The Pomegranate Blooms

By Cindy Katri

The Pomegranate Blooms is a midlife “coming of age” novel—salted with sex and peppered with humor.

Soon after receiving an unexpected gift from an eccentric neighbor, Suzanne, an ordinary woman on the precipice of fifty, experiences a series of extraordinarily vivid dreams. In these dreams, she transforms into an attractive, fit twenty-something and enjoys an enticing, almost illicit, existence she has never known... before now.
Through the almost nightly and implausibly realistic dreams – which increasingly and mysteriously encroach upon the real world – Suzanne “dances the tango” with a famous and beyond sexy Latin lover; endures rigorous workouts with an incredibly sculpted, young trainer; relives the pain and triumphs of college...all in the body of a young lady but with the mind of an appreciative, soul-searching woman.

Cover Art by Josh Nelson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cindy Katri
• Release date: Nov 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311677679

Cindy Katri

Cindy L. Katri, born Cindy Lenorowitz in Queens, New York, was raised in Commack on the north shore of Long Island. She graduated from Vassar College with a degree in English and broke into magazine publishing—on the business end—soon after. A number of business careers and numerous works of creative writing later, she now finds herself living in northern New Jersey with her husband and two teenage daughters.

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I must, of course, acknowledge my husband and daughters for putting up with my divided attention during the book-making process. As we know, life is short, so thank you for allowing me to grab this essential part.

A huge nod to my nephew Josh Nelson who designed the book cover artwork while keeping up with his architectural studies.

And one more THANK YOU to all my extended family and my friends. Our lives together inspire me—and teach me—on a daily basis

Chapter 1

OCTOBER

HE’S NOT A BAD LOVER, thinks Suzanne as her husband of twenty-two years exercises—what? His abdominals maybe? His gluteus maximus? Anyway, she knows only those two muscles by name, and he exercises something as he grinds on top of her.

Do you want it faster? Joe asks, at least trying to satisfy her.

That’s okay, she says, a noncommittal answer that won’t give her true thoughts away. If she were being entirely honest, she might have answered with her own question, "Do we have to do this?" But she’s not being honest, and, in truth, she hasn’t been for quite some time.

As Joe continues—he’s broken a sweat now and looks like it shouldn’t take too long—Suzanne thinks, as she has many times, about how they’ve ended up in the bedroom, again, on the bed with two distinct sides, his and her dips with a ridge down the middle exposing the nightly separation of the long-married. Spooning couples have no such great divide, do they?

A few more minutes and she can go to sleep.

Anyway, why do they always end up in the bedroom, in the bed? Probably because they start there, with the late night question, Do you want to have sex? It doesn’t matter that both daughters are away in college, with every room in the house now fair game. With those six words—do you want to have sex—how can you end up in any place other than where you’ve had sex these past more than two decades?

She can tell he’s almost done. Good thing, too, because she feels bone-achingly tired and needs sleep now. She has a meeting early tomorrow, and reports due later in the day and a rare evening out with her friends...

* * *

She awakens, the room still dark. A familiar sickening feeling washes over her, and she knows what’s next. Sure enough, a moment later she feels the moustache of beaded sweat on her upper lip and the pooled perspiration between her breasts. It’s October now, but it might as well be August. She looks first at the clock. The obnoxious, bright green numbers read four in the morning. Then she looks at her husband. He’s asleep, snuggled into his sweatshirt and sweatpants. The entire nighttime clothing budget certainly rests on his side of the bed. Her thin tank top and cotton shorts surely didn’t set them back too much.

From long experience, she knows she won’t fall back to sleep any time soon. She gets up, turns on the standing fan pointed only to her side of the bed, grabs her iPad and climbs back into her spot, pushing her blanket under her legs to prop them up. She takes a deep breath of the fan-blown air, cooling her from the inside out.

She’d rather sleep, what with her long day coming up, but at least the iPad mind-freeing Apps are better than attempting to sleep while consciously thinking about all the things to think about that she doesn’t want to think about.

