Lindsey sniffled. “I’m so damn happy, Cloe, although you couldn’t tell it.”
“It seems all I can do is cry. But I’m really, really happy, too.” Cloe gripped Lindsey’s neck and pulled her close enough to kiss her. They laughed when Fred squirmed and shoved his nose between their mouths.
Lindsey ruffled his ears. “You ready to see inside, huh?” He barked. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”
Cloe opened the book and brushed her fingertips over each page. Lindsey enjoyed the childlike glee that lit Cloe’s face. She turned to the dedication page. They were seeing what they’d each written for the first time. Cloe thanked her parents and Lindsey for their love and support. She watched Cloe’s lips move as she read aloud what Lindsey had written, “Thank you, Fred, for bringing love back into my life. Cloe and I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Cloe set the book onto the table and crawled into Lindsey’s lap. Her eyes swimming with emotion, she whispered, “I’ve searched for you most of my life. I knew if I waited long enough, I’d find you. There were times I almost gave up, but I held out hope, no matter how bleak it seemed.” She stroked her fingers through Lindsey’s hair. “I could feel you there, always just a touch away.”
“Just a touch away,” Lindsey repeated softly. Her lips found Cloe’s as she sealed their love with the gentlest of kisses. She pulled Cloe close and relished the comfort of her body. She looked over Cloe’s shoulder, and a photo of Eric caught her eye. Like in her dream, he held up his hands in the shape of a heart. As she stared at the photo, the heavy weight she’d carried since his death lifted from her chest.
And the last remnants of Lindsey’s sadness dissipated in the warmth of a little boy’s smile.
Photo Credit: Phyllis Manfredi
Author Chris Paynter, Grand Lake, Colorado, September 2018
About the Author
Chris Paynter is the author of nine novels, including the Playing for First baseball series. Her Survived by Her Longtime Companion was a 2013 Lambda Literary Award Finalist and winner of the 2013 Ann Bannon Popular Choice Award. Her books have also won five Rainbow Awards Honorable Mentions for Lesbian Romance. Her short stories have appeared in Regal Crest’s Women in Uniform: Medics and Soldiers and Cops, Oh My! (2010) and Cleis Press’s Love Burns Bright: A Lifetime of Lesbian Romance (2013). After earning a Bachelor’s degree in journalism, Chris worked as a general assignment reporter and sportswriter. She currently works as managing editor to three law journals, overseeing the production of eight issues per academic year. A sports junkie, you can find her screaming at the TV during an Indianapolis Colts game or living vicariously through her Cincinnati Reds. When not writing or editing books, Chris loves to get lost in a good romance. She resides in Indianapolis with her wonderful wife, Phyllis. Both are loyal subjects to their beautiful beagle, Princess Eleanor.
Visit her website: www.ckpaynter.com
Email her at: [email protected]
Visit her Author Page on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ChrisPaynterAuthor
Find her on Twitter: @ckpaynter
If you enjoyed the characters of Bailey and Chelsea in Just a Touch Away, be sure and check out their story in Survived by Her Longtime Companion (2012) from Companion Publications...
Bailey eased the Jeep to a stop in the circular paved drive in front of the home. A small pond nestled inside the circle. She got out of the Jeep and paused to watch multicolored koi swim in lazy rings in the water. She grabbed her tape recorder and notebook from the back of the Jeep and walked through the arched entry. Flowers of multitudinous hues adorned the walkway. Chelsea would know what those are, Bailey thought, as she drew nearer to the huge wooden door. She wondered if she’d even make a noise when she knocked, but then she spotted the doorbell and rang it. It played a vaguely familiar tune. From an old movie—an old Daphne DeMonet movie if Bailey’s memory served her well. A Sheltered Heart? In between packing, she’d watched some of DeMonet’s films for her research.
