Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

“Oh, you know. The three P’s: Prestige. Perfectionism. Pride. I want to have my own restaurant one day, and this job could be a great launching pad for me. If I get the offer-permanently, I mean-I’ll probably take it. Send for my things. Actually move out of this homage to blandness.”

She lifted her glass and toasted the walls. “To anything but beige,” she said, and met my eyes. “Should I open another bottle?”

Her offer was like an unfurling red carpet. I knew exactly where a second bottle of wine would lead. My heart took a small step back.

“No more for me, thanks. I have to drive.”

She looked down. Nodded. Message received. I couldn’t tell how she felt about it, though.

I moved to the sofa and sat, patting the cushion next to me. After a moment, Julie joined me. Her upright back told me she wasn’t as cool about my little rebuff as I’d thought. We perched side by side, awkward with each other for the first time all evening.

Suddenly Julie jumped up. She crossed to the kitchen area and pulled out a mortar and pestle. She poured some of my almonds into the pestle and began grinding, giving those lovely biceps an energetic workout.

“Shouldn’t let these go to waste,” she said. “I’m thinking marzipan might be nice for dessert.”

My mind hopped back onto the red carpet and raced ahead to the main event, followed by all the future meals and desserts I might enjoy with this talented woman and her gorgeous musculature.

I felt my own muscles stirring, one in particular. I quickly trawled my brain for conversational topics, before I embarrassed myself.

John D seemed safe.

As I told her a little about my new friend, I again pictured John D’s family photograph, set in the flowering grove.

“I never knew almond trees were so beautiful in bloom,” I said. “They remind me of those Japanese paintings.”

“Good call,” Julie answered. “An almond is actually in the plum family, along with apricots and cherries.”

“And the blossoms. Pink and cream. Like your skin.”

Julie gave me a strange look.

“Is there a problem?” I said.

“Uh, don’t bring me any more almonds from random groves, Ten, okay?” Then she added insult to injury by scraping the ground almonds into the garbage.

“I thought they tasted just fine.” My voice was tight.

“You already ate some?”

“But if they don’t meet your professional standards, just say so.” I was acting like a deprived child, and I knew it.

“Ten, some raw almonds can make you sick. I’m sorry. I’m probably overly-careful, but when you said-”

“No, I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “I’m an idiot. Can we just … reboot somehow?”

Julie took a minute. But then her eyes regained some of their twinkle.

“Our first food tiff.” Her smile was a gentle invitation to let the tension go. “I’ll make you a delicious dessert. Promise.” She yawned. “But not tonight.”

I matched her yawn with two eye-watering ones of my own. She plopped down next to me on the sofa, leaning closer this time. Everything was suddenly all better.

“Long day,” she murmured.

“Long week,” I said. I gave her a brief rundown. She turned to face me, wrapping her arms around raised knees. She was a good listener, and seemed genuinely interested in my transition from cop to detective. Soon we were swapping tales of academy training, hers culinary, mine with the police. The process of moving up the ladder was more similar than you might assume, though Julie’s involved learning to work with pastry and poultry, mine with graffiti and gangs. On one point we agreed completely-negotiating with all the idiots out there provided the biggest challenge.

“Believe me,” Julie insisted, “if you met some of the jerks I’ve cooked under, you’d probably think dealing with ex-cons was a day at the beach.”

“At least chefs don’t shoot you,” I said.

She looked me straight in the eye.

“I’ve got one word for you,” she said. “Cleavers.”

I laughed out loud.

“Okay.” I smiled. “I’ll stick with detecting.”

“It’s a deal,” she said. “You do the detecting and I’ll do the cooking.”

She slowly extended her hand. We shook. I looked down at our joined palms then up at her eyes. Her gaze was steady. I let go of her hand and leaned in, a little awkwardly. Our lips touched, and I felt hers curve into a smile under mine. A tingle of electricity vibrated through my body. She placed her hand over my heart, and the heat radiated into my core.

“Whoa,” I said.

“Indeed,” she said.

Next thing I knew, we had dispensed with the narrow sofa and were pressed tight together on the expansive beige ocean of carpet, my hands on the small of her back, hers around my neck, our mouths locked as we exchanged an extended series of hot, deep kisses.

When we came up for air, Julie leaned her forehead against mine. Her breath was warm and delicate.

“Morel mushrooms,” she whispered. “Who knew?”

My heart gave a little flip. I was enchanted by this woman.

You always are, at first .

I leaned in and brushed her lips with mine, a sweet, short, until-next-time kiss. I stood up and held out my hand. She took it, and I levered her to my side. I tried to ignore the sprinkling of freckles across her collar bone, a constellation of promise.

“It’s late,” I said. “How about we do some more of this soon, when I’m not quite so exhausted?” I waited. A great evening could easily implode right about now.

But Julie was cool. She nodded and stretched. “Good idea. Lovemaking is so much better when both people are awake.”

You’re leaving now? Are you crazy?

I soothed my inner Canis lupus by suggesting Julie and I get together on her next night off. She promised that would be soon. I offered to wash the dishes, but she wouldn’t hear of it. By then, my eyelids were starting to actually droop.

As I walked to my car, a corner of my mind nudged at me. I sensed I had forgotten to pursue something, something important, but my brain had thickened into one dense fog of fatigue, and nothing was going to penetrate until I gave it some sleep.

I got back to the house in record time and was greeted at the door by a grateful, if impatient, cat. Tank has access to dry food and a running-water cat-fountain when I’m gone all day, so he’s never likely to starve or go thirsty. However, his two favorite foods require someone with opposable thumbs. How else to open cans? In our small family, that honor falls to me. Sometimes I think it’s the main reason he loves me.

Late as it was, I popped open a can of Mixed Grill, and added a liberal squeeze of fragrant tuna water.

Even so, Tank gave me a long, suspicious look before he lowered his head to his dish. I wouldn’t be surprised if he smelled Julie’s jasmine kisses on me, and was trying to assess the extent of the disaster.

“Don’t worry,” I mumbled. “She’s nothing like Charlotte.”

I staggered into my bedroom and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I’m lying face down on a concrete floor. I look around. A man watches me from the shadows in the corner. My father. His face is stern, judgmental. What does he want from me?

I step outside. The ocean is right at my doorstep. Waves roll in, one after the other, crashing into foam at my feet. A pair of white seabirds, pelicans, with broad wingspans and long, sword-shaped bills, fly low over the sea. I want to body-surf, but I don’t know how to get out there, where the waves are breaking. Then I realize I can fly, like the birds. I open my arms and barely skim the water, then joyously ride a wave in. As I land, I see that the concrete building where my father still stands is shaped like an X. I turn to face the waves, and take off, flying low, when it dawns on me I cannot really fly. That I am dreaming. That this must be a lucid dream. I look at my hands, and they sprout green tendrils, which bud and blossom into pink blooms.