Suzanne lowers the background light of the iPad, but it’s still plenty bright to see Joe turn over, his large frame shaking the bed like a rolling boat. He seems to grumble something but quickly returns to his usual stock-still, restful sleep.

Suzanne sighs and begins her game.

Chapter 2

GIRLS NIGHT

DID YOU WALK HERE? ASKS Lori, stepping aside to let Suzanne through the front door and into the narrow hallway. Not waiting for her to answer, Lori turns her head and yells towards the back of her house, Suze is here, then turns again to Suzanne.

Yes, I walked here. Why do I get the feeling you’re going to yell at me?

Because I don’t want to have to drive you home. Not planning on abstaining tonight. Oh. She calls to the back of the house again. I’m making Melon Balls. I know it’s Melon Liqueur, vodka and orange, but someone’s got to tell me the proportions. Look it up if you don’t know. Back to Suzanne, If I’m Melon-Balled, you’ll have to find another ride home.

It’s two blocks, Lori. The same feet that brought me here will take me home.

It’ll be late. And dark.

Suzanne slips off her flats, pushes them against the wall next to all the other visiting shoes, and walks towards the back of the house, followed by Lori. On the way, Suzanne catches sight of her own reflection in the mirrored hall. And I’m forty-nine, not four. Certainly the reflection confirms this. Just when she morphed into her mother’s motherly, stomach sagging body, she doesn’t know, but now that body partners her every move down the hallway. Not so with Lori. Like Suzanne, she has two children, but the strong genes of her still-shapely seventy year old mother serve Lori well. Suzanne has always hated this mirror. Okay, every mirror, in fact.

Dee, Marilyn and Fran, sitting at the dining room table, look up.

Dee asks, You’re only forty-nine, Suze?

Suzanne nods.

We let a baby play Bunco with us? asks Fran in mock disgust.

As Lori reaches into the credenza and pulls out a large bottle of a shockingly bright green liquid, she lets the ladies know she’s only forty-seven. I think the better question is why Suze and I would bother spending time with you old farts.

Suzanne takes a look around the table. Actually, her friends look nothing like old farts. They look damn good, in fact. Hard to believe they all have about ten years on her. She wants to ask how they dealt with turning sixty. Better yet, how they dealt with turning fifty, but, in truth, she’s not about to bring up that conversation. She keeps quiet and takes a seat. Besides, she has another eight months until the five-oh. Eight months that will surely feel like eight minutes.

Suze? You in there, honey?

Suzanne focuses and sees Lori staring at her. Sorry, just thinking.

Well, you’re not allowed to think without sharing, you know. That’s Rule One of Bunco Girls Night Out.

Suzanne chuckles.

What’s funny? Lori asks.

Not funny. You sound like Joe. He has to know everything I’m doing and thinking.

They all do, says Fran.

But don’t ask them a thing, right? ’Cause if you ask them a question, you get nothing, am I right? asks Marilyn.

Best friends need to know everything each other thinks. Husbands definitely don’t. So, what were you thinking? prods relentless Lori.

You don’t want to know.

"I do want to know."

Okay. I was thinking how much faster time goes the older you get.

You’re right. I don’t want to know. Next conversation...

Faster and faster, says Dee, staying on this conversation. Ever watch a television show and then, in the series finale, they show the future of all the characters, speeding through the years so you see everything to the bitter end?

You think it’s bad at fifty, pipes up Marilyn.

Not fifty yet, be-otch, interrupts Lori.

Marilyn continues, Whatever, Sunshine. Dee’s right. The years will just get faster.

Fran adds, One day it’s New Year’s and the next it’s Thanksgiving.

Suzanne certainly did not mean to start all this. She looks forward to these nights as a necessary super-mini vacation from her real existence, as necessary as the escapist television shows she relies on as her usual alternative to a good stiff drink. Changing the subject...

Thank you, since you started it, says Lori.

Suzanne gives her friend a look but continues. Did any of you see our favorite dancing show this week?

The mood lifts immediately. Simultaneously, Dee and Lori say, Yes, and then also sigh in unison.

Marilyn shakes her head. Not yet, but it’s DVR’d. Was it good?

