by Julie Cannon
“The book. It was just as good as you said it would be. However, I only got through chapter two. My mind kept drifting to other things,” she replied, maintaining the direct eye contact only lesbians knew. The woman returned it.
“Hopefully something pleasant.”
“Yes, it was,” Kelly said, hoping it was clear she was thinking about her. “Is someone meeting you?” Kelly asked, pointing to the sign in the distance indicating baggage claim was straight ahead.
“No. Just a connection. You?”
“Not anymore,” Kelly said without thinking. Suzanne was supposed to meet her here after attending her sister’s wedding, but she barely wondered if they’d run into each other.
“Is that good or bad?”
“Doesn’t matter anymore. Do you have time for a drink?” Kelly asked, uncharacteristically stepping out on a limb. By the surprised look on the woman’s face, she was sorry she had.
The woman frowned, three vertical lines appearing between her perfectly arched eyebrows. She hesitated as if she wanted to say more. Was she weighing her options? Should she have a drink, maybe something more, and catch a later flight? Pass over a quickie in a private room in the executive lounge?
“I’d love to but—”
“No worries,” Kelly said before the embarrassment of being shot down hit her. “I understand. Have a good rest of the day.”
“You too,” the woman replied, and Kelly watched her walk away. She was several yards away when she turned and looked over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and a buzz of pleasure shot through her.
“WTF, Kelly?” she said, popping her AirPods into her ears. She loved the invention that allowed her to talk to herself without looking like a weirdo. “You drool all over the woman in your mind, and you’re so out of practice you can’t even close the deal. Goddamn Suzanne. What a complete waste of time.”
She stopped at the bank of monitors to locate her connecting gate. She needed to take the train to gate D32 but decided to check her messages first. Her phone had blown up when she’d turned it back on shortly after landing. She had plenty of time.
The first message was a robo-call offering to buy her house for cash in seven days. The second, third, fourth, and fifth were from Suzanne—again. She’d stopped listening to her messages after hearing Suzanne try to explain her way out of what had been blatantly obvious. At first, it had been quite comical, but after dozens more, she was done. She hit the delete button. It didn’t matter how good in bed she was. Kelly’s self-respect was worth more. She erased the rest of her messages without listening to them. She needed to block her calls but just hadn’t taken the time to figure out how to do it.
Kelly was distracted handling a last-minute crisis at work, and she missed the first train to get her to the terminal that held her gate, the door on the next one smacking her in the shoulder as she hustled inside. A soft, yet official-sounding voice fussed at her to use caution when entering or leaving the train. A lady with three kids shook her head disapprovingly at her.
Kelly continued her lateness getting to her gate. First, she took a wrong turn, then had to make a detour due to new flooring being installed. She made it to the gate just as the last boarding announcement was made and hustled into her seat without looking around.
Chapter Five
“Welcome to the Palms Resort and Spa, ladies.” A tall, thin woman in tan pants and a pale-blue short-sleeve shirt with a white mandarin collar greeted them as they stepped into the hotel lobby. It was after nine, local time.
“Thank you, Carol,” Sandra replied, reading her name badge. “We have a reservation under the name Howser.”
“Is this your first time on the island?”
“Yes, it is.” Becca answered.
Matt let Becca and Sandra take care of the check-in details as she looked around. A typical Caribbean island resort, the spacious lobby had no doors, the entrance a large archway held up by two huge columns. A porte cochere allowed for luggage and guests to be out of the direct sun or rain as they entered or departed. The floors were eighteen-inch tile set in a diamond pattern. Everything was decorated in cool tones.
“If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll get your paperwork.” Carol pointed to a comfortable-looking couch to her left, not the chairs in front of a large desk.
“A refreshment?” a woman dressed similarly to Carol asked as she approached. She held up a tray with three glasses of green liquid floating in ice, a cucumber slice on the rim. In her other hand was a pair of tongs, with which she held out a white washcloth that was surprisingly cold. “To freshen up from your flight,” she added before walking away.
