Hawthorn Moon's author, pen name, Lisa Anne (Lisa Minneti) is scheduled to stop at my Mocha Lisa Coffee Shop office today, a rare event. She comes by to work on her book once, maybe twice a year.
Why do I mention that, because what I'm about to share had me shaking my head once again as the delightful Storytelling Fairies seem to be blessing the efforts of Heritage Press and author, Lisa Anne, to tell good stories.
So, I'm watching the coverage of the 2022 French Open today, the rare day I'm going to meet Lisa Anne to work on Hawthorn Moon, and one of the commentators whimsically described a controversial call as a "French Kiss" when the tennis ball just barely touched a line.
Now, I'm quite sure, although I can't be certain, that during the 10 or 20 years I've been following the French Open, I've never heard an announcer say those words..."French Kiss." Well, my editor's mind, crammed with details from all the manuscripts I've shaped, remembered instantly that Hawthorn Moon's Chapter 14 is titled, FRENCH KISSES! I stopped, shook my head, and realized I'd just been..."Kissed" for the umpteenth time by the delightful...STORYTELLING FAIRIES!!!
...find CHAPTER 14 FRENCH KISSES...below
I want to be the girl with the most cake...
Hole
The concrete felt good
on the back of my thighs. Dependable. The video was over. I was not
thinking about the video, instead, my mind was dancing with shenanigans,
the mischief escapades that went on behind the sheets and or with the
sheets.
My heart was torn then
stitched like a random crazy quilt, my rum raisin tinted lipstick...like
everywhere. How many men did I just French Kiss—all so different, but I liked them all. I can't say I felt happy about it, but I definitely was not sad.
The full Hawthorn Moon
was rising, performing a ritual between the clouds that reminded me of
snakes eloping. I always felt at home outdoors. Luna would often warn,
"Do not trust the indoors."
Tonight's moon, the
Hawthorn Moon, I would French kiss too if I could—a glorious apricot jam
hue surrounded by a vanilla ice cream glow. Damn...it was beautiful.
The surrounding sky was that comfortable neighborhood drugstore pink.
My mom always wore a
similar shade of pink. She would put on lipstick, was not a fan of rouge
or mascara, but her mouth, that was different—not too dark, not too
light, but not too innocent, either.
I took off running in
the direction of the rising Hawthorn Moon, so impressively low and
bellowing I could hardly breathe—I'm thinking...if only I wasn't such a spaz, more of a fast track athlete type, maybe I could actually get there.
Caressed by the sweet
Hawthorn Moon May wind, gently urging me on, my soul was open to
forgiving everything and everyone in need of forgiveness, including
myself. I wanted to devour the moon, like I would a thick slice of
Sentry supermarket wedding reception cake, and block out all the
questionable things I'd just done.
Those kisses, that last French Kiss,
feeling like I was being strangled and smothered, yet somehow I sort of
enjoyed it—that tight...gripping sense of being fused together...not so
bad, really. Primal passion is part of the human experience, you know,
like in the Eric Carmen song, "Hey Let's Go All The Way."
I'd inhaled that last French Kiss—the effect hitting me like the intense scent of Paco Rabanne Phantom Cologne. Gosh, do I need so much love?
The amorous aroma of
spring...the pungent sweet floral smells get in your hair and
teeth—coming from nowhere, but especially at night attacking your
senses.
My lips were bruised eggplant purple. He'd gripped me so tight and his forceful French Kiss,
I remember not being so sure I liked it, but then it was so damn
interesting—like his whole life was contained in that one kiss.
Did anything matter more to him at that moment—his family, his brother, Dominick, or even his mother's car collection.
As with Rhett Butler,
their sexual chemistry boiling over, after he'd aggressively whisked
Scarlett up the grand staircase of their postwar Atlanta mansion,
Jacomo's kiss was hungry—like he hadn't kissed anyone else that way, that day...that week...perhaps even ever.
All the French Kisses...
Being outside, and it
being May, somehow made everything seem okay, natural...just what girls
do. The wind caught my hair, flying everywhere. I felt fearless, my
thoughts going chronicle as I recalled French Kiss #1.
Gutter picked me up,
straight up, like I was his favorite fruit-flavored Popsicle, lifting me
way up over his head, and at that moment instead of being upset all I
wanted to do was bury my face in his hoodie—golden with marigold
stitching and oversized.
