By JoAnn

A few tendrils came loose from my topknot as the passenger behind me reached over impatiently to get his bag out of the overhead compartment, before I even had a chance to move out of the way. The tendrils of my long brown hair fell into my eyes, but I couldn’t reach up to brush them out, since my arms were already full with my briefcase and overnight bag. I shook my head, trying to see my way clear. Passengers were jostling for the best position to exit the plane, like cattle on their way to the slaughterhouse. I felt that was an apt description of what I was going to have to endure the next 2 days…something akin to death, in my view. A psychiatric convention. Two days of non-stop seminars, workshops, chest pounding, narcissism on parade, and a lot of garbage that I knew would be useless to me in my family counseling practice. But I was required to attend by my partnership in the medical firm back home, so here I was, in Chicago, in the dead of winter, about to be bored out my skull. Oh, happy day.

The doors of the plane opened and we began to exit en masse, like ants herding to dry ground after a storm. I could swear I heard someone in the back of the crowd begin to moo, and I laughed in spite of my dull mood. “Moo” was right. All we needed was a cowboy on a quarterhorse to get us under control. Maybe a sheepdog…maybe a….

“Lizzie? Is that you?”

I turned and looked into the face of a fellow psychiatrist, Ann Lawrence, and I smiled, glad to see someone familiar. “Oh, Ann! You got drafted for this, too, huh?”

She grinned, flipping her long blonde curls over her shoulder. “No, I like to go to these things! Are you staying at the Marriot?” I nodded, and she giggled happily. “Me, too! Aren’t you glad we met? Now you won’t be alone!”

I smiled, but said nothing.

Dr. Elizabeth Jones, otherwise known as Lizzie, or worse, good ol’ Lizzie, is my name. And being alone isn’t uncommon for me. In fact, it’s my life, I suppose. Oh, I have friends, I have family, I have my cat. But that’s not the same. I spent my life being the best friend to every boy in school, and later, the kind of gal they enjoyed hanging out with, having beers with, asking advice from. I suppose I was counseling long before I ever began to do it professionally. But I was never the girl they asked to dance. Never the girl they wanted to date. Never the girl they asked to marry. I’ve been a bridesmaid 16 times. Now I’m just a maid. An old maid. I wish that term had never been invented. But I guess that’s what I am. An old maid. A virgin at 43. And probably for eternity.

Men look at me as if I don’t exist, or even worse, like I’m one of the guys. I think I’d rather not exist than to be seen and dismissed. The latter is much more painful. But, over the years, I’ve come to accept it. It’s not so bad, really. I have my work, and I gain a great deal of satisfaction from it. It keeps me going.

“Let’s share a taxi!” Ann said, pulling me from my thoughts. She lifted her hand and whistled sharply in a way I had only seen done on television. A taxi pulled in front of us with enough force to knock us off our feet.

“Your chariot awaits, ladies!” the driver said with a broad grin, his teeth shining with gold fillings. Ann gave him a wink and we handed him our bags, which he loaded into the trunk for us.

“Where to?” he said, once we were all settled in the vehicle. “The Marriot,” Ann said, her voice flirtatious and alluring. His face lit up like he’d just received a present. He put the car into drive and began whistling.

“How do you do that?” I asked, leaning close to Ann.

“Do what?” she said, leaning next to me.

“How do you…enchant every man you meet?”

Ann laughed and sat up, taking her compact out of her purse and checking her makeup. I had on a nice shade of pink lipstick, which was my entire makeup regime. I just couldn’t stand wearing the stuff. “It’s not that hard, Lizzie…they aren’t that difficult to enchant.” Anne smiled knowingly, and I felt as if I had missed some important female information somewhere along the line. Maybe I had been sick the day they covered this subject.

We pulled up in front of the hotel in record time, and Ann paid for the taxi, tossing in a generous tip for our gold-toothed friend. He promised to come and check to see if we needed a ride every morning, no problem. Ann smiled at him, leaning over the window to say a husky, “thanks.” I thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head at the fine display of cleavage she was giving him. I looked down at my silk blouse, buttoned up to the throat with a goldleaf pin clasping it, and figured I must have been sick the day they passed out cleavage, too.