O.M.G. He... was... spectacular! Lori takes her seat, as though the thought of this man makes her weak kneed.

That Salsa. Holy shit.

Who was, what Salsa? asks Fran, confused.

You don’t watch it? asks a disbelieving Dee.

Watch what?

Suzanne happily provides details. ‘He’ is Rafael, a Latin god: hulking, muscle rippling, washboard abs, and the sweetest personality.

Marilyn snorts on the last point.

Hey, none of that. I agree with Suze, says Lori. He really seems like he’s a good guy. A good guy with the cutest accent—and lots more.

Suzanne turns to Dee and Lori, since they had seen the show. Did you see the very beginning of the dance, when he grabbed his partner—what’s-her-name—and he gave that smile? Total control, flirting with the audience—that was...

She’s going to have an orgasm just talking about it, comments Lori.

Let me tell you, Suzanne continues, not really disputing Lori’s remark, the way he handled that woman, his partner, whatever her name is—so much power, so sure of himself, and his eyes, never leaving hers. Hmm.

You always go for those big, foreign guys, says Lori. Joe’s tall. Not foreign, though.

Joe is tall, at least most people think so. To Suzanne, he doesn’t seem so tall any more.

So you married him for his height? asks Fran.

Suzanne would rather stay on the Rafael conversation, but she answers Fran’s question. "I don’t know about marrying him, but maybe that’s why I agreed to date him. After a string of failed first dates, her grandmother had insisted upon the set-up with her grandmother’s friend’s nephew’s son. The only thing her grandmother knew about him, besides him being over six feet, was that, according to her, he was a financier. You like a tall man, don’t you? her grandmother had asked. A tall financier—certainly worth a look. What he turned out to be was a just over six-foot-one gawky, inexperienced man in a Finance department of an IT consulting company. They dated for four years until, one evening, when they were watching television together at her parents’ house—where she still lived at the time—her father marched into the room, turned off the television, turned to the couple and asked, So, when are you two getting married?" Joe was—still is—a kind soul, a good man at his core. A good core with a very difficult shell, but that was discovered after they married, as usually happens.

Suzanne relates the story—most of it—to the ladies.

That’s how you got engaged? How romantic, says Lori. It brings a tear to my eye.

Yes, well, that’s Joe.

Dee complains that if she wanted this boring old married couple talk, she could have stayed home, and the ladies get down to their Bunco playing. They have a small group tonight—usually three more join—and since four is the magic number in Bunco, they take turns not playing. Suzanne sits out first but not for long, because the simple, dice-rolling game goes quickly. The simplicity also makes it easy to drink as they play, and they all—except for designated driver Dee—enjoy the Melon Balls.

An hour later, they take a break to have some dessert prepared by their host.

Is this the real stuff, Lori, or some of your fake shit again? asks Marilyn. Do I need to have the garbage pail ready?

Be daring. Taste it, and you tell me, answers Lori, a gleam of humor in her eye.

The chocolate cheesecake actually tastes great, but when Suzanne sees that Lori takes a slice, she figures she knows the truth. Turns out she’s right. It’s a trimmed down version of the classic original, with lots of hidden pureed, high fiber strawberries, but with flavors that good, who cares? Suzanne and the other ladies all take second helpings.

Oh, Dee, can you give Suze a ride maybe? She walked here.

And I told you I’ll walk home, too. Got to work off the drinks and dessert.

Fran puts in her two cents. Don’t you pass that crazy Cybil’s house, walking home from here? Like both Suzanne and Lori, Fran had grown up in town, and everyone who grew up here, then or now, knows crazy Cybil. Many generations of walkers have avoided both her and her house.

I think I can handle it.

I seriously almost didn’t buy this house, says Lori, just because it’s so close to hers.

What are you, seven?

"The real question, Suze, is how old she is. She seemed ancient when we were kids."

When I was a kid, too. Ancient and creepy, adds Fran.

Everyone seems old when you’re a kid.

Well, she can’t be that old. She’s still walking.

