“You sure look like you’re in a delightful mood.”
Trish looked up at the sound of Rosa’s voice and felt her smile involuntarily dissolve. “Hi, Rosa.”
Rosa, her mass of gray curls going off in every direction, tried in vain to pat them into submission as she thrust herself toward Pam.
“Oh. Um,” Trish said, trying for cool and detached, but she knew she wasn’t pulling it off. She was nervous as hell. “Rosa, this is Pamela Wright. Pam, this is my friend, Rosa Moran.”
She watched them shake hands, smile politely, pretend they weren’t sizing each other up. Rosa gave Trish her trademark raised eyebrow, then a jerk of the head to indicate they should talk. Alone. She told Pam she’d be back in a few minutes.
Inside a guest bedroom, Rosa hugged her, tentatively at first, then more meaningfully. There was nothing sexual to it, and that was the problem. There never was anything sexual about their physical contact, at least not for Trish. If there had been, maybe their relationship would have had a fighting chance.
“I’m so sorry about our disagreement,” Rosa said. “You’re my best friend in the world. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. And I’m sorry too. I got defensive. And I was rude.”
“No. I know how sensitive you are about Laura, how private you are about her and your past, and I kept provoking you. I’m sorry, Trish. I wish I could explain myself better, but I think I was feeling a lot of things that day. Most of them not good.”
Rosa released her, and Trish saw her eyes drop to the necklace with Laura’s ring on it.
She hated when Rosa was right, which was annoyingly often. It was true she’d been holding on to a ghost. And not because Laura was dead. She’d been holding on to that ghost for years. Holding on to something she would never, ever have again. She’d never looked at herself, at her life, with so much brutal honesty before. Laura’s death had provided the aperture through which she could see herself more clearly, and for the most part, she didn’t like what she saw.
Trembling with emotion, she said, “I don’t think I know how to let go anymore.”
Rosa’s smile was generous, forgiving. “I think you already have started to let go. I think that’s the part you’re struggling with. It feels foreign to be without something—someone—that’s been a part of you for, what, twenty-plus years?”
Trish sank on to the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, chin propped on her hands. “Jesus, Rosa. I don’t know if I can do it. Or how to do it. I feel so lost. So alone. Like I’m standing on the end of a diving board.”
Rosa sat down beside her, put her arm around her shoulders. “You’re not alone. I’m here for you. And so is that woman out there who looks like she’s totally in love with you.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
With a smile, Rosa shook her head. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
* * *
Pam chatted with Bev, accepted the glass of wine that was pressed into her hand. She let Bev introduce her to the latecomers and the few people she’d hadn’t yet been introduced to, noticing there were several nice-looking women in the mix. Women who gave her a second look and an encouraging smile. She was flattered, thinking she should probably take a few of them, or at least one of them, up on the subtle offers that seemed to be floating her way, but Pam simply smiled back with enough aloofness to suggest she wasn’t looking.
Bev clapped a friendly arm around her shoulder. “You’re single, aren’t you?”
Reluctant to admit it, Pam stalled.
“Well?” She moved closer and whispered, “A few women have asked me.”
“I, ah…guess so.”
Bev’s laughter was meant to scold. “That’s some answer. Is that like sort of being a virgin? Oh, never mind. I’m just raising a little hell with you. Sounds to me like you’re single but would rather not be. Is that it?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Bev raised her eyebrows but said nothing more. She steered Pam outside to the large patio, where tiny multicolored lights twinkled overhead. A dance area had been constructed out of plywood boards, and Motown music blared from speakers designed to look like rocks tucked up against shrubs. A handful of couples danced: some gay, some straight. It’d been a long time since she’d been to a house party, Pam realized, as she soaked in the music, the dancing, the laughter. Med school graduation was probably the last time she’d attended one.
“Have some fun and don’t be shy,” Bev advised before disappearing.
