Page 3 of In Love With a Master (Interview With a Master 2)

Chapter 5.

I braced myself in front of the vanity mirror and shaved away days of stubble. I worked with the razor quickly and methodically, not daring to linger – not daring to study my reflection for fear of who I might see staring back at me. I stripped off my clothes and then stood under the scalding, stinging needles of a hot shower until I felt the steam and the heat scour away grime and toxins from my body and soul. I wrapped a towel around my waist and scrubbed myself dry with another until I felt fresh blood begin to surge through my body.

I padded barefoot into the bedroom leaving a string of wet footprints on the carpet. On the bedside table was a bottle of whisky beside a single tumbler. I opened the bottle and poured. As I snatched up the glass I realized with a small shock that my hand was trembling. I hesitated, caught my reflection in the smoky glass of a bedroom cabinet. The face that stared back was like stone. My skin had turned ashen grey, and I shook like a man in the grips of a fever. With a jerky movement, I stared down into the tumbler for long doubtful seconds, then screwed up my resolve and made a decision. I carried the glass into the bathroom and drained the whisky down the sink.

I worked at my desk for an hour, putting together a property deal with investors out west, but the morose shadows of Tiny’s tragic death never receded far, and it took all my will to work manfully with the temptation of a bottle and its comfort never far away. I shook off the melancholy and found myself at unbidden moments thinking again and again of Leticia. A reel of images that I had coveted secretly played behind my eyes and I gloated over each of them. It was a collection of memories, each image sharp and clear in my mind – each vision of Leticia some private celebration of the way she walked, the way she had smiled… the way she had looked at me.

The rest of the day passed with the infinite slowness that comes with anticipation. Now it was me who was the victim of an agonizing wait. For so many years I had talked and shown women the exquisite sweet torture that anticipation could add to lovemaking.

But this was very different.

The long hours of waiting for Leticia to arrive were filled with instances where cold surging waves of doubt and pessimism would come crashing over the breakwalls and sweep me back into that maelstrom of despairing emotions.

Had I made a mistake phoning Leticia?

Was I even capable of love?

And there were moments when the icy waves would draw back with a boiling hiss to reveal the jagged reefs of fear that lurked beneath the surface, so that my doubts became desolate feelings of hopelessness that threatened to drive me down and drown me.

I could die any day.

Had I earned the right to know love?

And sometimes the ocean of my emotions was calm, a free-flowing current of optimism, and in those moments I allowed myself the secret delight to dream of being overwhelmed by love. I marveled silently at the possibility, and saw visions of myself swept up and consumed by feelings I had never permitted or considered myself capable of.

Give yourself the chance!

Give Leticia the chance to love you, and you the chance to love her.

When at last the light began to fade and the office was filled with long shadows, I glanced up from my work and realized the day was done. Sunset blazed across the horizon in a riot of color: reds and oranges and radiant purples. The sun dipped low between two distant mountain ridges, spilling the last drops of its vibrant light along the jagged crests, and then finally dark began to fall, and with the night I knew would come Leticia.

I cleared off my desk, and in a moment of distraction, I brushed away the dust from the heavy statue of Horus. I set the sculpture carefully back in place and pulled the office door closed behind me, shrugging off the uncertainty, the doubts, the sadness and the bitterness like a heavy black cloak, and leaving them where they belonged – in the darkness.

Chapter 6.

Leticia came through the door like a whirlwind, in a flurry of arms, long legs, a coat, a handbag and fits of breathless gasps. She draped the coat and handbag over an entry side table and swept hair from her eyes with the back of her hand.

“God, the traffic is crazy and there are cars and vans everywhere along the mountain road. Sorry I am late.”

“You are not late,” I said, and gave her a moment to catch her breath.

Mrs. Hortez’s cherubic face appeared in the kitchen doorway with a look of expectation. She looked at Leticia, and then at me. I shrugged.

“Are you hungry, Leticia? Have you had anything to eat?”

“I’m fine, thanks, Jonah. I grabbed something to eat before I left the office.”