A while later, sober Dee packs a tipsy duo into her car, making sure Suzanne doesn’t want the ride as well. Suzanne rolls her eyes, says thanks again to all for a fun evening, and sets off on her long journey home. She hears the last of the car doors slam and looks up to wave goodbye to the back of Dee’s silver sedan. The lights from the car soon fade, and Suzanne realizes the moonless night sky and a missing streetlight bulb have made for a startlingly dark street. She pulls her cell phone out and uses it as a flashlight, trying to resist the urge to regret the ride not taken.

Three doors down from Lori’s house, the thought does enter her mind to cross to the other side of the street, avoiding Cybil’s house completely, but she decides not to give in to the silly paranoia and stays straight on the sidewalk, opening and closing the cell phone to keep it lit. Just as she has almost navigated the width of the driveway, she hears a noise. She hesitates for a fraction of a second but then continues, beyond the driveway and a few steps away from the end of the property. Realizing she has been holding her breath, she starts to let it out when, suddenly, a figure dressed in a white flowing gown appears directly in her path. Taken so completely by surprise, her heart pounding out of her chest and into the top of her head, she thinks, Run, but then a single word stops her, and she becomes the proverbial deer in headlights.

Zuzanka, says a high pitched, ethereal voice. Zuzanka. Her name. Not the one by which everyone knows her but her true name, the one her parents had given her.

The wraithlike voice, the willowy, billowing dress with as many wrinkles as the face of the woman wearing it, the black night surrounding the white garb, the pale, iridescent skin seemingly shining out of the darkness, the name no one but her parents has ever used. A moment so beyond this world that Suzanne—Zuzanka—feels almost as if she’s crossed into a different realm.

I knew your mother, you know.

Suzanne somehow finds her own voice. Hello, Miss Cybil.

A very kind woman. An old soul, like yourself. You know, I told her so when you were born, that you had been here before... many times. The old woman hesitates, as though expecting a response. Suzanne has none to give, speechless, a little in awe, and irrationally but utterly scared of this ancient woman. After a brief moment, Cybil reaches into the voluminous folds of her gown and pulls out a small box. I want you to have this, she says in a voice quiet yet filled with great pomp and circumstance. Then in an even softer, more sincere tone, she adds, For your anniversary. The old woman has crept close to Suzanne, so close Suzanne can see her face clearly despite the darkness. No, not so wrinkled, although the reflection of the material had made it seem so. A smooth face, hiding no fears but telling no secrets. You have lost your path, dear child. I pray this helps guide your way back. Use it well. The woman presses the box into Suzanne’s hands.

Suzanne looks down and, although she knows she should not accept it, she cannot help but pull the top from the box. Inside rests a long silver chain, and attached to that chain she sees a small crescent shaped medallion. It appears filigree-like, but, shrouded in the darkness, she can’t tell for sure. What if the old woman, in confusion, has given away something truly valuable? After all, her age must be quite advanced and confusion seems quite likely. She looks up to say a polite and genuine thanks but no thanks but finds she stands alone. Well, the woman had appeared without any sound or warning, why shouldn’t she depart the same way?

Suzanne decides to bring the necklace to her house, take a closer look at the curious object and then return it to Cybil in the light of the morning. Coincidentally, just at this moment, the streetlamp buzzes and, a fraction of a moment later, shines once again. Since it’s still not enough light to get a good look at the gift presented to her, she sticks with the plan and heads for home.

Chapter 3

THE ARGENTINE TANGO

AS SOON AS SHE STEPS into the house, Suzanne heads directly for the kitchen with its bright, almost harsh light. She opens the box once more and takes a close, long look. In fact, she can’t stop staring at the strange gift bestowed upon her in such an unusual manner. The charm hangs on an unremarkable silver chain, but the medallion itself—an elaborate filigree, just as she had thought—looks like some abstract flower or plant. Rather, half an abstract flower or plant. Did someone snap it in two, or was it designed this way?

When she can finally pull herself away from the necklace, she pours and drinks a tall glass of water to ward off the inevitable Melon Ball headache. Shortly after, with the gift in hand, she makes her way upstairs to her bedroom. She finds Joe asleep in bed, the soft night table light on but certainly not bothering her snoring husband. She readies herself for bed as quietly as she can, although the proverbial herd of elephants wouldn’t wake him now.

