Root of Passion – The edge of Erotica, at least for me…

I always like to push myself, learn new things, assess my skill level, my comfort zone. I’m a lifelong learner so I’m always looking for new ways to challenge my mind and abilities. When I wrote Root of Passion it was with the explicit idea that I’d try my hand at Erotica.

Since I was already going down the proverbial rabbit hole, I decided to add a layer of fantastical mystery—a potion shop in a foreign country that seems to appear and disappear. One of the characters purchases a potion for a friend, who she believes needs more passion in her life.

Of course, romance is a part of the Erotica menu, as well as a Happily Ever After ending, so the romance remained the driving force and the intimate steamy scenes were strategically placed (I thought) to move the narrative forward. There is that fine line between gratuitous sex and passionate interplay, and I’ve always thought Erotica rode that line like… Well, you get it.

What did I learn from this experience? I’d always though writing sex scenes was painfully difficult, so Erotica was that difficulty magnified ten-fold. It’s not that I don’t like writing about sex or think I don’t write those scenes well. It’s simply that it’s a challenge not to turn the scene into a biology lesson, as I often say to those I edit. With each gesture, kiss, or action, it’s a choice between imagination or explicit detail—and not using the word “body” 86 times in the telling.

In the end, Root remains my only foray into Erotica. An author recently informed me that of all my books, the Los Angeles Public Library has two of my titles, one of which is Root of Passion. I chuckled, pleased to know at least one person liked it enough to recommend it for purchase.

Chapter Three

As was her custom, Grace allowed herself one extra hour of sleep on Saturday and Sunday mornings. It was a practical indulgence, but on this particular Saturday, when the buzzer sounded at eight, she could have easily ripped the alarm clock from the wall and stayed in bed indefinitely. Her body craved more rest, but she opened one lolling eye and saw the glowing digital numbers flip from eight to eight-o-one. Another minute of her day—and her life—had passed, and she was still acting like a worthless slug. She commanded her other eye to open, taking another step toward commitment.

Her mind focused on the to-do list that hung on her refrigerator, a culmination of the week’s epiphanies and necessary errands that demanded her attention: clean the bathroom, pay her bills, write a thank-you note to Aunt Judith for the birthday gift—a book on modern art. She didn’t bother drafting the note in her head, since it would come to her naturally. She loved art of all eras, but the modern period was one of her favorites. Then, she remembered there was work in the garden, and she owed her neighbors lunch for helping her fix the back gate.

She often tricked her body by reviewing her to-do list, and in ten minutes she was out the front door for her morning jog. It was beautiful outside, and she loved running through her neighborhood, a stately pre-World War Two subdivision full of well-maintained cottages and bungalows. She turned the corner and saw Scott and Ray, her helpful neighbors, already out working on their yard.

“Come by for lunch,” she called, stopping in front of their walk but continuing to run in place.

“We’d better have something good,” Scott warned. He was clipping back some overgrown vines while his partner emptied the lawnmower bag. “None of that sickening seaweed stuff you gave us last time. There is a limit to healthy, Grace.”

“You got it,” she said, waving goodbye.

Why can’t my yard look like that? She already knew the answer. When they weren’t managing their interior design business, Scott and Ray trimmed, pruned and planted. She dismissed the fact that the inside of their house looked equally fabulous as professional advantage.

She reached the end of the street, determined to run at least three more blocks before turning around, ignoring the cries of her thirty-six-year-old calves. She was starting to feel her age, and, as a doctor, she was wise to the changes that were coming. She knew she was prepared, having increased the fiber in her diet and abstaining from most fatty foods. Her only vice was red wine, but she rationalized the health benefits counterbalanced the negative effects.

By the time she’d stumbled through her front door, her legs wobbled so badly that she fell on the couch, her confidence shaken, knowing she needed to increase her iron supplement. Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. It was Margo. Unwilling to debate the Root of Passion anymore, she waited for the inevitable voicemail that she was certain Margo would leave and then replayed it.

“Hi, gorgeous. I’m sorry about last night. Look, I’m going to Rocky Point next month. Why don’t you come along and keep me respectable? You need to start gambling, Grace,” Margo continued, “and I’m using that word metaphorically. The next time I go anywhere, you’re coming with me, and I won’t take no for an answer. And I still think you should try the Root of Passion.”

There was a harsh click ending the call. She rolled her eyes and headed for the shower, determined to dismiss the message and forget Eva’s comments. She couldn’t change for anyone. Experience had taught her that whenever she took a risk, only hard lessons and regret were the result. She reasoned that people chose their misery by risking their fortunes unnecessarily, looking for shortcuts to bypass the true ingredients of lasting happiness: patience and hard work. And as a surgeon, she had an ample supply of both.

* * * * *

“Am I boring? Honestly.”

