by Jae
The conversation droned, a low buzz with the occasional shrill note mixed in as Abby and Harper argued over the emotional impact of their latest read. Barb half listened. It was rude, but truth be told, she hadn’t enjoyed reading the book and cared even less about discussing it. Besides, how could she be expected to concentrate while Muriel sat opposite her, drinking sloe gin and staring at her with those intensely teasing eyes? It was downright distracting. And if the arch of Muriel’s eyebrow was anything to go by, she knew exactly what that look was doing to Barb.
“…think, Barb?” Abby’s voice barely broke through her mental haze.
Muriel took another sip, her glass unable to fully hide her smirk.
“Barb? Are you with us?” Abby patted her on the knee. “Everything okay, sugar?”
Muriel looked pointedly down the hall toward the bedrooms, and Barb gulped for air. “What?” She forced her gaze away from Muriel and to Abby. “What’s that, now?”
“The book, silly. What did you think?”
Barb considered her words. It was always so tricky, finding the balance between polite society and the absolute truth. “Well, it wasn’t my favorite book we’ve read.”
“What didn’t you like about it?” Muriel asked, her voice low and teasing to match her eyes. How had her blatant flirtation gone unnoticed by the other women?
“It was boring.” Betty jumped in, answering first for a change and smiling at Muriel in a way that made it clear her flirtation hadn’t gone as unnoticed as Barb thought.
Leave it to that harlot to pick up on the subtle difference in Muriel’s attention. Wasn’t it enough that she had an ongoing affair with Richard? Did she have to hone in on the most interesting person to walk through Barb’s back door since…well, since she’d said “I do”?
“Boring?” Muriel gave Betty a fleeting glance. She returned her focus to Barb with a lazy, borderline predatory smile. “Did you find the book boring, Barb?”
“I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”
Muriel nodded and leaned forward, elbow braced against her knee, chin propped on her closed fist, her movements liquid and smooth and downright feline. “What would you find…not boring?”
“You mean interesting?” Abby interrupted. “This book was interesting. What a silly question.”
“Aunt Abby, what about the new style of book you found? Tell them about it,” Muriel said.
Aunt? With that one word, Barb connected the dots. Caren was Abby’s sister-in-law. Muriel was her niece.
Abby’s cheeks flared red, and she stammered, “Well…yes…you see.”
Barb patted her on the back, and Betty said, “Come now, it can’t be that bad.” She sounded interested, which made sense. Anything that embarrassed Abby that much had to be interesting by Betty’s standards.
Harper nodded. “Just tell us. I’m intrigued.”
“Remember I told you about my old college mate who went to work for that publisher? Well, we met for lunch the other day, and she told me about this new style of book that features…women…” Abby’s voice faded away, and she drew her brow together in concentration. “And these women…fall in love.”
Betty flopped back in her seat with a sigh. “That’s exactly what we’ve been reading. Boring.”
“That does sound much the same, Abby.” Barb hated to agree with Betty, but sometimes it was unavoidable.
“Go on. Tell them the rest.” Muriel rose like a goddess from the settee and went to pour herself another drink. On her way past, she plucked Barb’s glass from her hands, her touch lingering on Barb’s fingers far too long.
“Yes, well, you see…” Abby spoke in stops and starts, and Barb’s attention switched to Muriel long before she reached the point.
Muriel met Barb’s gaze in the mirror above the serving station. She poured herself another glass of sloe gin and Barb bourbon over ice. She did it all without looking away from Barb. When Muriel licked her lips languidly, Barb found herself mirroring the motion. An understanding passed between them in that moment. Muriel’s actions were more than a flirtation. She was making a clear offer, a promise to follow through on the implied intimacy she offered with each casual movement. And as Barb stared at the moisture that clung to Muriel’s lower lip, every dirty intention that she had swallowed down with her marriage vows flared to life.
“Ooh, that does sound interesting.” Betty’s voice cut through the haze Muriel cast over her.
She had no idea what Abby had said, but if Betty approved, Barb disapproved on principle.
“I don’t know,” Harper said, decidedly less enthusiastic. “What do you think, Barb?”
Muriel pressed Barb’s drink into her hand and then continued to the settee. She answered instead of Barb. “Well, it definitely won’t be boring.”
“But it seems…distasteful,” Harper continued. “Two women should not do those things together. It’s not God’s way.”
Betty scoffed. “Since when do you care about God?”
It was a fair question. Sure, Harper went to church on Sunday. They all did. Harper also spent Sunday afternoons playing poker, smoking cigarettes from the pack her lover—not husband—kept rolled into the sleeve of his white T-shirt, and drinking indecent amounts of whiskey.
Harper didn’t even blush at the implication of Betty’s accusation. “Even a heathen like me knows God doesn’t approve of two women carrying on like that.”
“So what? He doesn’t approve of a lot of things. That’s never stopped you.”
Harper glared at Betty as she took a long draw from her glass. The ice shifted and clanked against the sides as she drained the remains of her Jim Beam. She didn’t respond.