A short while later, Suzanne takes a sip of water from the bottle she keeps on her night stand then turns off the light and leans her head back on her double pillow. Knowing she needs to fall asleep soon to be alert for her day ahead, she tries to fill her head with thoughts of the evening in order to lull herself into unconsciousness. She chuckles at the thought of her outspoken friends then looks over at her sleeping husband. What a shame, but she looks forward more to a date with those friends than she does to an evening with Joe, with whom she bickers and finds they don’t want to do the same things, eat the same foods, or even watch the same movies or television shows. Oh, television. Yes, that’s a good thing to think about to try to fall asleep. Rafael Derosa—who wouldn’t want to think about him? Yardstick broad, exactly the right tall, an exquisite creature, oozing sexuality. Just the thought of him makes her...

Joe snorts in his sleep, and Suzanne laughs at his timing. She thinks, Well, maybe I can get lucky in my dreams. She rolls to her side, her back to her husband, not even realizing she still holds the necklace. To be a young woman in the strong arms of...

* * *

Well, what a weird dream. This place looks vaguely familiar, though. Maybe I’ve been here before—when I was awake, I guess. Definitely have seen this, but it looks like backstage someplace—the heavy long curtains, the wires. What are those—big theater lights? But when have I ever been backstage any place?

Maybe I should take a little walk around. I kind of feel like an intruder, but, after all, this is my dream, so I guess I can intrude wherever I like. Oh, that looks like some kind of scenery. Looks pretty fake up close, with its painted broad strokes and bright colors, but I bet when you see it on the stage it looks much better. And, next, a bank of mirrors which look like make-up stations. I know I don’t belong, but I take a seat at one of the high chairs in front of the rectangular mirrors, anyway. Oh my god—who is that? That’s not my reflection in the mirror! I move my head to the right. Yes, the image follows. How bizarre! I don’t think I’ve ever dreamed about someone who’s not me. I move my head again, a slow nod. The image again follows. Well, maybe it is me, just a different me. A young me, except that’s not what I looked like, hmm, I’d say maybe twenty-five, thirty years ago. That girl in the mirror, she’s a pretty twenty-something, blond, only a single chin, petite nose. And those translucent green eyes. Nice. Maybe I should see what else I’ve fixed on my body in this dream of mine.

I push back the chair and stand. Wow—the body I’ve never had. Is that a bra giving that incredible shape? I look down—oh, I’m wearing the cutest soft green dress, an A-line which falls low on top and short on the bottom—and gently tug at the V-neck collar so I can see my boobs. Okay, I have never worn that lacy a bra in my life, and certainly it wouldn’t be holding up anything that wasn’t holding itself up. I’m liking this body more and more, from the flowing blond tresses to the two inch strappy heels. I take a walk again, now that I know I’m wearing heels I’ve never been able to handle in real life. It feels so natural. Short dress, high heels. I feel so tall and leggy.

My walk takes me to another area of the stage, and I stop quickly. I thought I was in my own little wonderland, but someone else has joined me. A tall, broad, male someone. He stands with his back to me, but I swear, like this whole backstage area, he looks familiar. He seems to count while moving his hips just the barest bit, side to side. Small movements, like he’s practicing a dance mostly in his head, and he turns, head down, concentrating. Even in his minute gestures, I can see he’s graceful. And even though I can’t see his face, that gnawing feeling of familiarity won’t go away. Wait a second, of course I know him! I gasp out loud because, dream or not, it startles me to see Rafael Derosa standing right before me.

Rafael—can you believe it? Rafael!—seems to hear my small, surprised sound and looks directly at me. He is glorious. More glorious, more attractive than on the small screen. A deep chest, brilliantly wide shoulders, thighs almost bursting from his jeans—all in magnificent 3-D. Oh. He definitely looks so much better in person than on my fifty-inch high definition television. Okay, so a dream’s not really in person, but it sure feels that way.