Pam sipped her wine, wondering where Trish and Rosa had gone. Probably—hopefully—making up from their spat. She considered Rosa as she watched two women dance close to “The Way You Do the Things You Do.” Rosa was older than Trish, maybe by a decade or so. Average looking, but she had sharp, intelligent eyes. She looked like the kind of woman you could have long, insightful, energizing conversations with. She imagined Trish being attracted to Rosa’s mind, but she couldn’t quite fit them together sexually. There didn’t seem to be any sparks between them, any physical chemistry. She wondered how they’d gotten together and guessed they’d started out as friends, probably with Rosa suggesting more, until Trish relented.
You’re being harsh, Pamela. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Rosa. Maybe she’s exactly the kind of woman who turns Trish’s crank…
“Hi.”
Pam turned to the pleasant-looking woman who’d silently stepped up beside her. “Hi.”
“Stacey Fisk,” the woman answered, sticking out her hand.
Pam shook it. “Pam Wright.”
“Nice party, huh? You like Motown?”
“Of course. Can’t grow up forty-five miles from Detroit and not like Motown music.”
“So you’re from here?”
“Yup. Originally. You?”
“Indianapolis. Moved here six years ago for the job. Hey, wait a minute. You’re the woman whose sister was killed in Afghanistan, right?”
Pam winced, an arrow of pain shooting through her for an instant, silencing her. She wasn’t used to strangers bringing up Laura’s death and probably never would be. She nodded reluctantly.
“I’m so sorry about that. I’m sorry to bring it up the way I did. I didn’t mean to sound insensitive about it.”
“It’s okay,” Pam lied, her palms itchy. Where the hell was Trish, anyway?
“Look, I should’ve told you. I’m a newspaper reporter. The Journal.”
“Stacey, I don’t want to…”
“It’s okay. I’m used to my job being a conversation stopper when I tell people. My paper did a couple of stories on your sister when she died.”
Pam had read them. The first was a news story, the second an obituary.
“I’d like to do something more on her some day,” Stacey continued, growing animated. “An in-depth feature story about who she really was. What exactly she was doing over there, why she was a career army doctor. What she thought of the war. All that kind of stuff.”
“I don’t know,” Pam said. Her first instinct was to have no part of it.
Stacey’s smile was reassuring. Harmless. She was probably well-practiced in the art of softening people up. “Just think about, would you? Sounds to me like she was kind of a pioneer. A woman, a career army doctor, serving several tours in hot zones. Someone like her deserves to have her story told. She was a real hero.”
“Yes, but I don’t know that she’d have wanted a big story written about her. She wasn’t the type who sought the limelight.” In fact, Laura always laughed bitterly whenever someone called her a hero. To her, all kinds of people were heroes, from bus drivers to construction workers to stay-at-home moms. A uniform doesn’t automatically make you a hero, she’d told Pam on more than one occasion. But Laura was wrong not to consider herself a hero.
“I understand.” Stacey fished a business card from her shirt pocket and gave it to Pam. “If you ever think her story should be told, call me, okay? I’m
not into sensationalizing stuff or making anyone look bad, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Stacey pushed her long blond bangs around her ears, lowered her voice. “I know what it’s like over there.”
“You do?”
“I was in Afghanistan three years ago. My boss sent me over for a week to follow the family of another soldier who’d been killed. It was kind of a healing journey for them. They wanted to go over there, see what it was like, see where their son got killed.”
Pam’s heart began to pound as Stacey’s words coagulated in her mind, slowly, like thick sludge. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Laura’s journal was one thing, but actually going there, boots on the ground, made stone-cold sense. Seeing where Laura had died, seeing firsthand exactly what she’d been doing over there, who she worked with, the people she helped, how they lived, what the hospital conditions were like. Maybe it was exactly what she needed to do to understand Laura better, to get the closure she hadn’t been able to find.
Stacey was still talking, something about an army program for families of KIA soldiers, but Pam tuned her out. She could contact Camille. Camille would know about such arrangements. And then there was Trish. Would Trish want to go too? Or would Trish think she was nuts? Her mind whirled, and Stacey was saying something to her in a much softer voice.
“Pardon?”