Somewhere in the middle of their argument, Barb realized exactly what type of book Abby was suggesting. Her brain battled against itself, half embracing the idea of their book club discussing the pulp fiction she loved so much, the other half panicking at the thought of them discovering how familiar she was with the genre. Not that she’d bought any herself, but why would she do that when her publisher would supply them for free? Abby wasn’t the only one with an old college friend in the industry; only Barb suspected her relationship with hers was more complicated as Abby was unlikely to have slept with her friend or published a book with her.
Barb followed Harper’s example and drained her glass.
“I vote yes.” Betty smiled at the group, a sparkle of keen interest in her eyes. For the first time, someone had suggested a book she wouldn’t find boring. “Obviously, Abby is a yes since she suggested it. Harper is a clear no. What about you, Barb? It’s two to one now. Want to make it a clear majority?”
Barb stared at her glass, wishing it would magically refill itself. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her thoughts. It didn’t help, but the rest of the group was staring at her, so she had to say something. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Took a sip of the melted ice gathered at the bottom of her glass.
Muriel laughed, a dark, low chuckle that stirred things deep inside Barb. She rose from her seat and crossed the room. “Let me help with that.” She took Barb’s empty tumbler and refilled it once again.
The brief reprieve should have given Barb an opportunity to collect herself. Instead, she spent the few moments fixated on the easy, controlled way Muriel moved from place to place.
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Barb! Yes or no. Let’s have it.”
“Yes, well…” She sipped her drink. “Abby, could I see the book?” She asked the question before she considered the full weight of it. What if Abby pulled one of Barb’s books from her oversized black purse? Not that they had any way of knowing their unassuming suburban friend Barbara Wilson né Lewis and the scandalous, worldly author B.B. Lewis were one and the same. Logically, she knew that, but the swell of panic in her chest demanded that s
he ready herself to run. Where to, she didn’t know. But fleeing was her only clear option if one of B.B.’s bawdy adventures found its way into her parlor.
Abby blushed as she rooted around in her bag. Despite her obvious discomfort, she eventually produced the book and held it out to Barb. Her cheeks grew redder with every passing moment.
Barb took it from her carefully and flipped it over. The Women of West Hollywood. The hard, repetitive kerwoosh of her blood flooding through her head receded. It wasn’t her book. It wasn’t even her publisher. She took a deep breath, and this time, it helped to settle her thoughts.
“You know, Abby, a friend of mine from Vassar also works in publishing. She mentioned this new trend as well.” Barb left out the part where that same friend had shared her bed through most of college and had encouraged her to write her own book at the beginning of the trend several years ago. Barb had released one a year, starting her senior year at Vassar. The publishing royalties were tucked away in a rainy-day fund, along with half of each week’s budget for household expenses and any other bit of change she could secret away from Richard. She didn’t know what she’d do with it all, but she imagined she’d grow tired of his philandering at some point. Not that she was jealous, but he wasn’t as discreet as she would have liked. Eventually, word would get back to her friends and family, if it hadn’t already, and she wanted to have options when that day came. “I understand Harper’s hesitation, but I also think it wouldn’t hurt for us to expand our options a bit.”
Harper, who had been visibly stiff for most of the debate, relaxed incrementally. “I suppose we could try just this one.”
Betty released a hearty whoop that wasn’t very ladylike.
Barb smiled despite herself. Very few women embraced their inner harlot as readily and easily as Betty. It was refreshing, if not entirely charming.
Abby pulled two more copies of the book from her purse and handed one each to Betty and Harper. “Now that that’s decided, I need to get going. The children will be home any time now.” She pulled herself out of the lounge chair with a loud huff. “Muriel will share my copy, but the rest of you owe me a dime each.”
And with that, the meeting was over. Muriel gave her a secret smile as Barb made her way out the door.
They finished The Women of West Hollywood, and even Harper had to admit it had been exciting to read about the forbidden nature of the story. They read and discussed two more and were reviewing the third today. They still hadn’t stumbled across any of Barb’s titles, and she was thankful for that. She had no idea how she would react to reading and discussing something she wrote without actually letting anyone know she was the author. It was all far too complicated.
Muriel continued to attend with Abby, and with each visit her flirtation grew bolder. The glances lasted longer, the smiles grew more heated, and the casual touches became increasingly less casual. As dangerous as it was, Barb couldn’t bring herself to put a stop to it.
Last week the meeting had been held at Betty’s house, and Muriel had slipped down the hall after Barb when she excused herself to powder her nose. Somewhere between Barb flushing the toilet and opening her makeup case, Muriel knocked lightly on the door. Bemused, Barb opened the door, and without preamble, Muriel had pulled Barb into her arms and kissed her. And Barb hadn’t been able to think of anything else since. At the moment, she couldn’t even remember the name of the book they were supposed to discuss today.
Once again the reading group was meeting at Barb’s house, and she was about halfway through a double batch of chocolate chip cookies.