I was liking his
strength as he slowly lowered me...such crazy teenage fun—fountain-soda
light and refreshed. Then, the kiss. At first soft and sweet, while I
was still being held high, just a little tongue, then, as if we were
principals in an MGM Fred Astaire musical, he twirled me round and round
in ballroom-dancer fashion.
"I didn't know you could slam dance moves like that," I said, nuzzling his neck, swimming in Calvin Klein Eternity.
"So, you like my Gene Kelly?"
Being with Gutter was this crazy, dizzy buzz that the now
was all there was. His look, an attractive mix of German Shepard with
the powerful presence of a bouncer at Studio 54, late '70's, when the
disco-driven club was so popular that anything and everything went on
and the bouncers had to be able to handle anything and everything.
For Gutter's next French Kiss
he put his hand behind the low curve of my head, tossing my hair aside,
and fetchingly said, "Spice, you are precocious...I've always like that
in a girl," his eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Then it hit me, all men
look like some kind of animal close up—some like dolphins, warm and
serene; some like tigers, predatory and powerful, but this was the first
time a guy looked to me like a stuffed animal...in Gutter's case, a
cuddly teddy bear. I imagined a life with him would be...musical, soft
shoe, and buttered popcorn.
The second French Kiss I stole from Gutter—just couldn't help myself.
High school crushes are
hard to get over, even in your 30's. That Genoa City sweetie, super tall
Pauley, simply the best bass player ever...period, and he was here in
Seattle. How did she do it?
The video shoot was
over, but Luna's band was just wrapping up a rehearsal for another gig
coming up later. I was sitting close to the stage in the bowling alley
hall where the shoot had just taken place.
Pauley just couldn't
help flirting with Luna, batting his doe-brown god-gifted eyes at her as
she flirted back, winking while snuggling up to her microphone in that
sultry way of hers. Moving toward him, she began stroking the shaft of his bass. That was too much. I had to shake that up.
Why was Luna coming on
to my secret crush? All the men she's had and would have, couldn't she
leave mine alone? Oh god, Pauley's noticed me...and now he's coming
over...bass guitar and all.
"Hey there, November...been a long lonely time."
His smile was silly cute
and I couldn't help but notice that he had said something in a
complete, full sentence—when I recall he never used to string that many
words together at one time.
"You look swell, Pauley, exactly as I remember you—still have your The Taken cool swagger from that band you were in."
"And you...you look
really nice...but different. I'll always remember you in the audience at
our gigs wearing that old army jacket, your face so serious, but sweet,
like you were in church. Keep it real, November—that's your jam."
That deep observation, coming from...him...swelled
my already bursting heart and I threw my arms around both Pauley and
his guitar. The wine giving me courage, I couldn't resist giving him a
warm welcome-back-in-my-life kiss...with a just a touch of French—this
special someone who...dines with the angels.
He returned my affection
with a growing secret smile, cut short when Lady Luna spoke up, still
glowing from a glorious stage presence.
"Are you enjoying this lusty month of May?" she asked me.
Smiling like a naughty child impervious to scolding, Luna went on while putting her hand on his shoulder as if to claim her property, "Sweet Pauley...isn't there a song that sounds like Pauley, why yes, a Nirvana tune, "Polly," a slow one, you know, Polly wants a cracker...sing it with me, Pauley, for fun."
"Let's roll," he happily agreed.
I was now having an awkward situation with Luna for squelching the growing amorous moment Pauley and I were about to have.
Watching them stroll back to the stage, I could see they were an obvious couple, roughhousing a bit as lovers often to—happy. Before beginning the song, Luna blew a kiss to Pauley, then, looked at me as if to say...he's mine.
While Pauley opened with
a long bass riff, Lady Luna, using her considerable psychic powers,
sent me a message I heard in my mind loud and clear—it seems you've had some fine boy cuisine on your dining table today, but you only seem to want the entrées you can't have.
I felt like such a
trollop. What was I doing, trying to snag someone else's man? That
wasn't me...or was it? I just couldn't watch any more and went outside,
full of questions.
The rising, full, now
yellow Hawthorn Moon might have the answers. Anyway, searching the
heavens on the night of a full moon always gave me strength, so while
they sang I scanned the sky.
Drifting back to the video shoot, the next French Kiss was
from...and even thinking of his name made me want to sort of die and
surrender to love, like forever. He'd caught me at my best, right after
the last take of the shoot. I was holding the wooden chalice Gutter
handed me filled with red wine.