Something slow was playing on the stereo. Stacey’s mood had clearly transitioned from business to pleasure. “Dance?”
She wasn’t bad looking. Kind of cute, as a matter of fact. But Pam wasn’t the least bit interested. She had no real reason not to be interested, yet she couldn’t bring herself to accept a dance with Stacey. The truth was she didn’t want to be in anyone’s arms but Trish’s, and if that made her a hopeless loser, then so be it. “Sorry,” Pam muttered. “There’s someone I need to find.”
* * *
It was a relief to be on happy terms with Rosa again, Trish decided, and smiled at her friend. She hadn’t realized until their little falling-out that she needed Rosa in her life. Being lovers hadn’t worked out and never would—they both understood that—but they would always be friends. They could talk about anything, although Laura would probably always be a sensitive topic between them. But that was par for the course.
“Let’s seal this with a dance,” Rosa suggested, holding her hand out in a grand gesture of deference. Something from Smokey Robinson was playing on the outdoor speakers.
“All right.”
The song was “Just to See Her,” and it made Trish suddenly think of Pam. She’d seen Pam talking to a blond woman earlier. A pretty heavy discussion by the looks of things.
“That blond woman,” Trish said to Rosa as they danced together. “Kind of lanky, sort of androgynous looking. Talking to Pam earlier. Who was that?”
“That was Stacey Fisk.”
“The name sounds familiar. Who is she?”
“Newspaper reporter. Friend of Jean’s, I think.”
“Hmm, wonder what she wanted with Pam?”
Rosa laughed. “Probably trying to pick her up. I mean, who wouldn’t?”
Okay, that’s not funny, Trish thought. She didn’t want to think of someone trying to pick up Pam. Worse, she didn’t want to think of Pam saying yes, and not just because she’d shared that heart-stopping kiss with Pam. Nor because Pam was Laura’s little sister and Trish felt protective toward her. Shit. Maybe it was for exactly those reasons. And more.
She felt eyes on her, turned, and there in the shadows, against the brick wall of the house, leaned Pam. Thumbs hooked through the belt loops of her hip-clinging khaki capri pants, tight shirt clinging to every muscle and curve, breasts tantalizingly pushed forward by the perfectly fitting blouse, long slender neck that looked so smooth, so kissable. And that strong Wright jaw. Pam’s eyes were in shadow, but they were gazing at her, Trish knew, and her heart crashed to a halt. Pam quite literally stole her breath.
“She really is a looker,” Rosa said, whistling softly.
“What? Who?”
“Laura’s little sister. She’s attracted to you. And I’d say it’s mutual.”
Trish didn’t want to have this discussion. Not now, not here, and not with Rosa.
“You’re blowing things out of proportion,” Trish said tersely, hoping her tone might put an end to the subject. “We’re old friends.”
“Old friends, eh? How come she’s looking at me like I’m a lobster she wants to toss in a vat of boiling water? And then carry you off?”
Trish laughed at Rosa’s graphic description. “You really do have an imagination, don’t you?”
“I’m a writer and a creative writing professor, remember?”
Pam advanced toward them, deftly maneuvering around the other dancing bodies.
“Give her a chance,” Rosa whispered as Pam stepped up to them, her eyes serious, her mouth an uncompromising line in the dusky light.
Maybe Rosa was right and Pam really did want to make her disappear at all costs. It hit her that Pam might be jealous that she was dancing with Rosa. A tingle flared in her chest, sank to her stomach, then lower.
“May I have the honor of cutting in?” Pam asked, gallant like Cary Grant playing out a scene in a move. It gave Trish the urge to swoon.
Rosa’s smile was almost too eager. Probably a little worried about that vat of boiling water after all, Trish thought with amusement. Rosa backed away, did a little bow, and Pam took her place in Trish’s arms.
“Really,” Trish said, trying to smother the sexual heat slowly engulfing her body. Sweat prickled her scalp. “You didn’t have to come to my rescue.”
“That’s not why I’m dancing with you. You and Rosa look like you’ve patched things up just fine.”
