Revenge of the Black Virgin (6 page)

And then there was her family. And friends.
Everyone supported her through this difficult time, standing by,
watching her heart break a little harder with each silent passing
day. But none of them could help her.

By now James had melted silently into the
background. Jo had given him so little thought that she’d barely
noticed when he stopped calling and emailing. She was completely
focused on her feelings for Luc.

Finally, it was Brenda who intervened, saving
her from herself. She started by telling Jo how much she liked her
work.

“Your pieces on the Dordogne are really
great. I’ve been thinking about doing some follow-ups.”

Jo simply nodded, too sad to enjoy the
praise. Brenda said she was interested in the Black Virgin angle of
Jo’s articles.

“Maybe the two of us could go to Spain,” she
said over lunch one afternoon. Jo was trying to eat an enchilada,
without much success. “There’s got to be some Black Virgins
there.”

Jo looked up from her plate.
Spain. Why
not? I’ve got to move on.

Not really caring where she went or what she
did, Jo mustered some fake enthusiasm for the sake of her best
friend. And so, not even a month after she came home from France,
she took poor Sammy back to stay with Alex and found herself on a
jet headed to Seville. With Brenda.

Jo and Brenda had met at university. Jo was
finishing her undergraduate degree with a major in fine arts and
journalism, and Brenda was in the middle of her MBA. Jo often
thought it was unlikely two such dissimilar women would ever become
friends, but they did. Their friendship was an unequal one,
however. Brenda grew to love Joanna, as deeply as any lover. As
soon as she realized the depth of her friend’s longing, Jo came
clean. She was completely hetero, she explained one night over two
bottles of Procecco. And she didn’t see that changing any time in
the conceivable future.

Jo loved Brenda, too. She loved her wit and
uncompromising style, and her tough, cruel-edged sense of humor.
And she loved the way that Brenda was always there for her. Brenda
gave Jo the closest thing to the unconditional love she received
from her father, and after his death Jo grew even closer to the
feisty little woman who would never ask too much of her, yet give
her everything.

Brenda’s family had money, and with their
help she created
Inside/Outside,
making Jo an offer she
couldn’t refuse—editorial freedom, a generous salary, and flexible
hours. And the two women made a good professional team, despite
their close personal attachment. Both were thrilled when the
magazine began to grow in circulation. It was almost as if it was
their child, conceived together and then released into the
world.

This was one of the reasons Jo was not in a
hurry to accept James’ marriage proposal. He wanted her to quit the
magazine. And Brenda.

Once they got married, James thought Jo would
give up her job, get pregnant and focus on making a life with him
and their family.

Then it would be goodbye Brenda.

But things hadn’t worked out for James. Jo
thought he must have given up on her when he realized the only way
he’d be able to see her was to stalk her.

“And I know his pride won’t take him down
that road,” Jo said to Brenda as they sipped Rioja at thirty-five
thousand feet and plotted their trip along the
Ruta de la
Pueblos Blancos—
the Route of the White Villages in
Andalusia.

Jet lagged and slightly hung over, Jo and
Brenda dragged themselves through a walking tour of Seville on
their first day in Spain. The city was crowded with tourists, and
very hot. They stood uncomfortably in long line-ups to see the
grand cathedral and the spectacular Alhambra.

Then they made a side trip to the tiny church
of San Lorenzo to see a painting of the Black Virgin of Rocamadour.
As Jo studied her wizened little face, a flood of regret and grief
washed through her. The virgin still held sway over her body, Jo
knew, but she’d be damned if she’d let her control her head for the
rest of her life. She knew she had to break free of the grip of the
Virgin’s cult and begin to enjoy her life again.

Without Luc.

That night, over a quiet seafood dinner, the
two tourists reviewed the many hundreds of photos they’d shot
throughout the day, disappointed at their lack of skill.

“Especially the interiors, “Brenda said with
a frown as she flipped through Jo’s shots of the cathedral’s
magnificent nave. “They’re too dark and grainy. Shit, shit, shit. I
don’t know enough about cameras to know if I should just buy a
better one, or what kind to get, or anything.”