Ray and Scott looked at her, both wearing confused expressions. Grace lobbed the question to them without warning, hoping to gauge their honest reactions. Once the shock faded, they glanced at each other, as if to decide who drew the short straw and would need to answer her. After watching them shift in their chairs uncomfortably for another ten seconds, she didn’t need a response—she’d already received it.

She sucked in her breath. “Okay, let me re-phrase that question. Am I the most boring person you know?”

“No,” Scott said quickly, and Ray slapped his shoulder. “What?” he snapped. “You disagree?”

Ray shook his head and offered her a gentle smile. “I don’t think you’re boring at all. You’re just careful.”

“Sounds the same,” she said.

Scott speared a chunk of his Asian tofu salad. “Honey, I’m not sure where this whole conversation is going, but it doesn’t bode well for our friendship. You’ve asked a loaded question, which you have decided is also rhetorical, and nothing Ray or I say will be right.” He quickly chewed his bite and held up his fork to make another point. “This is just like that time when you asked us if we liked that non-returnable purple blouse. Remember?”

She remembered. She hadn’t spoken to either of them for a week. She closed her eyes for a moment, realizing that she was lucky to have such wonderfully honest friends, ones who didn’t speak in metaphors and balanced out Margo.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Margo told me last night that Eva broke up with me because I wasn’t any fun, and I should gamble more with my life. I guess I want to know if you both agree.”

Ray shrugged and filled his plate with another helping of salad. “I’m not sure what she means. Should you take out your 401K and invest it in a strip club? Probably not.”

Grace blanched at the thought. She was careful with her retirement plan, increasing her contributions based on a set schedule devised by her financial planner, who referred to her as the poster child for a healthy financial future.

“There are other ways to gamble,” Scott said.

She leaned toward him. “Such as?”

“When was the last time you went to the store without a list?”

“It saves money if you know what you want,” she argued.

Ray touched her arm. “What about just impulse spending? Just get what you want?” Her eyes narrowed at the foreign concept, and he shook his head. “Here’s another one. What about just spending a Saturday afternoon doing nothing?”

Her eyes widened. “Nothing? But when would I get anything done?”

Scott sighed. “That’s the point, honey. You just let the day take shape. No planning. It’s exciting.”

“Exactly,” Ray agreed. “How many times have we called you to do something, and you’ve refused because you had some mundane chore to complete?”

She had no answer. She knew she declined offers from all of her friends more often than she accepted.

“When was the last time you got laid?” Scott asked pointedly.

She shook her head adamantly. “No way. I’m not gambling with sex. I’m a doctor.”

He held up his hand in protest. “I wasn’t suggesting you hit the bars. That was merely my poorly worded way of asking you if you’d had a date in the last six months.”

“No, I’ve been busy with work.”

Both of the guys bowed their heads at the overused cliché. Even she knew it was ridiculous. “I don’t know why I avoid connecting with new people,” she admitted.

Ray waved his fork at her. “What about that hot chick at the end of your block? Dina what’s her name. Have you even spoken to her?”

Her cheeks burned and she looked away.

“I’m so disappointed,” Scott chastised her. “We spent three hours counseling you about how to get to know that woman, and I can’t believe you’ve ignored all that free advice.” He looked at Ray and shrugged. “Why do we waste our time on her?”

“I don’t think you’ll ever meet her,” Ray challenged.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll make a point to introduce myself, but I can’t imagine it going anywhere. She looks like she’s eighteen,” she quickly added.

“She’s older than eighteen,” Scott said. “She’s twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four? How do you know that?”

“Because I made the effort to meet her a few weeks ago when she was out walking her monstrosity of a dog.”

“So?” Grace asked, recognizing that her punishment would be to pry each detail from Scott’s memory.

“She didn’t say a lot. She works for a landscaper, been in the valley for the last two years, and she’s renting her house from the family who used to live there.”

Grace shook her head. “Twenty-four?”

Ray touched her shoulder. “Honey, at this point for you, twenty-four is just right. Go out and have a good time. A really good time. You’re not looking for a mate, just a date.”

Grace sighed. “Fine. I’ll go knock on her door. Will that make you both happy?”

They grinned and let the subject drop, regaling her with their plans for a hiking expedition to the Andes. She loved hearing about their vacations, which were never ordinary. While everyone she knew took cruises or tours through Europe, Ray and Scott traveled to unusual places and came back with the funniest vacation stories she’d ever heard. They’d gone on safari in Africa, hiked through Malaysia and spent time in Amsterdam’s red-light district. As Ray reviewed the rigorous exercise routine they were using to prepare for their hike on the Inca Trail, it dawned on her that she’d surrounded herself with people who were nothing like her. Ray, Scott and Margo were her best friends, but she had nothing in common with them. Why do they even like me?

That question nagged at her long after they’d left. She wondered when they’d get sick of her and just give up on the lost cause that was her life. She glanced at her daily planner and busied herself with the other four things that needed to be done before Saturday ended. And indeed, by eight o’clock that night, she’d managed to reorganize her closet, clean the kitchen cabinets and written the thank-you note to Aunt Judith. She’d already decided that the rest of her evening would involve red wine, a hot bath and the mystery novel she’d picked up at the local women’s bookstore, but not before she took out the garbage and recycling.