“No coconut cake this time?” Muriel leaned casually against the backdoor frame, her legs crossed at the ankles and her arms folded over her chest. She looked Barb up and down, her gaze lingering on Barb’s hips and breasts.
Barb blushed harder than a mere glance should ever warrant. To distract herself, she turned and opened the oven. “Not today.”
Muriel apparently took the open oven as an invitation to come into the kitchen. She stood far too close, placed her hand lightly on the small of Barb’s back, and bent to look in the oven with her. “Mmm, looks good.”
Her touch ignited a fire in Barb that radiated out from the point of contact. Barb closed her eyes and forced herself to take a long, slow breath. This was neither the time nor the place for her libido to remind her exactly how long it had been since she’d felt that kind of heat low in her belly. A shudder ran through her, despite her best effort to contain it. She sidestepped away from Muriel and closed the oven.
“You’re here alone? Where’s Abby?” Barb’s brain was flooded with too much…everything. She wanted to do too many contradictory things all at once, and it was a miracle that she managed to even say those few short sentences.
Muriel smiled, one eyebrow arched. “One of her boys is home sick from school. I thought she called.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Barb remembered now. That left her alone with Muriel for the next—she glanced at the wall clock—nuts, twenty minutes at least. Muriel was early, and Harper and Betty were almost always late. “Well, it’s nice that you could make it.”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
She stepped closer again, and Barb took a step back. “How’s the job search?”
Muriel took another step toward Barb, close enough that she could brush the back of her knuckles softly over Barb’s cheek.
Barb’s eyes slipped shut, and she sighed. This was far too dangerous, and, God help her, she was too overcome to stop it.
“It’s not going well at all. It’s been over five years since the war ended, and employers still use the excuse of putting ‘the boys’ back to work. It’s infuriating.”
Barb turned her face ever so slightly and pressed a kiss to Muriel’s palm. She was tired of pretending and, just for a moment, allowed herself to enjoy the nearness of Muriel’s body to her own. “What will you do?”
They’d had this conversation before. Muriel resented that she might have to settle for something well beneath her education, and Barb encouraged her to take any job she could find. There wasn’t a lot to choose from for young women these days.
“I may expand my search, look at other areas.”
This was news to Barb. Until now, Muriel had been unwilling to discuss anywhere that wasn’t New York City.
“Other cities?”
Muriel nodded and took another step forward. “Other cities, other states, even other countries if I have to.”
Two more steps and Muriel was pressed flush against her front with the cabinets to her back. Muriel placed her hand easily on Barb’s waist, and Barb reached behind herself to grip the counter. The heat of Muriel’s body against hers burned every thought right out of her head. All she could concentrate on was the perfect fit of their curves and the warm puff of Muriel’s breath on her cheek.
“Is this okay?” Muriel asked as she leaned in close enough to brush her lips against Barb’s.
Barb nodded and let her eyes close. Muriel’s mouth was soft and delicate as she kissed Barb, and they continued like that long enough for Barb to lose track of time. She stayed wrapped up in Muriel and surrendered herself to the press of her lips and the faint mint flavor when she slipped her tongue into Barb’s mouth. It was wonderful…overwhelming…
Muriel cupped the back of Barb’s neck, her fingers smooth and firm as she held Barb still and deepened the kiss.
A moan rose from somewhere deep inside her, sounding wanton even to Barb’s own ears.
“God, you are amazing,” Muriel murmured without fully breaking the kiss.
The oven timer dinged, loud and impossible to ignore. For the life of her, Barb couldn’t remember why the oven was on in the first place.
Muriel loosened her grip and took a step back.
Barb felt the loss acutely. She reached out to M
uriel, eager to renew their embrace.
“The cookies.” Muriel smiled. Her perfect lipstick was smudged, visible evidence of what had just happened between them.
While Barb removed the cooking sheet from the oven, Muriel slipped out of the room. When she returned, her makeup was pin-up perfect again. The flush of heat in Barb had settled to a low, easy simmer—still there, but not overwhelming. Barb excused herself to check her own makeup in the mirror. As she suspected, she was a bigger wreck than Muriel. Her lipstick had smeared, along with Muriel’s shade at her temple, a bit on her jaw, lower still on her neck, and a perfect lip mark in the open V between her lapels, just above her cleavage.
The next week, Barb picked up a new magazine while standing in the checkout line at the grocer. This one featured tips on home decorating, along with a few recipes. Not that she needed help in the kitchen. She’d learned all she wanted, plus a whole lot more from her mother.
But, between the articles, this magazine contained information about new housing developments, some as far away as California. The homes she could afford were nothing as nice as the one she lived in with Richard, but they all held the universal appeal of not including him.
She settled on the couch with the magazine, a thick black marker, and a sandwich. Richard said he planned to “work” late tonight, so she didn’t see any reason to bother with a big meal when a sandwich would do the trick.
Headlights cast a zigzag slash of light through the front window as a car pulled into the drive, followed by the low rumble of the garage door opener. Richard was home, and it was only half past seven. Odd.
