Chapter 5

Intimacy between two people, no matter their ages, is impossible to miss. It’s not the same as familial affection. When there’s attraction, you enter the personal space of the other with ease; bodies closer. There’s touching, gentle touching. Fingers brush arms, hands rest on backs, and spontaneous hugs are frequent and linger longer than friendly hugs.

It’s impossible to miss the expression in eyes as you look at the other person. There’s softness and love at times, excitement at other times. And there are a plethora of other small signs: a soft sigh after a hug, a pause to watch the other in appreciation, soft contemplative smiles when you think the other person isn’t looking, and more.

It’s an intense experience and, for me, made more so by the fact that this was with a fourteen-year-old girl. I was enchanted by her. I hadn’t experienced so many erections since I was a teenager - not hard erections, but those soft ones that come with arousal and desire for someone.

Rachael’s blossoming sexual awareness was precious. The morning after our visit to the lake, Rachael wandered into the kitchen in a simple, short, white camisole, and white cotton boy-short panties, combing her fingers through her wild curls, and looking sleepy; utterly adorable.

She noticed me admiring her with a slight, pleased smile, and showed no shyness at her attire, which led me to conclude she’d deliberately not dressed.

I didn’t comment. However, I did openly admire. Once again, I was enraptured by the dichotomy of her; a child’s body blossoming with pubescence. I appreciated her small butt, narrow with indents in her buttocks as they flexed, and felt the urge to caress them. Arousal stirred.

Rachael’s personality changed as well. She was still a bright, energetic, and out-going girl, but when I’d grab her, pull her into a hug, and she understood I wanted a kiss, Rachael would soften. Her smile would show shy pleasure, and then our lips would touch, her head would tilt, her eyes close, and we’d flirt with our tongues; little touches of intimacy. I loved wrapping her in my arms. Every time I’d get aroused by her slight body, so small, so young - such exciting forbidden fruit.

Kiss over, Rachael would come alive, bouncing on her feet, talkative, with her expressive eyes alight.

She was utterly charming. Even her vociferous disagreements with me were spirited but never angry.

In the evenings, she’d sit next to me as I read a book and she watched television. I found my hand constantly caressing her slender thigh and her hand would settle on top of my hand, almost unconsciously.

I kept her occupied with trips here and there, and tried to get her interested in working the vegetable and herb garden. That lasted all of ten minutes.

Two days after the lake visit, as Rachael ate her breakfast cereal, wearing a T-shirt and panties at the kitchen table, I told her, “We’re going for another adventure today.”

Her eyes lit up. “Where? Camping? The mountain?”

“I’m taking you to see a rose bush.”

Stunned at my considerate gesture, she asked, “A rose bush? Are you kidding me?”

“My understanding is girls like roses,” I said with a straight face. “You’re a girl, so ... rose bush.”

Rachael looked at me as if I’d suffered from sunstroke. “I’ve seen a rose bush. They’re not interesting. And that’s not what I call an adventure, Grandpa!”

“Young lady, you must have faith,” I insisted. “We leave in half an hour.”

An hour and a half later, give or take a few minutes, Rachael stood at my side and said, “Holy Shit, Batman! THAT’S a rose bush!”

I grinned. “This particular rose bush, the Lady Banksia Rose, was planted in 1885, eight years after the town was founded. It’s trunk is twelve feet around and the bush covers nine thousand square feet.”

“Are you sure it’s not a tree? It looks like one.”

“Could be. It’s called the Tombstone Rose Tree. But it’s those trellises holding it up that give the impression of a tree.”

Rachael was silent. I added, “Just imagine how jealous your friends are going to be when you tell them you saw this piece of magnificence. Well, let’s go home.”

“Go home? We drove an hour to see a bush and nothing else? I want to see the town and the Boothill Graveyard and the OK Corral.”

“If that’s what you want.”

We strolled though the old town and I gave Rachael a running commentary.

“Everyone thinks the Boothill Graveyard was named for the occupants. They’d have you believe that the graveyard is full of people who died violent or sudden deaths and were buried with their boots on. In truth, the graveyard was named Boothill in the 1920’s, not the 1800’s, and named after a cemetery in Dodge City. They hoped it would bring tourists to Tombstone. It didn’t.”

“Huh.”

We walked along and I observed, “The 1881 gunfight at the OK Corral didn’t actually happen at the OK Corral. It happened over there,” I said, pointing. “That lot on Fremont Street was vacant at the time. Everyone thinks there was a half hour gunfight with thousands of shots fired, but the real gunfight lasted all of twenty-four seconds. Only thirty shots were fired.”

Rachael frowned. “Is this whole town fake? Is anything true?”

“The Earps and Doc Holliday really were part of the gunfight. The Tombstone Rose Tree really is the biggest in the world.”

My granddaughter seemed a little disillusioned. “Let’s go home.”

“Don’t you want to see a reenactment of a gunfight in a saloon? Or an underground tour of the old silver mines? We could ride a stagecoach or get an old fashioned photograph of us in period costumes at Madame Mustache. Or would you rather grab an Italian gelato ice cream cone?”

“Italian? Jeesh! This place is a tourist trap! It’s tacky! I vote we go home.”

“It’s only eleven-thirty and there’s so much still to see.”

Rachael grabbed my hand and tugged me back towards the parking lot. “We’re leaving.”

On the hour drive home, Rachael asked, “Next time you take me on an adventure, can it involve the ATVs? I like riding motors, now I’ve got a tattoo and everything. Hey! We should get leather jackets!”

I grinned. “Leather in this heat?”

“We’ll ride fast. C’mon, Grandpa. Be a rebel!”

We stopped at Taco Bell for lunch and arrived in Vail early afternoon. I drove us to Fred’s Barber Shop to consult my knowledgeable biker friend. Fred was trimming a bald old man’s comb-over hair when we entered.

He glanced up at the tinkle of the door bell and smiled. “Rachael, great to see you again. How’d that tattoo go?”

Rachael beamed broadly. “It went fine. Wanna see it?”

I cleared my throat and told her under my breath, “You’re not exposing your naked ass to anyone.”

“I’d love to see it,” Fred assured her. “Let me finish with John, here.”

John piped up, “Can I see it too?”

“No,” I informed him firmly, and sat in a waiting chair.

Fred trimmed hair carefully and asked me, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Before I could speak, Rachael announced, “I’m getting a leather jacket!”

Fred smiled. “You’re a real biker girl at heart.”

“That’s right!”

“I wanted to consult you on leather jackets. Any recommendation on where to buy one? Or special considerations?” I asked.