Aspirin…I need an aspirin, I thought, as our cabbie unloaded our bags and the valet of the hotel came out and took them for us. We checked in without problem, and by evening, I lay exhausted in my bed, hoping for the unconsciousness of sleep to take away the niggling feelings of unworthiness that seemed to rise up the moment I had met Ann. I was usually able to ignore the feelings, but not tonight. Tonight, they hurt, all over again. I couldn’t stop the warm tears that slid down my cheek, as the loneliness gripped my heart again, and this time decided to stay for a while.

The next morning, I awoke and showered quickly. I dressed in my usual gray wool suit and pale gray silk blouse, my sensible black pumps, and twisted my hair up into a topknot, like I have always worn it. I applied my pink lipstick, and stood back to look in the mirror. God, you are so plain, Lizzie, I thought, realizing that there was nothing I could do about it. Everything about me said brown, gray, and sensible. I picked up my purse and slung it over my shoulder, and left to meet Ann in the lobby.

Ann was already there, holding court in her red suit and high heeled black stilettos, her blonde hair hanging loose to her waist in a cascade of curls. Not only did she have her own private practice, she had a cable TV show where she counseled telephone callers. I had seen her show a few times, and I didn’t like it much. Ann’s advice was a bit like Dr. Laura’s evil twin. If pop psychology needed a poster girl, Ann would probably pose for it, preferably in the nude. But underneath it all, I sensed a good heart, and we had kept in professional contact for years.

“So, here you are, with your devoted admirers,” I teased, coming up behind her as she was signing autographs.

She laughed with a giggle and turned to me. “I can’t help it if they love me, Lizzie,” she bubbled. I shifted my briefcase and canvas totebag in my hands, and tried to smile. “We’d better get going to the conference.”

“Yes, we’d better. I met the most darling man last night, did I tell you? He’s going to be at the conference with us. I offered him a share of our taxi. He’s from Chile, and he’s sooo delicious. He speaks very good English, if you ask me. Do you mind sharing?”

“No, no, not at all.” I was used to the whirlwind that followed Ann wherever she went, so I knew to expect the unexpected when she was around. We walked to the front of the lobby, and she pointed the man out to me.

He had his back to us, and at first all I could make out was a conservative brown suit and a mass of curling black hair that hung to his collar. He seemed well built, with a body that suggested strength without being overly muscular.

“Oh, Francisco,” Ann called out, her little stiletto heels clicking across the lobby as she sped up her pace to greet him. He turned around and smiled, and leaned forward to allow her to kiss him on his cheek. I walked up slowly, not trusting myself to be able to look at him without staring or perhaps drooling a bit on my suit. He was by far the most devastatingly attractive man I had ever seen in my life. But there was something more…there was a depth to him, a suggestion of pain, suffering, and courage that I had not seen in many men. There was a fire in his eyes that burned steady and warm.

Ann turned to me, and it’s to her credit that she even remembered I was there. “This is my friend, and our fellow colleague, Dr. Elizabeth Jones. Lizzie, this is Dr. Francisco Leal, from Chile.”

I put out my hand to shake his, putting on my best professional demeanor...or so I hoped. “Dr. Leal,” I said briskly.

He put out his hand and took mine, and I felt a surge of incandescence run up my arm, like I had never felt before. What was happening? He looked into my eyes, as if reading me, reading my soul. He lifted my hand and then leaned over it to kiss the back of it. His lips were moist and warm, and I felt as if I was going to melt, to be sipped into his mouth like hot chocolate and be consumed by him. He lifted his eyes to me again before lifting his lips from my hand, and I was shocked to find myself tingle, as if he had brushed his body against mine. I pulled back my hand, disconcerted and alarmed. Things like this didn’t happen to Lizzie Jones.

Ann cleared her throat, clearly unhappy to have ceased to be the center of attention. “Let’s go, shall we? I see our favorite cabbie already waving to us from the curb.”

The next two days, rather than being a bore, were thrilling to me. Francisco was in every workshop we had, every seminar, and I found his work in Chile to be exciting and inspiring. His work with those who had suffered torture or worse during the reign of the General was awe-inspiring and very moving. I could not help shedding a tear for the people who had suffered so much. He had seen a great deal more in his practice than I had ever seen in mine, and my admiration for him grew by leaps and bounds.