At length, the door opened. Bailey almost gasped at the sight of the gray-haired beauty before her. The woman stood about Bailey’s height, five-six, maybe an inch taller. She’d styled her hair in a short cut, feathered away from her face. She wore blue jeans and a light blue, short-sleeved cotton blouse. Her flawless skin held only slight wrinkles, nothing belying her age. Her thin nose angled to a point, drawing Bailey’s gaze to her sensuous lips. The blue of the blouse brought out the woman’s startling blue eyes that appeared amused at Bailey’s reaction.
My God, this woman must have been gorgeous when she was young, Bailey thought. Hell, why am I qualifying it? She’s still gorgeous. Bailey found her voice.
“Eleanor Burnett?”
“You must be Bailey. I don’t think you’re the other woman with whom I spoke. I remember voices and inflections. Your voice is much huskier.”
“Yes, I’m Bailey Hampton. As I told you over the phone, I’m here on behalf of Joanne Addison, the biographer.”
Eleanor stepped aside to allow her to enter.
“Let’s go to the back where we can enjoy my gardens while we talk. You do realize that it’s tea time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What did I say about formalities, Bailey?”
“I apologize, Eleanor.”
“Better. Pretty soon, my name will flow freely off your tongue.” Eleanor laughed, a light laugh that reminded Bailey of champagne glasses clinking together. “Now, when I say tea time, I don’t mean iced tea. I hope you’re aware of that.”
Bailey followed Eleanor through the home. They passed by simple, yet elegant, furniture in the spacious living room. When they neared the fireplace, Bailey stopped dead in her tracks.
A large oil painting of Eleanor and Daphne DeMonet hung above the mantel. They both looked to be middle-aged, with Daphne’s hair slightly grayer than Eleanor’s. But what struck Bailey was that they were nude. The artist had posed the women in a way that allowed the viewer’s imagination to take flight.
Eleanor sat in front of Daphne with her knees cradled to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, and her breasts pushed against her thighs. A slight smile creased her lips, and a faint blush tinged her cheeks. Daphne sat behind Eleanor, her long legs straddling Eleanor’s body. Her arms draped around Eleanor’s neck, with her fingers tantalizingly close to Eleanor’s cleavage. Her salt-and-pepper hair brushed her shoulders. She sported a wicked grin, her dark brown eyes staring down at Bailey as if she knew a secret no one else would discover.
Bailey was unable to move. Eleanor’s voice behind her nudged her from her trance.
“A gay artist friend of ours in Hollywood painted it for us. I never would have posed like that for someone straight. It was Daph’s idea, of course.”
Bailey turned to Eleanor who stared at the painting with a wistful expression.
“She suffered her first stroke right after Douglas finished it, although we didn’t know it was a stroke at the time.”
Bailey looked up at the painting again. “How old were you?”
“I was forty-five when we had this done. She was fifty-three, just shy of her fifty-fourth birthday.”
“Eight-year age difference,” Bailey said, almost to herself. “So young to suffer a stroke.”
“It might have been an eight-year age difference when we first met, but I eventually caught up with her.” Eleanor winked. “Let’s continue. Niles will bring the tea out to us on the patio.”
They walked to the back of the home. The patio’s speckled tile stretched out for several feet, ending at the foot of a large fountain. A flower garden flourished to the left. The lawn continued on for several yards to a privacy fence separating Eleanor’s property from her neighbors’.
“Come. Sit.”
Bailey settled into a cushioned wooden chair across from Eleanor. The sliding glass door opened behind them, and a well-dressed, elderly gentleman brought out a silver tray. On it, a teapot, sugar bowl, creamer, and three cups and saucers sat next to a
plate of cookies. Obviously, the third cup was for the other interviewer who would join them. Bailey wondered about her.
As if sensing her thoughts, Eleanor said, “The other woman should arrive shortly. She phoned to say she was delayed at school.”
“School?” Bailey thanked Niles after he poured the tea. He stepped back inside.
“Cream?” Eleanor pointed at the creamer.
“Please.” Bailey held up her cup for Eleanor.
“One lump or two?” Eleanor asked, motioning toward the sugar bowl.
“None, thank you.”