He’s still looking at me, with his deep brown, puppy dog eyes. Oh, crap, he’s walking over to me. He’s walking, anyway, and I think it’s towards me. There’s no one else here, right? I turn my head ever so slightly to the right, straining to see as far around me as possible without seeming to look. Then to the left. No one. Alone with Rafael Derosa. Well, really, I’m alone with my husband, who’s sleeping next to me. Wait. Why am I even thinking of that? Rafael Derosa is... about to talk to me.

Hello.

There, he did it. He spoke. To me.

Hello? Why did that come out like a question?

I am sorry to bother you, but do you think you can help me, just for a moment?

He wants my help. That accent. So... oh. He wants my help.

Sure? A question, again? I’m an idiot.

I must practice my tango. The Argentine tango. My partner, she had, she must... I’m sorry, my English is not so good.

No, it’s fine, I reassure. And anyway, who cares?

She is not here for now. So you can dance with me the tango?

Okay. Okay?! I don’t know how to do the Argentine tango! I don’t know how to do any tango!

He steps closer to me. So close to me. Rafael is standing next to me. He’s reaching for me, my hand, and pulls me even closer. I think I’m going to faint. Okay, Suze, just remember you’re lying in bed. You can’t faint when you’re already lying down.

What is your name? With his face right next to me, I can feel the tickle of his breath. Before I can answer, he says, Oh, I know. Shoshanna, no? The makeup girl. Sorry. Woman. Yes?

Yes. Well, how could I say no? Shoshanna? Makeup? Okay, why not?

Okay, then, Shoshanna. We dance. He’s holding a small remote, which he clicks, and the beginning strains of a song—how do I know that’s the Assassin’s Tango?—start to play.

We hold still as the music starts, the violin roughly hitting the strings, the firm but gentle stroke of the piano, the guitar’s enticing, deliberate notes. The sound fills the entire backstage area. Then, as slowly as the wide vibrato from the violinist’s skilled fingers, he runs his leg up from my ankle to my thigh, keeping the rest of his body, and mine, absolutely still. The rough denim almost chafes my skin in a tantalizing sensation. And then he begins to move, intentionally slow but purposeful. My body follows. It feels natural, as though I’ve been dancing the Argentine Tango, the Assassin’s Tango, for years. Except the only experience with it, with dance at all, has been watching on television. Watching him on television.

With fluid movements, we cross the area back and forth. I don’t know how, but I know the dance. Even so, I’m surprised as he flicks his massive leg between mine—so high it momentarily pulls up my short dress. I return the flick, careful not to hit the wrong spot. Even in a dream I don’t want to damage Rafael.

Suddenly, his strong arms pick me up, my legs encircle his hips and he twirls the both of us around. I can feel him intimately rub against me. No, I shouldn’t think like that. We’re just dancing. He sets me down, the piano pounding, and I vaguely register a drum added into the mix. I savor his strong leading movements while over and over he pulls me towards him, slams me into rock hard muscles for only a second and then pushes me away. Delicious, cruel, teasing torture. The music crescendos, the violin saws across the strings and Rafael and I alternate staccato and smooth movements. How am I doing this? And while I pray for the dance to continue—I wouldn’t mind for the rest of the night—I can tell the end nears. On the last beat, he yanks me to his chest, and the music stops.

We do not move, except for some winded breathing. Very softly, he says, You are a wonderful dancer.

I manage to whisper, Thank you.

You must have been watching me practice, hmm? To know the dance?

I don’t answer. I don’t have an answer.

Reluctantly for me—and, by the slow way he moves, I think for him as well—he gently pulls away. Who am I kidding? He probably just feels tired. On the other hand, this is obviously my fantasy, so if I feel he doesn’t want to stop touching me, he does not, right?

He looks directly into my eyes. Thank you, he says for the second time. That helped so much. Such a soft voice, and his smile lights up his face. It lights me up, and I smile in return. We stay like that for a few more seconds, and then he asks, Do you only do women?

What?! I thought we were having an amazing moment, and then he so brusquely asks me if I’m gay?!