stood on the TV, a white rose in a bud vase next to the picture.

“My mother,” he said. “This photo was taken on her one hundred-and-first birthday.”

Nina glanced at him. “One hundred years? Remarkable. She looks more like eighty.”

“Yes, she looked wonderful at any age. A healthy lifestyle and a positive outlook, I guess.”

“Is your mother still alive?”

“No, she passed away two years ago, shortly after this picture was taken.”

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezed her hand. “She was tired, ready to go. It’s comforting to know she’s at rest. My mother, thank heaven, was spared the degradation of lingering illness.”

In the study, she approached one of the bookcases for a closer look. To judge from the selection, his taste in literature was eclectic. Naturally, there were textbooks on child care and medicine and drug addiction. She stroked the back of “The Art of Happiness” by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Some of the books were familiar and were in her bookcase, as well, such as “Psychosomatic Families.” She was glad to spot “The Rubayat” by Omar Khayyam, an old friend since she was a teenager; it was still within easy reach on her bedside table. Several copies had worn out from use and she’d replaced them. Some poetry.
Amazing, we have so much in common, even like the same literature.

Nina sank in one of the armchairs. “Your home gives an impression of … serenity. Yes, serenity is the word to best describe what I feel here.”

“Thank you. It’s my refuge.”

“I can feel it. It’s beautiful.”

Nina stifled a yawn, feeling the aftermath of the emotionally charged afternoon. It must be quite late, too. The situation was foreign to her, like being at sea in a small bark without a compass. She simply didn’t know what the next move was. In the lengthening silence she waited, her mouth so dry her tongue stuck to the palate.

Michael leaned over her, his hands on the armrests of her chair to support his weight. “Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine?”

She gazed at him. “No thanks.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Yes, a bit.”

He touched his cheek against hers. “Do you want to come to bed with me?”

Don’t think, just answer him.
“Yes.” A mere whisper.

He held out his hands, helped her stand, and took her in his arms. Their kiss was gentle and sweet. He led her to his bedroom. From the switch by the door he turned off the lights by the bed. The illumination from the garden made the room light enough to see.

“I’ll lock the doors and turn out the lamps,” he said. “Do you need anything?”

She shook her head. He left the room, the door slightly ajar.

At first, she felt grateful for his gesture of consideration to give her some time to herself. Then she wished he were there to show her how to behave, because she didn’t know. She stood, staring at the bed—excited and fearful and undecided what she was supposed to do next. She didn’t feel sexy at all, just bewildered.

This should come with a procedure manual.

Momentarily, she smiled at the idea, then grew serious; this was no laughing matter. In the bathroom, she washed her hands and brushed her teeth with the toothbrush he’d given her earlier. How much should she undress? What was decent?

Hitting the switch to turn off the light, she left the bathroom. Quickly, she shed the T-shirt and slid under the sheet before she could start ruminating again. But she was still wearing her panties. Would it be very brazen if she undressed completely? In one swift movement she pushed them off and lay on her back, the sheet pulled up to her chin. She was stiff as a board, incredulous that she was in a man’s bed, waiting to make love.

Chapter 24
 

Wearing only in a pair of white under-shorts Michael came around the bed and placed a tumbler of water on the table next to Nina. “In case you get thirsty.”

“Thanks.”

His side sagged when he settled into the wide bed without touching or bumping her. Turning to her, he caressed her cheek. “I like you in my bed.”

She lay on her side facing him. “Michael, I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s going to be all right.”

Moving closer, she untangled one arm from the sheet and put her hand on his shoulder, his skin smooth and warm to her touch. “Could you just . please hold me?” And she reached for him, his arms enfolding her, the length of her body pressed against his.

They remained locked in each other’s arms. His body against hers felt unfamiliar. They stayed like this for long minutes, Nina stiff and self-conscious. With her face burrowed in his neck she inhaled his personal smell. She exhaled and took another deep lungful. Gradually his nearness felt more familiar, and she dared relaxed. The form of his body fit hers, and his hollows filled with her roundness. He brushed his lips softly against hers, running his hands along her back. She shivered. Not knowing it, she’d so missed being held—the feel of his arms around her was wonderful.