Love's Legacy in St. Augustine

Tengo hambre de tus ojos, de tu boca,de tus besos... Those were the first words I heardRafael say. I hunger for your eyes, your mouth, your kisses On a warm October day, he stoodat the front of the University of Miami classroom, reciting a poem in both Spanish and English. It was the second week of school, and he'd transferred into Public Speaking 101. He'd missed a few classes already and because of that, everyone noticed him on the day he read aloud. All the girls couldn't stop looking at him. Neither could I. I was nineteen years old. Rafael was tall and wore faded jeans and a plain black T-shirt. The dark stubble on his face, combined with his black eyebrows, dark eyelashes, and short black hair, made him look like the devil's best student. A flashing red hazard to my heart. As he spoke, Rafael stared. At me. I was sitting in the second row. His eyes were so filled with possessive desire that I longed to kneel at his feet and beg him to do anything he wanted with my body and soul. When he finished speaking, Rafael watched me, his mouth open in a half-smile, one that held the promise of pleasure. I was breathless. Hypnotized. "Thank you, Mr. Menendez. Ms. Lavoie, you're next," the professor called out, startling me enough that I hurriedly gathered my papers. One fell to the floor, and I scrambled to retrieve it, scooping it up with shaking fingers. Stepping to the front of the room, I passed Rafael as he took his seat. I swallowed hard when our eyes met for a quick second. My mouth was uncomfortably moist, and I folded my arms. I was aware of how my vintage, black-and-rose-printed Betsey Johnson slip dress and black flip-flops rubbed against my skin and would've liked to strip everything off. Rafael's gaze made me feel naked. Made me want to be naked. With him. "Please tell us the title of the poemn you're reading," said the professor. "I've selected 'Sonnet Seventeen,' by Neruda," I replied in a thin voice, staring at the ground. "Uncross your arms. And you're going to have to speak louder. Remember, this is a public speaking class, not a public whispering class." The few students who bothered to pay attention laughed, and I raised my eyes toward Rafael. He slouched low in his chair, his long legs sprawling and taking up space in the front row. His lips curved upward and built into a sensual smile. I tucked my wavy hair behind my ear. With a deep breath, I began. Rafael consumed me with long, slow glances as I recited the poem. His lips parted, and I caught sight of his tongue in the corner of his mouth. By the time I reached the second sentence, I smiled. A secret, just for him. It was as if we were the only two people in the room. When class ended, I hurried outside into the white-bright Florida sun, shivering with restless longing. A hand gently grabbed my wrist, and the fine hair on my nape trembled. "Justine?" he asked, his voice gentle. "Yes." At that point I had only kissed a few guys, maybe gone a little further. I was pretty shy back then. And I stayed away from guys who looked like Rafael, mostly because I assumed they wouldn't be interested in a girl like me. "St. Augustine." Rafael's grin revealed dimples under the stubble. "Where are you from?" My small wrist looked so fragile in his big hand. 2 "So, Justine from St. Augustine," he said, rhyming and stealing my heart. "What are you doing this weekend? Are you going to that party everyone's talking about, the Fantasy Fiesta costume party? Are you dressing up? I laughed, temporarily mute. My best friend Diana had told me about the party and was urging me to go with her. I'd said no. But if Rafael would be there, maybe I would. My skin flared with heat, as if I had spenta day at the beach in August. His eyes were the most unusual color, almost copper, and they glinted in the sun. "I don't have plans," I murmured. Another grin, this one wicked. I had never seen such long eyelashes on a man. "Do you know what you should be for Fantasy Fiesta?" I shook my head again, and he stared at me for a smoldering beat. "Mine." I am standing on a sidewalk next to a pirate. "Seriously?" I say out loud. I flick my hand at the man sprawled in front of my newspaper building. A black hat with a purple feather hides most of the guy's face. "A drunk pirate? Today?" We're the only ones on the street, but he doesn't hear me. Because he's out cold. If his belly weren't rising and falling, I'd take him for dead. Dirty green pants, black boots, and a black vest. No shirt. His torso is fish-belly white, naked and flabby. The sour stench of beer hits my nostrils, and my nose wrinkles instinctively. A thin sigh escapes my lips. The guy had probably gone on a bender over the weekend during the city's annual pirate festival. He'd run out of steam and stamina here on the concrete in front of the St. Augustine Times, the final stop on the Sunday night parade party route. A strand of green beads hangs limp around his neck, and I curl my lip in disgust. Because it's the city's biggest tourist draw, my newspaper celebrates the ten-day soiree of stupidity with a snappy headline. As it has for every pirate festival, every year, for decades. Hell, I even wrote the headline this year because, as publisher of a small paper, sometimes you have to step in when your city editor's on vacation. Pillage the Village: Like Mardi Gras! With Pirates! I snort out loud. Pirates. Tourists. Florida. Ridiculous. Now it's Monday morning and I the youngest female newspaper publisher in America-am the cleanup crew. On the day I'm supposed to look gorgeous, sound sharp, and make a case for salvaging my business. Awesome. "Hey. Excuse me? Hey!" I shout in the guy's direction, and he doesn't move. I don't need this, not today. Taking a few steps, I prod the pirate's forearm with my black, pointy-toed stiletto that's already rubbing my heel raw. He's not budging. Larry, the newspaper's security guard, opens the front door and peers down at the slumbering man. I take a few steps back and grimace. It's all I can do to contain my annoyance that Larry didn't deal with this when he arrived that morning. I wave my hand at the drunk. "We need to do something. Now. Call the cops. We can't have a potential investor stepping over a passed-out pirate on their way into the paper this morning." Larry ducks back inside, and I pace, the skin of my left heel eroding with every step. I check my watch. It's eight-thirty, and the morning air is as putrid as the beer that's in the plastic cup sitting a few feet from the pirate. Already a bead of perspiration is trickling down the back of my thigh. I pause on the corner, trying to figure out if we can somehow drag the drunk out of sight, near the loading dock where the circulation crew tosses newspapers into the trucks at three every morning. Moving the guy ourselves might be quicker than relying on the local sheriff's department, which hasn't been thrilled with me since the paper did a kickass exposé six months ago on a string of officer-involved shootings in the city's black neighborhood. I sweep my long hair off my neck, hoping to cool off, then let it fall to my shoulders in a thick, sticky curtain. Why had I taken the time to blow it straight when I could have slept for an extra half-hour? I hate wearing my hair down when it's this hot. My natural waves are fighting the humidity already. The humidity's winning. Maybe I should retreat into the air-conditioned comfort of my office, twist my hair in a bun, and pretend I never saw the drunk. Feign ignorance when the vice president from the private equity investment fund shows up for our meeting at nine. No. Can't do that. It's too cowardly. A real woman looks a challenge in the eye and winks. I tap my foot faster. The guy's beefy, and I doubt if Larry and I could handle him on our own. Who else can help? Is anyone even in at this hour? Over the past few weeks, since rumors about our impending bankruptcy started to swirl in the city's alt-weekly newspaper and on a local blog, reporters and editors and ad salespeople have been coming in a few minutes later each day and leaving a few minutes earlier every night. My gaze falls on the newspaper's building, a four-story concrete-and-stucco behemoth built by my great-grandfather. To me, the building always had its own personality. Imposing. Serious. A place of importance. It takes up an entire block. It's an ugly building, but it's my ugly building and Im trying like hell to save it. I sigh. Crap, I forgot to tell maintenance how I'd driven by the previous evening and the light of the letters on the building's sign no longer illuminated. The Time, it said in bright green letters. Add it to the long list of broken things at the paper. I'm item number one on that list.