Eleanor dropped two sugar cubes into her cup. “I believe the young woman said she was a professor at Indiana University.”
Bailey almost spit out her first mouthful of tea.
“Beautiful voice. She sounds very much like she might have been a singer at some point in her life.”
The doorbell rang before Bailey’s runaway thoughts had a chance to careen off the track.
“That should be her, I think,” Eleanor said. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?”
“No, no, no,” Bailey said under her breath after Eleanor left. “This can’t be possible. It has to be someone else.”
Voices drifted in through the slightly opened sliding glass doors.
“We’re drinking our tea out here. I hope that’s okay with you, Professor. . .”
“Parker. But you can call me Chelsea. I noticed a Jeep out front with Colorado plates. . .”
Blood rushed to Bailey’s head when Chelsea appeared behind Eleanor. Bailey stood up abruptly, as if that would somehow help her state of mind. But it only made her more lightheaded.
The expression on Chelsea’s face was a mixture of surprise and sadness. Then, as if someone had flicked a switch, an impenetrable veil lowered over her eyes.
“Bailey.” Chelsea shifted in place.
“Chelsea.” Bailey wanted to tell her she was still beautiful. She wanted to embrace her and smell the shampoo Chelsea had used that morning as she had so many days of their time together. She wanted to feel Chelsea’s body against hers. But she didn’t move.
Eleanor looked back and forth between the two women. “You know each other?”
Chelsea nodded and noticed Bailey doing the same.
“Let’s sit down, and you can tell me how.” Eleanor motioned them to the chairs.
Chelsea scooted her chair closer to Eleanor’s before sitting down.
“Tea, Chelsea?” Eleanor asked.
“No, thank you.” Her heart pounded in her ears. She hadn’t prepared for this. How could she have? She didn’t think Bailey had, either, if her bouncing knee was any indication.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like tea, especially an afternoon tea.”
“I’m. . . ah. . . sorry,” Chelsea stammered.
“When we spoke earlier, I mentioned sharing tea while we chatted. You didn’t disagree.” Eleanor’s voice held a note of challenge. The sun creeping through the lattice above the patio bathed her gray hair in a bright light, giving her an imposing appearance.
“I have to admit I wanted the interview, which is why I agreed.” Chelsea hoped she hadn’t offended her.
“Well, in ancient England, we might have taken you to the center of town and had you hanged and quartered for that offense.” Eleanor shuddered. “We won’t stoop to that barbaric act. Instead, I’ll ask you, what do you drink?”
“Water is fine.” Chelsea gripped her briefcase against her chest as if it could protect her from her swirling emotions.
Eleanor picked up a small porcelain bell and rang it. Bailey flinched at the sound.
“Madam?” Niles appeared at the sliding glass door.
“Ice water for Professor Parker, please.”
After he left, Eleanor took a sip of her tea and stared at them over the rim of her cup. “So. Who’s going to tell me first?”
Chelsea shot a quick glance over at Bailey whose bouncing knee had hit a frenzied rate.
“Bailey and I. . . we. . . well, we. . .”
Eleanor finished her sentence. “You were lovers.”
“Yes,” Chelsea answered.
“How long?” Eleanor asked.
“How long. . .” Chelsea grew more uncomfortable with the questions. Who was interviewing whom here?
“How long were you together?”
Chelsea was about to answer, but Bailey interrupted.
“Nine years, three months, and thirteen days.”
Chelsea swallowed the lump in her throat in an attempt to stave off her tears.
Niles brought out a bottle of water and a glass of ice. After he left, an awkward silence shrouded the table.
“Interesting,” Eleanor said. “Very interesting. And how long apart?”
Chelsea answered this time. “Eleven months.”
“How did you meet?” Eleanor shifted back in her chair and crossed one ankle over her knee. With the move, the heel of her sandal drooped down from her toes.
“We met in Bloomington at a coffee shop. There wasn’t an empty table. Bailey sat alone with her laptop, so I walked over and asked if I could sit with her.”
