The Secret

Chapter 7

Chapter 7When she had collected herself, my next question couldn’t have been more serious, “Now what, Colleen? It’s been a year and a half. Are you over me now? Can we be friends? Or am I to be banished again until you’re ready?”

“Banished, huh? Wow, you make me sound like some kind of tyrant.”

“You may as well have been. You took my best friend away from me and never once asked me how I felt about it.”

She lowered her head, a look of genuine contrition passing over her features. Her voice was uncharacteristically meek when she said, “You don’t fight fair, Alejandra.”

“I’m sorry, hon. I’m sure not trying to extract any guilt from you. I just want you to realize that your actions have consequences beyond just yourself.” I got off the sofa and knelt in front of Colleen, taking her hands in mine. “I am not above extracting something else from you, however.”

“Oh?” she eyed me suspiciously.

“Yes.” I pressed my forehead gently to hers. “I want you to promise me that you won’t EVER do anything like that again. If you have a problem, come talk to me. Don’t shut me out. I couldn’t bear it.”

“I promise, Alejandra.”

“Good.” I kissed her on her cheek and lifted her chin, playfully chiding her, “And what’s with ‘Alejandra’ this and ‘Alejandra’ that? I tried for years to get your lazy ass to use my full name and now, all of a sudden, you’re saying it every other sentence. What’s up with that?”

Grinning mischievously, Colleen giggled, “Maybe now I’m more interested in pleasing you than teasing you.” She covered her mouth with her hand as if to put the words back where they came from. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud.”

“Oh, lighten up, sweetie.” I admonished, though I’m sure I was blushing every bit as much she was. “Relax and remember... it’s only me.”

The very last thing I wanted was for Colleen to get the idea that I was uncomfortable with her. But until I’d had some time to digest her revelations, I wouldn’t have minded steering the conversation to safer shores. And to tell the truth, I hadn’t had lunch yet when I ran into Colleen’s mom at the mall, and here it was, well past dinner time. “Wanna continue this somewhere we can grab a bite? I’m famished.”

“Would you mind if we ate in?” Colleen asked. “I’d be happy to rustle up something.”

I couldn’t resist giggling, “Dear heart... your mother raised a good woman... a thoughtful, sensitive woman... a truly lovely woman... but she sure as hell didn’t raise a chef. Why don’t you leave the cooking to me?”

“Hey!” Colleen’s voice carried a feigned indignation, “I’ve gotten better.” When I responded with a raised eyebrow, she shot back, “Seriously. I told you, that year and a half of solitude was spent productively. I bought some nifty cookbooks and tricked out my kitchen with all kinds of cool new gadgets... “ When I gave her an even more exaggerated look of skepticism, she rolled her eyes, threw up her hands and said, “Fine. Fine. Whatever. Don’t trust your best friend, then. Go ahead and do your Julia Child thing.”

Ideally, I would’ve liked to prepare Colleen’s favorite dish, Cajun Skillet Beans. Before the rift between us, it seemed as if she used to beg me to cook it for her every other week. History, though, led me not to expect to find much in the way of ingredients in her kitchen. I have ridiculed her many times over the years for how poorly she maintains her pantry.

Imagine my surprise upon discovering that she actually did have black-eyed peas, fresh onions and garlic. But I was in disbelief when I found bell peppers and celery, as well. In fact, all of the ingredients I needed were there. Brandishing the celery in her direction, I asked, “Okay, who are you and what have you done with the real Colleen Hughes?”

She just stuck her tongue out at me and cracked, “Toldja. You just don’t listen.”

Once I had a pot of brown rice boiling on the stove, I began dicing celery, onions and garlic. Sauteing those ingredients in olive oil filled Colleen’s small kitchen with a zesty aroma. While I was chopping tomatoes, Colleen crept up behind me and rested her chin on my right shoulder. “God, that smells heavenly,” she said quietly.