“Neither do I,” said Jo, her attention
momentarily caught by a good-looking man seated at the bar. Men in
Seville were so well-groomed, she thought. Even average-looking men
seemed handsome to her in their neat suits and expensive shoes.

Looking back at her friend she offered, “I’m
sorry I’m no help. I’m such a klutz with cameras.” But she was only
half paying attention to Brenda. She was thinking that it was good
to catch herself looking at men again. Apparently she wasn’t ready
to roll over and die after all.

Yes—life has more to offer me. Maybe it’s
time to move on.

Over a sinfully rich flan, Jo and Brenda
agreed they needed to hire a professional photographer to accompany
them on their tour of the White Hill Towns. “It’d be a bonus if he
or she could drive, too,” Brenda said.

Jo was still a bit groggy the next morning
when Brenda came rushing into their room with a goofy grin
plastered onto her face.

“You’re going to be
muy feliz
when you
see what I’ve got up my sleeve, Joey. Are you all packed?”

“What’s going to make me very happy?
What
?” Brenda had been going out of her way to make her
forget the terrible past few months. She wondered what kind of a
surprise she had up her sleeve this time. “A Corvette? A Mustang
convertible?” She grinned as she slung her pack over her shoulder
and wheeled her suitcase to the door. “Whatever it is, can I drive
it?”

“No!” Brenda flung at her. “
Neither
of
us is going to be driving. Our new hire will look after all of
that. Come on. You’ve got to see this!”

Brenda’s enthusiasm was contagious and Jo
laughed as her friend lead her out onto the blazing sunshine of the
street to a nondescript silver SUV.

“What? Is this
it
?” As she turned to
Brenda in disappointment Jo saw someone inside the vehicle,
stacking boxes in the cargo space. When he spied them, the young
man unfolded himself and sprang onto the pavement, smiling so
sweetly that Jo couldn’t help an answering smile of her own. Brenda
giggled as she grabbed Jo’s hand and introduced her.

“Joanna, sweetheart, this is Danny, our
travel guide, photographer, driver, GPS reader, menu translator and
all round protector for the next five days.”

Jo held her hand out to the beautiful young
Spaniard, who took it with an exaggerated flourish. “I am honored,
Joanna, to make your acquaintance.” Deep dimples played in his
cheeks as his smile widened, showing strong white teeth.

Two bright pinks spots glowed on his smooth,
brown cheeks, and Joanna laughed as she realized that, under his
bravado, he was nervous. His dark eyes sparkled at her and she knew
she was blushing as well. He was irresistibly attractive.

Young. Too damned young. But
so
cute!

She turned to Brenda, still grinning. “Very
good idea, Bren. Who’s going to sit up front first?” she asked
innocently as she deftly threw her bag onto the floor of the front
seat.

Danny, not missing a beat, stowed Jo’s other
bag, said everything was ready, and off they went.

As Brenda promised, Jo felt happy as she
found herself being chauffeured through orange and olive groves on
a clear, blue summer’s day. Brenda read from a travel guide as
their handsome young driver told them what he knew about the White
Hill Towns of Andalusia. They were heading for Ronda, the largest,
using it as a home base for day trips to the smaller towns.

When they left the flat fields and began to
climb into the green mountains, Jo was struck by the beauty of the
landscape. This trip, she realized, was exactly what she needed to
stop dwelling about the past. And to help her forget about Luc.

Danny spoke very good English, having studied
it in school. Not only was it easy to talk to him about the
practical aspects of their trip, it was soon clear that his grasp
of the vernacular was good enough to understand slang, jokes and
other subtle aspects of the language.

He was fun, Jo thought. And very charming,
too.

At a rest stop, when Danny was out of
earshot, Brenda hugged her friend and said, laughing, “Did I do
good, or what? Isn’t he just what you need, sweetheart? He’s
perfect! Don’t you just want to lick him all over, and then eat him
up?”

“He’s just a kid, Bren. It wouldn’t be
right!” Jo protested as a rush of saliva filled her mouth.

“He’s not, really. He’s twenty-four. And
you’re thirty. No biggie.”

Jo looked at her friend’s grinning face. Then
they both burst into peals of laughter.

Brenda knew her too well, Jo thought, and she
was too kind.