“Of course you answered yes,” Eleanor said, addressing Bailey. “How could you not? Professor Chelsea Parker is quite beautiful.”
Bailey smiled. “Yes, she is, as she was then.”
The lump in Chelsea’s throat made another appearance. She opened her water bottle, poured it into the glass, and took a long drink.
“I take it you were both in school at Indiana University?”
“I was in grad school,” Bailey said. “I received my undergrad degree from Hanover, a college located a little farther south.”
“I’ve heard of it.” Eleanor turned back to Chelsea. “And you?”
“I was working on my dissertation.”
“Ah, that’s right. Of course you would have earned a Ph.D. I should call you Doctor Parker.”
“Chelsea’s fine.”
“All right. Here’s the big question. Why did you separate?”
Bailey tapped the side of her cup with her index finger.
When it was clear Bailey wasn’t about to respond, Chelsea answered. “We got too busy with our work and grew apart.”
Eleanor’s sharp laugh echoed in the backyard.
“That’s it? You were busy and grew apart?”
“Well. . .” Chelsea tried to think of something else to say but was at a loss.
Eleanor waved her hand in the air. “Don’t try to justify it with any more words. I get the picture.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Chelsea wondered whether she’d lost the interview before it had even begun.
“Upset me?” Again, Eleanor laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m not upset. I’m angry. There’s a difference.”
“What did I say wrong? I didn’t mean anything by my words.” Chelsea gave Bailey a pleading look.
Bailey leaned toward Eleanor. “We were both at fault.”
“You most certainly were. How could you let a nine-year—what did you say? Nine-year, three-months and—”
“Thirteen days,” Chelsea said.
“Right. If you both can remember the exact time you were together, how could you now be apart? It makes no sense. None.”
Eleanor rose to her feet and stomped off toward the garden.
Chelsea watched her leave and then whirled toward Bailey. “What is this? Why are you here?”
“Hi, Bailey. How’ve you been? I’ve been fine, Chelsea, how about you?” Bailey rolled her eyes. “Why do you think? For the same reason you are.”
“Let me guess. Joanne Addison thought because you’re gay, Eleanor Burnett would talk to you.”
“Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”
“And you came anyway, knowing I’m here teaching?” Chelsea’s voice continued to rise.
“Why are you mad? It’s not like you have the right to an exclusive.” Bailey stood and shoved her chair back. It teetered and the
n settled on all four legs.
Chelsea rose to her feet to avoid Bailey towering over her. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
Bailey looked like she was about to say something more. Instead, she marched toward the direction Eleanor had taken.
“Wait!” Chelsea hurried to catch up with Bailey’s long strides. “I’m not done.”
“I don’t have to listen to this anymore, remember?” Bailey’s jaw was tight.
Chelsea stumbled and began to fall forward, but Bailey caught her under the elbow. When she did, Chelsea fell into her arms. They stared at each other, both breathing heavy. Bailey’s gaze dropped to Chelsea’s lips. Then she blinked, pulled away, and continued toward Eleanor who stood in the distance.
I almost kissed her, Bailey thought. I can’t believe I almost kissed her. What is wrong with me?
She caught up with Eleanor who was weeding the daffodils.
“Ms. Burnett. . .” Bailey started to say.
Eleanor raised her head and glared at Bailey.
“I’m sorry. Eleanor. Please don’t let our former relationship keep you from talking to me.”
“To us,” Chelsea chimed in as she moved beside Bailey.
Eleanor straightened and brushed the dirt from her hands. “Tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock sharp.”
Bailey and Chelsea spoke at the same time.
“I’m sorry?”
“Excuse me?”
“Seven o’clock in the morning. You Yanks are capable of arising that early, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” they answered together.
“I see some habits are hard to break. I bet you still finish each other’s sentences, too. Return tomorrow at seven and we’ll talk. I’m tired. It’s time for my afternoon nap. You can find your way to the front by following that path.” Eleanor gestured at a dirt path lined with stones and strode back to the house.
Just a Touch Away Page 21