The towel was a welcome relief to the grime of all-day travel and the humidity that had hit her when she stepped off the plane. The airport didn’t have a jetway, and they’d exited directly down a set of stairs onto the tarmac. Matt wiped her hands, arms, face, and the back of her neck. How refreshing.
“If you will follow me, ladies, I’ll give you a quick tour of the grounds. We do all your check-in paperwork in your room. Your luggage will follow shortly.”
Matt followed Becca and Sandra as Carol showed them around, pointing out the spa, (maybe), gym, (definitely not), the pool, (another maybe), and the path to the beach, (a definite yes). The lighting was subdued, with just enough to see but not too much to ruin the resort’s peaceful evening ambiance.
After they finished the paperwork, their luggage arrived, and Carol left them with information on the breakfast buffet and the taxi service on the island.
“You get the big room,” Becca said. “We’ll take these two.” She pointed to two open doors on the other side of the large seating area.
“Why does she get the big room?” Sandra asked, in a joking tone.
“Because it’s her trip,” Becca said, as if the real answer was Duh. “You don’t expect her to entertain in a dinky room that shares a bathroom, do you?”
“But you expect me to?”
“I’ve seen you naked, Sandra. Get over it.”
Matt shook her head at her friends’ playful banter as she wheeled her suitcase into her room.
Becca was right; this was a very nice room. It was almost larger than her bedroom at home. Several pillows adorned a king-sized bed that was centered under an oscillating ceiling fan. A small sitting area next to a patio door featured an overstuffed chair and small couch. The bath was to her left, and, in addition to a two-person jet tub, it had a large walk-in shower and double-sink vanity.
It was late, but their bodies were still on West Coast time, three hours behind the blue numbers on the clock on the nightstand.
Becca shouted from the common area. “Grab a cocktail from the minibar, Mattie.” Becca’s voice was muffled from the thick carpet in Matt’s room. “We’re going out on the patio.”
Large shrubs offered a level of privacy Matt appreciated, since their rooms were on the third floor. The air was thick with humidity, and the slight breeze caused goose bumps on her arms. They sat in comfortable rattan chairs, a table where they could eat breakfast in front of them.
“So, now that we’re here, do you have any other surprises for me?”
“Nope,” Becca replied. “No plans other than sun, sand, and sex.”
“And not necessarily in that order,” Sandra added, her eyebrows bouncing up and down.
“Jesus, Sandra. You’re such a horn dog. Are you still nineteen?” Matt asked, banishing the image of 6B hovering above her.
“Not hardly,” Sandra said dismissively. “But this is a lesbian resort, which means that lesbians are here. A lot of lesbians. I am in my element and am about to embark on two weeks that I plan to never forget.”
“This looks like the kind of place where lovers come, not a singles’ resort. Not that I’d actually know what a lesbian resort looks like,” Matt added.
“We’re here and we’re single,” Sandra said. “Other single women are bound to be here too. We’ll just have to look for them. Don’t want to miss an opp
ortunity because we think two women are together when they’re actually friends. Ditto for me, so don’t sit or walk too close to me when we’re in public,” she said in a teasing tone.
Sandra and Becca carried most of the conversation, Matt’s thoughts drifting to the last time she’d had sex. It had been the morning Andrea was due to leave. They’d both cried afterward. It wasn’t as though Matt was afraid that she’d always think of Andrea when making love to someone else. It was simply that she’d been so occupied with raising Jordan and starting her new career, her sex drive had simply gone dormant and drifted away. Until she saw the woman in 6B. She had jump-started Matt’s libido, and it was firing on all cylinders as she thought of her.
What would she do if, or more likely when, she realized she wanted to take her attraction to someone to the next level. Her flirting skills had definitely been in hibernation for years and would be more than a little rusty. She had, however, been able to make conversation with 6B. A flicker of hope danced in her stomach.