Mrs. Hortez looked crestfallen. She ran her eyes up and down Leticia’s lithe frame and shook her head sorrowfully. She muttered something beneath her breath.

Leticia looked at me for a translation.

“I think Mrs. Hortez is concerned that you will fade away to nothing,” I said. “She is worried that you do not have enough meat on your bones.”

The two women exchanged glances, and Mrs. Hortez folded her thick arms across her ample bosom and stood her ground defiantly. She was a woman in her fifties, as wide and round as she was tall, with a steely gaze that could melt ice.

Leticia gave ground, and then nodded ruefully. “Maybe just a little something, thanks, Mrs. Hortez,” she smiled graciously.

Mrs. Hortez’s stern expression became winning, and she turned on her heel in another torrent of Spanish as she scurried back into the kitchen.

Leticia hadn’t moved. Now, suddenly, we were alone and she was awkward and unsure of herself. The smile she had manufactured for Mrs. Hortez faded from her lips and she stared at me, her gaze solemn and enigmatic, her expression becoming grave and concerned. She took a single, fearful, tense step toward me and then stopped again uncertainly. I could see strain in her face. She was anxious, and it showed in the tiny crease across her brow and her slightly parted lips.

Leticia wore a knee length grey skirt and a white peasant blouse with drawstrings that hung loose at her throat. The fabric was thin cotton so that I could see the deeper shadow of her bra, and the bulge of her breasts as her skin shaded from honey brown to pale cream at her cleavage.

She had taken care with her makeup. She had used cosmetics skillfully to emphasize the size of her eyes and the fine bone structure of her cheeks, but had done so in such an artful way that it seemed she wore no makeup at all. Her lips were glossy and her hair had a shimmering bounce and wave to it that caught the light. She used the finger of one hand to tuck loose tendrils of hair behind her ear, and I noticed that the skin on her arms had been gilded by the sun, so that her entire body radiated a healthy, vibrant glow.

I felt my stomach swoop with a secret delight and wondered if my relief and pleasure to see her was transparent in the way I suddenly smiled.

She was beautiful.

“Thank you for coming,” I said. “T

hank you for taking my call last night. I’m sorry it was so late. I know I woke you, and I apologize for that.”

Leticia dismissed my apology with a quick shake of her head. She stepped disconcertingly close to me, and I suddenly became aware of the scent of her perfume. It was the essence of some essential oil – a fragrance that was rich and floral. It suited her perfectly.

“Jonah, I was glad you called,” she said softly. “I was shocked – but I was very glad. I wasn’t sleeping anyhow… I’ve had trouble sleeping for quite a while now.”

There was pointed meaning in Leticia’s last remark, but I ignored it tactfully and simply nodded my head. “I am sure Mrs. Hortez won’t be long,” I said. “Let’s go into the kitchen, and after you have eaten I will take you upstairs where we can be alone and can talk.”

I stood aside and gestured to Leticia in the kind of gentlemanly manner that most men have forgotten but women still appreciate. I trailed her through the foyer and into the kitchen, lowering my eyes to watch the way her hips swayed and the graceful movement of her body as I followed her. Under the clinging material, her figure was slim and beautifully shaped. She moved with a lithe grace and beneath the swishing fabric of her skirt, Leticia’s firm, rounded bottom swayed like a cheeky, tantalizing promise.

I’m a gentleman, not a monk.

The kitchen table was covered in a banquet of dishes – enough food to feed a small army. I held out a chair for Leticia politely and she sat. Mrs. Hortez swooped from out of nowhere with a wrought iron candle setting and placed it on the table. She smiled at me benevolently, lit the candle, and then produced a bottle of white wine. She set the bottle on the table and came back with two glasses.

“It is from the wine cellar,” she said.

Leticia looked at me, surprised. “You have a wine cellar?”

“There is a wine cellar downstairs,” I said. “It’s not mine. I prefer whisky, but the old man kept a well stocked cellar.”

I opened the bottle and filled the glasses. “I haven’t been down there for years.”

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