The street was typically quiet on Saturday nights since the area catered to working professionals. There were few families, but the children who lived on her block were well-mannered and helpful. It was ideal for her, and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

She glanced down the block at Dina Devereux’s house, a small adobe that sat on the corner where the street dead-ended. Even her name was exotic, and it matched her lifestyle, or so Grace thought. She drove an antique, dark blue Ford truck, the kind with the tiny tailgate. Her front yard was a visual masterpiece. She often saw her outside on her hands and knees, planting and pulling weeds. She frequently wore cutoffs and tank tops, revealing a sinewy tanned body, including an interesting tattoo that sat at the base of her spine. Of course, Grace had never gotten close enough to examine it, but from a distance, she could tell the artwork was intricate. They occasionally waved at each other whenever Dina drove by on her way into or out of the neighborhood. She had a great smile, and her HATE IS NOT A FAMILY VALUE bumper sticker clued Grace into her sexuality.

Dina’s front light cast a warm glow over her porch. She was probably home, as the truck was in the driveway and lights were on inside. She wondered how Dina spent her nights. Often there were other cars parked along the curb, and she must have a multitude of friends who visited, but they were never loud or obnoxious.

She glanced once more at the little adobe house, thinking about her promise to Ray and Scott. She realized she’d forgotten to grab the mail, and when she thumbed through it, she found something addressed to Dina. Judging from the return address, it was probably junk, and Dina wouldn’t even miss it if Grace tossed it into the trash, but Ray’s challenge echoed in her ears.

I don’t think you’ll ever meet her.

She headed out the door, but her steps slowed the closer she came to the house, until she’d planted herself at the end of Dina’s front walk. She tapped the letter in her hand, rationalizing that she really shouldn’t bother her neighbor over such a triviality. She’d convinced herself to go home when the front door opened and Dina emerged, digging through her pockets for her keys. She was dressed as if she was hitting the clubs, wearing tight jeans, a black T-shirt and a faded denim jacket. Her short, brown hair fell in her eyes and she brushed it away with her hand. She didn’t notice Grace at first, until she headed down the porch steps.

“Oh, hi,” she said, an electric smile on her face. “You live down the block, right?”

Now that Dina had pulled her into a conversation, Grace felt obligated to trek up the walk and introduce herself. Why had she even bothered? She automatically held out the letter.

“Um, I got some of your mail.”

Still smiling, Dina shook her head. “Weird. I don’t get how that mail lady makes these mistakes. I mean, it’d be one thing if we lived next door to each other, but she’s totally confused. Last week I got this porno catalogue for some guy three streets down. I think she’s pretty clueless.”

Grace laughed in agreement. “I know. Sometimes I think we all should just meet in the middle of the street each evening to redistribute it.”

“Now there’s a plan. Oh, by the way, I’m Dina Devereux.”

She stuck out her hand, and Grace noticed she wore a different silver ring on each finger and several bracelets on her forearm.

“Grace Owens.” She glanced at the truck and automatically stepped back. “Well, I can see that you were on your way out, so I’ll let you get on with your evening. I just didn’t want you to miss whatever exciting opportunity is mentioned in that letter.”

Dina rolled her eyes. “I’m sure. Thanks for bringing it by.”

Grace nodded and offered a feeble wave. I’ve done what I promised to do. I met her. I even shook her hand. Ha.

“Hey, Grace.”

She whirled around. “Yes?”

“You wouldn’t by any chance like jazz would you?”

"I love jazz."

“I’m heading out to this great new club in Cave Creek that nobody knows is great yet. Do you wanna come?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think so,” she said automatically. “I’ve already got plans. But thanks.”

Dina smiled. “Sure. I know it’s totally short notice. Maybe next time.”

Grace watched her hop into the truck, noticing she had a great figure. She quickly turned away and started back toward her house.

Dina pulled up beside her and called through the window, “Hey, let me know if you ever want to plant anything along the front. I could hook you up with some great shrubs.”

“Thanks,” Grace said, as Dina drove off.

She entered her quiet house and locked the front door, unsure of what she wanted. The idea of curling up in a hot tub seemed ridiculous now, and she couldn’t talk herself into enjoying anything—a DVD, a project, not even a quick shopping trip on the Internet. She lost an hour just meandering through the rooms, standing in the doorways, looking out the windows into the backyard and sitting at her dining room table. She replayed her conversation with Margo over and over, thinking of Eva and the little vial in the oak box. Each time she pushed the idea away as absurd, it eventually clouded her mind again.

Unable to stand the isolation of her house for another minute, she went outside and stood in the center of her backyard, staring into the sky. An odd feeling overtook her, one she couldn’t immediately name. And then it hit her.

Shit. This is loneliness.