This chapter and the two that follow were written in response to readers' comments, observations, etc. regarding Moms at the Beach. The narrator of the first four chapters was Sharon, one of the moms at the beach. For this and the next two chapters Lisa, one of the twins, assumes that duty.
As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.
* * * *
If you read the preceding four chapters you know the broad outline of my sister's and my life. Our parents adored each other. There are lots of examples, but my favorite is a simple one. Whenever Mom walked into a room there was always this moment when Dad caught his breath and completely focused on her. He'd walk over to her, take her hand in his, kiss her, say something kind or complimentary. It would happen no matter where they were, at the house, at a party, at a reception for the university's chancellor. I believe he'd have done it in while talking to the President of the United States. They were the most important people in the world to each other. Cindy and I felt protected, ensconced in their love.
It was also true that while in public they were appropriate, in private they couldn't keep their hands off each other. I'm not talking about making out, although there was plenty of that. No, what I mean is that if they were in the same room, they touched. Maybe a foot resting on the other's legs. Maybe holding hands, maybe leaning against each other, but if they could touch each other, they did touch each other. They were also always emerging late from the bedroom in the morning or hitting the sack early at night or heading upstairs for a late morning/early/mid/late afternoon nap. We weren't fooled; they had no idea how loud they were.
Dad and Mom had both related their history. Mom's version was a bit raunchier.
Dad was a 29 year old civil engineer hired by the Huejulos Group to evaluate a mountainous region in central Columbia for the construction of a pipeline. The area was inhabited by the Chibchan-speaking Arhuaco people. It was essential that someone who spoke the dialect accompany the group. Salvador Huejulos, our grandfather, had just the candidate: his daughter.
Dad had met the girl. She was stunning, bright, and engaging, but, Dad thought, far too pampered to live out of a back pack and sleep in a tent for weeks. But Grandad was paying the bill and Grandad had a secret agenda. There was an international soccer tournament in town and his wild child daughter was already trolling the locker rooms; some weeks in the wilderness would be just the thing. When he broached the idea he was surprised by her enthusiastic agreement. We'll get to that in a second.
To Dad's surprise Mom not only fit in, but was the first one up in the morning to tend the fire and did more than her share of the work. Her upbeat attitude infected the entire mission and her wild bawdy sense of humor kept everyone laughing.
Now, as to why Mom agreed to eschew the soccer studs. Mom said she fell helplessly hopelessly in love for life with our father within seconds of meeting him. She spent the first six nights of the expedition trying to crawl into his sleeping bag. Dad dutifully resisted. On day seven Mom and Dad met with a band of Arhuaco who, as part of their ritual greeting, offered to share a beverage with my father. Mom owned up that she might have mistranslated the Chibchan, "Used in our fertility rituals," as "Share with new friends." In any case, when Mom crawled into Dad's tent that night he was putty in her hands. As far as I could tell he'd been so ever since.
Dad was concerned about returning to Bogota; he'd have to tell Grandad that not only was the land was unsuitable for the pipeline, but that he'd fallen in love with and was sleeping with his daughter. It turned out not to be a problem. Grandad had expected the first, he just wanted to shut up his partners; as to the second, he was overjoyed that a sensible successful older man had finally tamed his daughter. They were married before they left the country; Mom was carrying me and my sister.
Mom, whose facility for language never failed to amaze, majored in English, got her PhD, and accepted a position teaching at the College of Charleston. Dad, who had established his own firm, renovated a 1820's building in the historic district for his office. We lived in a happy, social world. Mom and Dad loved to entertain; our house was ever filled with guests. Mom was also a fairy godmother to her department's graduate students and they were a constant presence in our home. I now know that the constant hum of activity was unusual, but for Cindy and I it was the norm. We thought everyone lived that way.
* * * *
Treicia Johnson called at the beginning of our freshman year at Duke University. While a grad student she'd been a regular visitor to our home. She was now an associate professor at Duke teaching African-American literature.
We met her for lunch at the Blue Corn Café, a vegetarian bistro near campus. A diminutive woman, five feet tall, 110 pounds, she greeted us like old friends. She was also, as I remembered, quite pretty. Her skin was a creamy brown in color, her face triangular and featured high arching eyebrows that framed intelligent brown eyes. She wore her hair in braids.
"Your Mom called and told me you were coming here. She asked me to look you up, show you the ropes. It's so good to see you two, you're all grown up."
Cindy, the extrovert of us two, carried most of the conversation during lunch. We were finishing our coffee when Cindy asked about fun clubs in town.
"There are a number of places. I'm going to the Pinhook tonight. Why don't you join me?"
We'd heard a positive buzz about the Pinhook. Cindy answered for both of us. "Love to."
Treicia wrote down her address. We arrived promptly at 8:00 and found a different Treicia. Instead of the conservative blue dress we'd seen at lunch, she wore a daring black number, it was short and featured a plunging neckline. Her black shoes featured five inch heels and were held on by four straps. Her hair was down; she sported long dangling earrings.
Cindy scanned her up and down. "Damn, you look good. I didn't know we were supposed to dress up."
Cindy was wearing a gray sack dress. It ended several inches above her knees and was tight enough to show off her body. I wore a simple red dress with half-length sleeves and wedge shoes. It emphasized my legs, my best asset.
Treicia, inviting us in, replied, "It's not a dress-up place, people come in everything, gowns to jeans. It's a fun crowd."
We sat on a large comfortable red couch. Sweet slow jazz music was playing. I sniffed, there was a definite smell of marijuana. Treicia noticed I'd noticed.
"You guys indulge?" she asked.
"I do," I answered, "Cindy doesn't."
Treicia turned to my sister, who returned the gaze. "Yeah, I tried it a few times. I got nauseous and walked around for days feeling addled. You go ahead."