I didn't usually drink
red wine. I think it's sort of heavy, fattening, at least for Italian
girls. I've always been a white wine girl and in the '80's I loved Rhine
wine, but now Chardonnay was okay.
So there I was on the sidelines during the video shoot, sipping from the chalice, when Marcus came up and gave me that...look of love—sautéing in me an insane chemistry casserole.
He lowered his left
hand, the one bearing the Jesus ring he wore on his middle finger, and
forced me into him, so tight I gasped with familiarity—he knew I loved
this. His gorgeous hazel eyes were now staring right into my soul. I
began to wilt but Marcus held me even tighter. It was then that he
launched into our ritual of clinging so tight that you felt like dying
if the other person wasn't hugging you back just as tight...like we
would never let each other go, and just wallow there in endless
love-sickness as we exchanged all the energy and love our souls had to
share.
I recalled faintly hearing Luna singing, "It's Over Now" and how she killed it during the video, belting out the lyrics...stop when you see me.
It was during that song
when Marcus began his French Kiss assault...first with some soulful
upper lip sweetness, followed by some lusty lower lip, then moving into
full blown French everything, but actually I couldn't be sure if it was
lips or tongue.
Then, both dizzy and
delirious, I think he moaned, "Love you, Moonbright...and I'll never
forget our day at the beach—how could I...one of the naturally happiest
days of my life."
We were all over each
other soaking in the hot summer sun that day...twisting our sweaty
intertwined bodies into the shapes of most of the letters of the
alphabet.
A woman nearby, a
bowling alley bystander taking in the shoot, watching us, decked out in a
baseball hat and flamingo-pink pants suit, looked at me, wide-eyed,
being held so closely, and declared, loud enough for me to hear, but
soft enough as to not disturb the take, "You're smitten, aren't you? I
do miss making out, but then...you get married."
I knew what she was talking about...paused, then, pure-like replied, "Yep, that's why we aren't..."
I think that annoyed
her. I do that to people, but it was not my intent, heaven knows. Her
swarm of lovesickness was the same mess I was stricken with right at
that moment.
Our French Kiss
make-out session over, Marcus said, "Thanks for the nice
friends-with-benefits hug," his backing away leaving me totally dazed
and confused. Then, he added, "I wanted to thank you for the reveal. I
always knew you as such a regular girl, Novi, but in the hotel room, that was good, too," delivered in his quiet, deep, divining voice.
What the...so, I put on a little melodramatic spectacle exiting our hotel tryst as an excuse to escape on my terms after his fond of you remark pissed me off.
What does it mean, anyway, when someone seems to like your faults?
He stood there proud as his loyal fan base made their way to us—Zigarmello and Loyalty...La Famiglia.
"Don't mean to interrupt
you two kids, but I'm taking our girl, Loyalty, here home for something
to eat, would you like to join us?" Zigarmello asked.
Food was the last thing
on my mind, but I did want to say something to Loyalty before she left,
got her attention and said right from my gut, "You were sweet perfection
in the video; your skating and dancing...thank you for sharing your
magic."
"I just do what I love,"
she replied, still in her skates, her eyes sparkling like those rarest
of the rare blue diamonds, then, she added something that stunned me for
a moment, "maybe you should try that sometime, November."
Without waiting for a reaction from me, turning to Marcus Loyalty asked, "Did you like my routine?"
"Who is better than you...and you know I don't always tell you that?"
His affectionate and
respectful reply got her smiling and the two close siblings broke out
into some funky celebratory dance moves.
Zigarmello nodded me to
come over and shared, "November, you and Marcus remind me so much of
what Khloe and I had when we were young—keep having fun and do stay true
to who you are. That's all you have to do...and the Lord will do the
rest."
I paused to reflect,
then finally thoughtfully replied, "Zigarmello, the Good Lord
knows...you are the man, but I'm not quite ready for a face-to-face with
the Holy One...not sure what He'd think of me just French Kissing four different guys in the short span of only forty-four minutes.
I smile, a no-teeth not-sure-about-this smile, but my eyes were full of both a genuine love for him, along with my also genuine Christ-is-the-Way anguish.
Marcus, following all of
this banter, stepped in with a salutation solution to the awkward
moment, "Bless you Dad, and Loyalty, tell Mom I'm happy."
"You got it, son," Zigarmello replied, smiling, then added, "and it doesn't get any better than this."
Zigarmello paused, tipped his fedora, and left us with, "Checkmate."