Becca laughed, and Matt pretended she’d been a part of the conversation all along. They chatted about a few more things, and forty-five minutes later, Becca and Sandra headed for their rooms. Taking another sip of her drink, Matt let her mind drift back to the day six years ago that had changed her life forever.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Matt cursed under her breath as she hustled down the hall. The knock on the front door came just as she had successfully crept out of Jordan’s bedroom. Those who had ever tried to get a rambunctious, inquisitive three-year-old down for a nap knew what she was talking about. She hurried to the door before the knocking woke her sleeping son. If whoever was on the other side interrupted his much-needed nap, that person would remember this day for the rest of their life. She didn’t look through the peephole, intent on cutting off another round of knocking or, God forbid, the doorbell.
She flung open the door, ready to crucify the poor sap on the porch, and froze. The earth stopped turning. Birds fluttering in the trees stilled. Dark clouds slid over the sun on the warm September day. Mattingly Parker’s life, as she had known it for the last eight years, was over. Standing before her were two men and one woman in formal army uniforms, a somber expression on their faces. This was the day she’d expected yet prayed would never come.
“Mattingly Parker?” the shorter of the two men asked.
Matt swallowed a gasp and forced her heart back down her throat, then opened the door to allow the three to step inside. Her carefully crafted world crumbled as they crossed the threshold of the house she and Andrea had bought five years ago and painfully remodeled.
The next hour passed in slow motion, each second ticking off like the bomb that had killed her wife. After they left, Matt closed the door and retraced her steps back down the hall where their son was unaware that his mother, the woman who gave him life, had died in the middle of the street in some godforsaken place only a few people could find on a map and even fewer cared about.
With a practiced hand, Matt lifted her son into her arms, careful not to wake him. She needed time to get her head around what her life would be like now that the death-notification team had climbed into their black government sedan and driven down their quiet street.
Matt remembered studying the five stages of grief in her psychology class years ago. She couldn’t deny that Andrea, her wife of eight years, was dead. The three that had just left were evidence of that fact. Anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance rounded out the stages that were anything but sequential stops on a line. She faced no allotted, prescribed time during which she waited out one phase and then moved on to the next. Grief came in waves, often when it was least expected. Matt was certain she wouldn’t be immune to any of it. The fact that she now had the job of raising their son alone didn’t matter. That the painters were coming next week or that the pool filter needed to be overhauled ceased to matter. That she was supposed to take Andrea’s dress uniform to the cleaners was of little consequence. Neither the dozens of phone calls she had to make nor the throngs of well-meaning well-wishers stopped what Matt knew was inevitable—agonizing, excruciating, unbearable pain. But right now, at this moment, she needed to hold their child, the son Andrea had worked so hard to have, enduring months of fertility treatments, failed in-vitro procedures before finally giving birth to the dark-haired, blue-eyed boy who was the mirror image of his mother at this age.
Matt needed to smell his toddler scent, which today was a mixture of peanut butter and traces of their dog Pluto, and hold his lanky body that would someday grow into that of a man Andrea would be proud of. She needed this time alone with her son and her memories of Andrea.
Four months ago had been the obligatory good-bye party with their combined friends and family, barbecue burgers for the kids, and ribs and chicken for the adults. Everyone had kissed Andrea and lingered over long hugs before leaving their backyard hours after the sun went down. They had gone to bed emotionally spent and almost too tired to make love, until Andrea reached for her. Their nights together were numbered before they were separated by honor, duty, and a world away from each other.
Their lovemaking was soft and sweet, Matt memorizing every moment. As the deployment date grew closer, their coupling grew more frantic, with quickies in the hall, on the couch, and in the tub, both of them knowing it could be the last time they shared their love for one another. They took walks, played with Jordan, and constantly touched each other, as if fearing their connection would be lost. The morning Andrea left was filled with tears and last-minute kisses as Matt watched the woman she loved walk through the security checkpoint, turn and wave one last time, and walk away.