So did my attraction for him. I knew it was useless to even think about a man like him. He most likely had so many women begging for his attention, a woman like me blended into the wallpaper pattern. But he was kind to me, and we enjoyed having lunch and dinner with Ann, who regaled us with stories of her adventures on and off the cable TV screen. I found myself envying her exciting, glamorous life, but I knew that in my heart, I really was just good ol’ Lizzie, and I always would be. I could no more be like Ann than I could change my form from solid to liquid.

The last night before we were to go home, I was sitting in my room, dressed in my favorite old shirtdress and slippers, watching television. Ann had invited me to go out to dinner with her and Francisco, but I had declined. I was tired, and for some reason, very low in mood. I didn’t think I could endure another evening watching Ann flirt with Francisco, brushing against him “accidentally” and running her foot up his leg when she thought no one was looking. I’ve had enough, I realized. I pulled the belt of my flowered dress a little tighter, and tried to return my attention to the movie on the screen in front of me. I’d missed so much of it while daydreaming, I’d lost track of what it was about. I sighed, unable to shake the old demons that had come to spend the night in my head.

A knock sounded at the door and I stood up, wondering who it was. Probably Ann, dying to tell me how good a lover Francisco had turned out to be. I felt a bit sick at the thought. I walked to the door, opening it with a ready explanation for Ann as to why I couldn’t talk tonight, oh, what a headache, it must be a migraine, it…

“Good evening, Elizabeth.” It wasn’t Ann at the door. It was Francisco, holding a champagne bottle and two glasses. I stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of him in his evening clothes and wondering if he had the wrong room.

“Are you looking for Ann? She’s not here,” I said, looking at him with what must have been a dumbfounded expression.

“I’m not looking for her. I’m looking for you, Elizabeth. May I come in?” He lifted the glasses and champagne as if to offer inducements appropriate for admission. I stood back and opened the door wider, allowing him in.

He walked in, looking around the room. “Ah, you have a view of the city, I wish I did. It’s very beautiful.” He turned towards me and smiled, then nodded his head at me.

“You can close the door, Elizabeth. I won’t bite. I promise,” he said, setting down the bottle and glasses. “I thought that on our last night in Chicago, you might like to share a drink with me. Verdad? Or am I intruding?”

“No, no, you…aren’t intruding,” I said, walking towards him, wondering why he was here and not with Ann. I couldn’t resist. I had to ask. “Where’s Ann? She said you and she were going out tonight.”

He smiled, and popped open the champagne. The loud pop startled me a bit. “Ah, Ann…she is like a queen, si? Her audience is always present. When I left the conference closing party, she had at least a dozen men panting at her feet. It was a good time to escape.” He laughed again, and I wondered why he wasn’t there, amongst the panting multitudes. Or, reaping the benefits of her obvious attraction for him. He handed me a glass of champagne, and I took it, turning from him to walk to the glass doors that led to the balcony. I still didn’t know what he wanted.

He walked over and joined me, clicking his glass to mine gallantly. “To our weekend in Chicago. I have enjoyed it very much.”

I clicked my glass to his in return. “Everyone enjoys being around Ann.”

He lowered his glass and looked into my eyes. “I was not referring to our dear Ann…I was referring to you, Elizabeth. I have enjoyed being with you these last two days. Very much.”

I looked at him, amazed at what he had just said. “That’s…very sweet of you, Dr. Leal…but it’s not necessary to say that.” I opened the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The wind was brisk and cool, and I needed it, to make sure I didn’t let myself indulge in some kind of fantasy that would only cause me more pain.

He followed me outside and took my glass, setting it on the wrought iron table beside us. “Why do you say that, Elizabeth? Do you think I am lying to you? I would not do that, querida. It is you I have enjoyed being with…not Ann. I was disappointed when she told me you would not join us tonight. I wanted to see you. That’s…why I’m here.”

Tears came to my eyes, and I gripped the banister in front of me. “She put you up to this, didn’t she? Give poor old Lizzie a little thrill, huh? Don’t do this to me, Francisco…please, don’t do this…” I turned from him, my tears beginning to flow. I hadn’t thought Ann could be this cruel.

Francisco’s hands came to my shoulders, and he turned me towards him. The wind tossed at his hair, and his eyes were serious and concerned. “Why do you say this, Elizabeth? No one has sent me! I want to be here…I want to be with you.”

I pushed at him, the tears falling hot on my cheeks as the wind blew harder. “I don’t believe you!” I cried, trying to pull myself out of his grasp.