It felt so good to have her near again. I turned my head to tell her so and found myself caught in the blue depths of her eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever held anyone’s gaze so long. As if hypnotized (See! It’s not my fault! I was mesmerized), I leaned over and pressed my lips to hers. The kiss held for a moment, soft and warm, but the instant I pulled away, I regretted what I had done. In fact, I was furious with myself. Once again, I had acted impulsively, thoughtlessly. God knows, I didn’t want to lead Colleen on when I didn’t know my own mind yet.

To hide my momentary confusion, I turned away, reaching into one of her overhead cabinets for herbs and spices. Adding the tomatoes to the pan, I also mixed in dollops of honey and mustard. Thyme, oregano, basil, cayenne pepper, salt and black pepper followed. All the time, I was intensely aware of her proximity.

When I finally worked up the courage to look at Colleen again, questions were obviously on her lips, but she had mercy on me and asked none of them.

Black-eyed peas were the final ingredient. Once they’d been stirred in, I put the top on the pan, left it to simmer and began to toss a salad.

Colleen was always so appreciative of my cooking, that I loved preparing meals for her. It was easy to tell when she was enjoying her food, because her feet would rock in a subtle rhythm and she couldn’t help wiggling her toes with delight. I was pleased to note that as we ate and chatted, she couldn’t keep still for an instant. She put me in mind of an overactive little girl with an ice-cream cone.

As always, our conversation rambled over a wide range of subjects. But, as we were finishing our dinner, I asked how her work had been going.

In case I haven’t mentioned it, Colleen is a successful freelance illustrator. I can’t draw a straight line, but I had an interest in illustration even before I met her. It’s one of the many reasons we hit it off so well. So, even though I can’t do it myself, I do actually have an educated eye for color, composition and draftsmanship (if I do say so myself). And I can say, honestly and without bias, that Colleen is one of the good ones. Astonishingly good when you consider how young she is.

“As I mentioned,” she responded, “I’ve had more free time than ever for the past eighteen months, and I’ve been putting it to good use. Bicycling, swimming, cooking (she stressed that in a derisive tone) and, of course, tons of drawing and painting. I’ve been doing some experimentation on the rare occasions I’m not actually working on an assignment. I’ve really gotten into these pastel chalk sticks lately. They’ve got a lotta cool qualities that have forced me out of my comfort zone and made me think in new ways. It’s been my best therapy”

“Can I see?” I asked with genuine excitement.

“C’mon back,” Colleen rose from the table and headed in the direction of her studio. When I started to gather up our dishes, she called back, “Leave those, for now. I’ll get to ‘em when we’re done back here.”

Hers was a two bedroom apartment; one room for sleeping, the other she’d converted into a workroom. When we entered her studio, she pointed to her drawing table. On its slanted surface lay a color-saturated pastel painting of a fantasy scene. It was not quite finished, so that a couple of small areas had not had color applied and the underlying pencil sketch could still be seen.

“This is the first time I’ve used these chalk sticks for an assignment. The art director seemed pretty happy with the rough I gave him and I’m pretty pleased with the way this is coming along.”

“I can see why. This is gorgeous, Colleen. Wow! You’ve really made some progress since the last time I saw your work.”

“Thanks.”

As I replaced the art on her drawing table, I noticed the folding door to her closet was open. What caught my eye were a stack of canvases that were mostly obscured by the door and the shadow it cast. But, what little I could see of the rich colors made me curious.

“What’s this stuff here?” I pointed to the hidden art.

“Nothing.” she answered quickly. “I mean, just some unfinished junk... ideas that never really went anywhere... failed experiments... nothing worth looking at.”

“What do you mean? You know I love that kinda stuff: the preparatory sketches, the under-drawing, the whole process. It’s like peeking into the artist’s head.” I headed over to take a look when Colleen caught my arm. “Alejandra... I’d... I’d really rather you let those be.”

I turned to look at her. Why in the world was she stopping me? We’d never kept anything from each other before...

And then, of course, the irony of that thought struck me full force. Colleen had been hiding one of the most important aspects of our relationship from me for years. I felt foolish and suddenly like a stranger, again. “I’m sorry, hon.” I said. “I don’t know where my head is at. I didn’t mean to pry.”