“We did. And…Wait, is that why you’re dancing with me?”
“You busted me. I was afraid you might patch things up a little too good with Rosa. And because I wanted it to be me dancing to this song with you.”
Trish looked into Pam’s eyes, expecting to see defiance or some kind of possessiveness. Instead, Pam looked satisfied, emboldened.
“I know,” Pam continued, “that I’m not supposed to talk like that. We’re supposed to forget the kiss. And me, how I feel about you, I know it’s off limits. I know…”
“Wait.” Gently Trish placed a finger on Pam’s full lips. She knew she shouldn’t touch her like that, especially when Pam’s eyes slid shut at the intimate contact, but she couldn’t help herself. Pam was damned alluring, incredibly gorgeous and extremely vulnerable right now. She smelled good and felt so good, so right in her arms as Smokey sang in his silky way. Then Aretha’s “Natural Woman” began playing. It was too much, because it nearly moved Trish to tears. She couldn’t breathe because of the way Pam filled her, couldn’t think past her pulsating senses. But she could share none of this with Pam. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. Just slow down, okay?” She was commanding herself as much as Pam.
Pam nodded, remained silent as they swayed together.
God, Trish thought. It was shocking how quickly her burgeoning feelings for Pam were taking over. She’d thought things were under control, other than that momentary slipup when they’d kissed. Everything was tidily in its place, or so she’d believed. Pam had simply maintained that schoolgirl crush on her, and she was only feeling things for Pam because she was grieving and missing Laura. They were both lonely, both in need of the warm embrace of someone who cared. That’s all it was, she told herself. A supportive friendship.
Yet this, she thought as she inhaled Pam’s scent, this bordered on complete irrationality. The mere nearness of Pam was doing things—exciting things—to her body and turning her mind to mush. For once, she wanted to go ahead and feel instead of think. Go with her heart and the lust swelling between her legs. She wanted, at least for this moment, to throw out every excuse that was holding her—them—back.
Another song began playing, something by Gladys Knight, and they continued to dance, not wanting
to let go. Their bodies were melded together, their curves and angles fitting perfectly, snugly, softly together. Pam’s leg pressed lightly between hers, producing just enough friction to start Trish’s clit throbbing as though it had a heartbeat of its own. Jesus, I’m turned on. If we were home right now I wouldn’t be able to say no. Wouldn’t want to say no.
Something bumped hard into her, causing her to miss a step. She felt liquid seeping into the ass of her shorts.
“Shit!” She spun around, stumbled against Rosa on the ground beside her. Rosa was picking herself up from one knee, grinning or grimacing, Trish wasn’t sure which. “Rosa, what happened?”
“Oh, damn. I’m so sorry Trish.” Rosa examined her empty wineglass, then frowned at Trish’s stained shorts. “I lost my footing and…Oh, no, I’ve ruined your shorts.”
Trish craned her neck to try to see how bad the wine stain was. Figured that it had to be red wine. “Look, don’t worry about it. If it doesn’t wash out, they’re only from Kohl’s. Nothing expensive.” She didn’t care about her shorts. What annoyed her was that Rosa had so clumsily interrupted the two of them, but she didn’t dare show it. She didn’t want Rosa to pick up on the vibes between her and Pam. “Just a suggestion, but maybe you should switch to water, hmm?”
“Speaking of wine,” Pam said, disappointment etched on her face. “I think I’ll go get us a glass. I’m a little thirsty.”
Watching Pam disappear into the crowd, Trish said sternly, “Tell me that was an innocent little accident.”
“I’m not jealous, if that’s what you think,” Rosa replied.
“You’re not typically clumsy either. Want to tell me what that was all about?”
“I thought you could use a moment for reflection. For a little perspective. Things looked like they were getting a little fevered between you two.”
“Didn’t you tell me about an hour ago that I should give her a chance? Weren’t you practically ready to throw me into her arms?”
“Yes, I think you should give her a chance. But I know you, Trish, and I know you’re not quite ready for what was about to happen.”
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