He
was
adorable. And Jo needed to have
sex. Danny, even if all she did was look at him, would be like a
restorative tonic.

For the rest of the drive she tried to keep
her gaze off the driver and on the landscape. Most of the time that
wasn’t too difficult. As they began to climb higher, the rugged
hills and brilliant green fields grew more and more picturesque.
But whenever she snuck a peek at Danny, she felt a little
anticipatory flutter in her chest.

Yes. He’s exactly what the doctor would order
for me.

They reached Ronda by mid afternoon. It was
one of the most charming towns she’d ever seen, Jo thought, as she
and Brenda strolled over the jaw-dropping New Bridge that connected
the old town to the new. Now that they were in the mountains, they
enjoyed cooler temperatures, but the sun was still strong and Jo
was glad she’d remembered to bring her straw hat.

The two women toured the bullring, the second
oldest in Spain, and the curved museum housed behind. Jo studied
the heads of the particularly fierce bulls mounted behind glass
walls. Then she looked at the fine embroidery on the lavish
matadors’ suits.

Danny was made for one of these outfits. It
would fit him perfectly.

She smiled to herself as she realized she
hadn’t thought of Luc for at least an hour.

Yes. Coming here was a very good idea.

Chapter Seven

Luc took his ex-wife’s advice. Whatever their
marital problems had been, lack of communication hadn’t been one of
them. He hauled his BMW touring bike out of storage, gave it a
tune-up, threw a few essentials in a bag and prepared to head
south. Before he left, he made a point of spending as much time as
he could with his son. It couldn’t compensate for the hurt he’d
caused the boy, but it was all he could manage.

He intended to travel down through Spain,
maybe as far as Morocco, and set off on a direct route through
Toulouse toward the Spanish border. In the pilgrimage city of
Lourdes he spent an evening watching the procession of wheelchairs,
walkers, and hospital beds snake its way to the famous grotto,
everyone hoping for a cure.

All these people praying for a miracle. My
wounds don’t show, but I’m no different.

He knew it would take a miracle for him to
stop longing for Joanna. But he had to push on.

The next day he veered north to cross into
the Basque Country at San Sebastian. Except for a brief visit to
the Guggenheim Art Gallery at Bilbao, he spent long days on the
road, stopping only to eat and sleep. He veered east through
Zaragoza, where, because Joanna never left him in peace, he
indulged himself by visiting a few of the many shrines to the Black
Madonna.

He remembered that day in the little church
in Rocamadour, when he’d introduced her to the Black Virgin. That
was when everything changed. She’d seemed so different after that
encounter. That was when he knew she was ripe for plucking—all of
her former uncertainty gone. But thinking about that day—any part
of it—filled him with agonizing pain, and he chastised himself for
being a self-indulgent fool as he fired up the bike again and drove
out of the city.

He headed down to the coast and Valencia,
grinding his teeth, telling himself over and over to stop thinking
about her. It would do him no good.

Seeing the sea gladdened him, but by the time
he passed through the throngs of northerners baking themselves
crisp on the Costa del Sol he was getting weary of his own company.
Nowhere held any interest for him, and it wasn’t until he hit
Gibraltar that he awoke from his road warrior state of mind.

Before he hit Algeciras, where he planned to
catch a boat to Tangier, he’d decided to pay a quick visit to the
tiny British colony and its famous rock. He hadn’t been there since
he was a boy, on a school outing. Riding a motorcycle gave him an
advantage in the steep, narrow streets full of shoppers and
sight-seers and he headed out to Europa Point. He parked the bike,
took a
jambon
sandwich and a can of warm beer out of his
saddlebag, and sat down on a rock overlooking the blue Strait.
Riding all day under a fierce summer sun had overheated him, so he
shed his heavy jacket and T-shirt to let the sea breezes dry his
sweat.

As he ate he looked around at the vista. He
saw fish teeming in the sea below his feet. The skies were full of
white sea birds, some flying so high they were little more than
specks above his head. The wind was gentle on his face, the sun
warm on his bare back, and after eating he began to feel that maybe
he could buck up and stop feeling sorry for himself. Life was rich
and full and he would enjoy it again.