“Why? Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because no man wants to be with me! None! I’m good old Lizzie, good for a laugh! The old maid! Oh God, leave me alone,” I pleaded, pushing at his chest. I felt my knees go out from under me, and we both sunk down onto the tile of the balcony.

Francisco put his hand under my chin and lifted my face to his. “I don’t see good old Lizzie. I see Elizabeth. An intelligent, giving, beautiful woman.”

“Beautiful?” I cried, jerking my face out of his hand. “I’m not beautiful! I’m plain! Plain! Don’t lie to me! I look in the mirror, I know what I see!”

Francisco held my shoulder with one hand as he lifted the other to my hair. I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me. One by one, he pulled out the pins of my topknot, until my mahogany brown hair tumbled down around my shoulders, falling to the rise of my breasts. He ran his hands in it, pulling it free to curl in abandon around my shoulders. “Que hermosa. Your hair is like dark fire, querida. Your eyes, like sweet chocolate. Your skin, as white as the pearl. You are not plain, mi cielo…you are lovely, beyond any woman I have ever seen.”

I lowered my head, not willing to lift my eyes to his. “No, I’m not,” I moaned, overwhelmed at how much I wanted to hear his lies. “Ann…she’s…”

He would have none of it. He grasped my chin and made me look into his eyes. “Ann…she is beautiful, yes. But her beauty will fade with age. Do you know why?” I shook my head no, even as he held my chin in his hand. “Because her beauty is from the outside only. Inside she is insecure, afraid, and without love. You…your beauty shines from your eyes, from your soul, mi alma. Your beauty is real. It is what makes you beautiful. Let it shine out from within you, and everyone…everyone will see the beauty they have missed. Say it, Elizabeth…say, I am beautiful.”

“No…” I whispered, too afraid to say what he asked, too frightened to dare.

“Say it, mi amor…I am beautiful.”

I looked up at him, and the expression on his face was so…sincere, so real, that it gave me a strange kind of courage. “I…am beautiful,” I said softly.

“Say it again…”

“I am…beautiful.”

He smiled, caressing the curve of my cheek with his palm, and said gently, “And what do you see in my eyes…tell me what you see.”

“I see…I see me. I see…someone beautiful.”

“Now you see through eyes of truth, mi amor.”

The wind picked up and it began to rain, in gentle soft drops like tears from the sky. We didn’t move, but remained on our knees, looking at each other. He lowered his lips to mine, touching them gently, then pressing me close against him, kissing me as I had never been kissed in my life. He wrapped his strong arms around me, and took me into a world where only beauty, fire, and passion existed.

The next day, I flew home. I had said good-bye to Francisco that night, unable to bear the thought of parting from him in the day. I walked down the aisle of the plane, my new blue suit and white blouse skimming over still slim body. My hair hung loosely around my shoulders in its natural curls, and I stood on my tiptoes to put my briefcase and overnight bag into the overhead compartment.

“Here, miss, let me help you with that,” a man’s voice said. He smiled down at me, a friendly light in his eyes that I had never seen in a man before. At least, before Francisco.

“Thank you very much,” I said, sitting down in my assigned seat. The man sat down in the aisle seat next to me, still smiling. His black wavy hair and brown eyes were much like Francisco’s, but different somehow. I liked how he looked.

“I’m Scott Chavarria,” he said, extending his hand to me. “Are you going home on this flight?”

“Yes, I live in Dallas,” I replied, shaking the man’s hand and enjoying his confident, attractive manner.

“Really? I live in Dallas, too. This is…very nice. I’m happy to meet you, Miss…”

“Jones. Elizabeth Jones,” I replied, realizing that the man hadn’t released my hand yet…and didn’t show signs of doing so anytime soon.

It’s Dr. Elizabeth Chavarria now. I can’t imagine a happier life on the entire planet than the one that Scott and I and our twins have together. He’s everything to me, as are the children. I sometimes forget what it was like for me before they came along, how long I felt that my life was unchangeable, that nothing in it could be different, that I was destined to be alone. How wrong I was.

Every time it rains, though, I remember. And I remember the man of the rain. The man who taught me what beauty really was. The man who showed me that life could be a miracle. The man of the rain. El hombre de la lluvia. I know that wherever he is, he brings beauty with him. He knows the source of beauty. He is beauty.

Image courtesy of Janet-Sunshine

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