Andrea was able to call once a week and, through the magic of video calls, was able to watch Jordan play or spit out his peas that he suddenly decided he didn’t like. Matt would rather not see Andrea until she came home, the constant reminder of what she was missing too painful. But their calls weren’t about her. They were about Andrea keeping a connection to the family she’d left behind in a world that, at times, made no sense. Jordan wouldn’t remember her, but unbeknownst to Andrea, Matt had recorded every call. She never watched them but had kept them for just this reason: so Jordan would know Andrea’s smile when she looked at him, hear her laugh at one of his silly antics, and see that the dimple in his right cheek was in the exact place as his mother’s. Several times Jordan was asleep when Andrea was able to call, and Matt angled the camera toward him so Andrea could simply watch the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest while they spoke quietly.
Tears streamed down Matt’s cheeks as she silently wept for the woman who had swept her off her feet eight years ago. The woman who had battled Matt’s fears and showed her everyday just how much she loved her. Andrea was the third leg in their little family stool that, in an instant, threatened to topple over.
Matt paced back and forth across the small balcony, shaking off the sorrow that at one time had threatened to consume her. This was today, not six years ago when she had to force herself out of bed every morning. She had moved on, or at least she was trying to.
Matt heard Carol giving the same tour to another late-arriving guest, and she caught a glimpse of blond hair as she passed three flights below. Finishing her drink and determined to make the most of this vacation, Matt went inside, closing and locking the heavy sliding door behind her.
Chapter Six
“Shit.” Matt tossed the covers aside and got out of bed. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well go down to the beach and watch the sun rise. She’d been restless most of the night, dreaming of a blond woman with dimples and a gorgeous smile. She pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and quietly opened her bedroom door. It was dark, and she used the light on her phone to make her way into the small kitchen. She prepared a pot of coffee, and as the water dripped into the pot, she retraced her steps back to her room to brush her teeth and find her flip-flops. By the time she grabbed a small bag for her room key and her phone, the coffee was ready. Even
though Becca and Sandra wouldn’t be up for hours, Matt left a note, and after filling a small, disposable to-go cup and snapping on the lid, she softly closed the suite door behind her.
The grounds of the resort were quiet as she strolled along the walkway. The sidewalk was wet in places from an errant sprinkler, and a worker was using a long-handled squeegee to remove the standing water. Matt was careful not to slip. The pool bar was locked, and rows of neatly lined deck chairs flanked the calm water. Several accent lights were on, giving the water a soothing, blue color. Palm trees stood tall, while others leaned away from the shore, the effect of relentless hurricane winds.
Matt slipped off her shoes before she stepped off the sidewalk. The sand was soft, and she hoped she didn’t step on something she couldn’t see in the early dawn. The last thing she wanted was to cut her foot on a broken shell or, worse, a piece of glass and not be able to get in the water for two weeks.
Three rows of beach chairs ran parallel to the shoreline, their adjacent umbrellas closed for the night. The sky was a pale shade of orange as the sun crept closer to making its morning debut. Matt tried to clear her mind as she walked on the hard sand packed by the incoming tide. She had never been good at simply enjoying peace and quiet or the beauty of nature. She had to be busy, whether it was writing, doing something with or for Jordan, or building something in her workshop. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like being alone. On the contrary, she enjoyed her solitary time, but she needed to be active. She often worried what she would do when she got too old to do the things she enjoyed. When her aging body wouldn’t let her mow the yard, trim the bushes, or create something in her workshop, she’d go mad. She knew that someday the arthritis in her hands would make it impossible for her to type comfortably, so she’d been experimenting with a talk-to-text software a friend had recommended. It was hard to be creative and, at the same time, remember to add correct punctuation. Something about saying the words quote, period, comma, and end quote jarred her muse. No way could she do it when writing erotica. Talk about coitus interruptus, so to speak. She firmly believed in the adage about teaching old dogs new tricks. She thought about Jordan and then quickly chided herself that this trip was about her, and Jordan was in good hands.
