by Heidi Lowe
I had every right to my frustration. Every right to tell her how Clara had treated me, how she'd made me feel. But in that moment, I looked at Jean and realized I didn't want to fight; I didn't want to hurt her. I was overreacting. Clara's words could have been innocuous, just her making smalltalk and trying to connect with me. Things got lost in translation all the time. Telling Jean about the conversation would have only caused unnecessary strife.
So I did what any good partner would. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. It's fine that you told her. I'm just in a bad mood."
Her expression betrayed her doubt, but she let me kiss it all away, and within minutes all was forgotten, including my book, as we canoodled with each other. That was much more fun than fighting.
I resolved to give Clara the benefit of the doubt and forget what she said. For Jean's sake.
THIRTY
She came from a long line of cold, austere women, who were unwilling (or unable) to show love to their nearest and dearest. From her mother, to her grandmother, to her great-grandmother (a woman who had lived to one hundred and five), the sullenness seemed to increase with every generation. She'd experienced it firsthand – the lack of kind words exchanged, the constant, thinly-veiled insults, the inability to give hugs. All through her childhood, she'd questioned why any of them had decided to reproduce! Her father was no better.
So naturally, when Jean fell pregnant, the decision as to whether or not she would raise her child herself had been predestined by genetics, long before she was born. Even if the good Posey name had not been in jeopardy, she still would have given her child up. She saw no way around her genetics; if all the women who had come before her were heartless, the odds that she was the anomaly were slim.
It was only when she arrived at Clara's motel room, having realized who she was, that Jean doubted the decision she'd made all those years ago. For the first time in thirty-four years. Because what she'd felt upon seeing her, upon wrapping her in the tightest hug, was inexplicable. The feeling clutched onto her heart and never let it go, not that evening, nor any subsequent evening since meeting her.
Clara had all of the pictures, the stories, the timelines – proof of her identity, but Jean didn't need any of that to tell her who she was. She'd loved her the moment she saw her in the gallery, she knew that now. Loved her instantly, like only a mother could. And she would have loved her just as much if she'd raised her. Because she wasn't like her mother, her grandmother, or her great-grandmother; she was the anomaly. And she'd wasted so much precious time.
Now, she would put that right.
"I think there's still another bag in the trunk," Clara said in French one evening. In her hands were half a dozen overflowing bags from some of the top designer labels in the world.
Jean, laden with bags herself, went back for the solitary one in the trunk, a Prada bag containing a pair of shoes she would never have worn herself, but Clara seemed to love.
Neither of them could fish out their keys, so laughing, Clara pressed the bell with her chin. They were still chuckling when Lissa opened the door for them. Her expression said everything when her eyes landed on the bags. Without breathing a word, she stepped aside and let them in. Jean didn't notice the expression, nor the disappointment in her eyes. It hadn't even crossed her mind to invite her with them on their shopping spree.
The two women and their bounty headed for the lounge, Lissa following grimly behind them.
"I didn't think the shops would still be open this late," Lissa remarked, taking a seat on the arm of the couch.
"They aren't usually, but Jean got them to keep the department store open just for us," Clara said, beaming as she ruffled through her bags, pulling out outfit after outfit.
"The owner is an old acquaintance of mine," Jean said with a modest air. "I simply gave him a call, and he asked the manager to stay a little later while we shopped. That's all."
"It was very impressive. I don't think the manager was very happy," Clara said with a laugh.
Lissa failed to see the humorous side. "I'm not surprised. I would be pretty pissed off too if I was forced to work overtime."
Clara waved a dismissive hand at her. "It's fine, we gave him a big tip."
Lissa snorted a laugh. "You did? Not Jean?"
"Honey, that's enough." Jean's voice was firm as she shot her a warning look. Lissa put up her hands in reluctant surrender. She'd been making little comments like this for two weeks, since Clara had come to stay with them and Jean had started splashing the cash on her. This surprised Jean, who had never known Lissa to care about her money.
She was too occupied with silently scolding her girlfriend, and missed the look her daughter was giving Lissa. Even if she had seen it, however, she probably wouldn't have understood it. And had she understood it, she wouldn't have believed it. Because a look like that, calculating and chilling in its harshness, had no foundation; could only have been reserved for an enemy.
Jean reached into one of the bags at her feet. "I bought you something, too." It was her way of trying to ease the tension.
"I didn't want anything," Lissa said.
Jean pulled out a fancy-looking, multicolored scarf and handed it to her. When Lissa turned it over in her hand she saw the Vivienne Westwood signature scrawled on it.
"Do you like it? I wasn't sure if you would or not. We can take it back if you don't."
"It's beautiful, thank you, but you shouldn't have..." She caught a glimpse of the price tag, and her eyes looked as if they would pop out of their sockets. "Two hundred and fifty dollars! For a scarf?"
Jean laughed. "It's only money. I like buying you things..." She turned to Clara. "Both of you."
"Did you buy anything for yourself at least?" Lissa asked.
"A scarf similar to yours. That's all I wanted."
Lissa nodded knowingly, then shot Clara a look, sizing her up. "So all of this stuff is yours, right?" Her smile was as huge as it was false. "Wow. You'll need a third and fourth case when you fly back home."
The laugh Clara offered in return had an edge to it that only Lissa identified. Jean, as usual, was oblivious.
She hadn't heard Lissa leave the house, and she hadn't said she was going out. So why couldn't she find her anywhere? Why had she checked every room and come up trumps?
Their bed, where Lissa usually waited for her after a long night, was empty. So was the lair and her studio. Where else could she be?
Since turning, she'd been unable to feel her the way she once had. But she could still sense her presence close by. She was near. Only when she peered out of the bedroom window and noticed that a full, yellow moon hung in the sky, did she realize that there was one place she hadn't checked.
The night was warm, the sky decorated with stars. The sound of crickets chirping gave a serene melody to a quiet night. She stepped barefoot onto the perfectly cut grass of her vast backyard, and slowly approached Lissa, who lay on her back, hands beneath her head, peering up at the moon.
It terrified Jean to see her like this; but, she reasoned, it would have terrified her even more to see her in her true form. She knew that Lissa's connection to the moon – to her other nature – would always be present, but seeing her out there made everything real.
"Lissa," she called quietly, unsure of how she would be received.
The girl didn't move, and made no indication that she'd heard her speak.
"Lissa," she said again.
Finally she sat up, turned to look at her with hostile eyes. "What are you doing out here?"
"May I sit with you?"
No answer. So Jean took a seat beside her. The scathing look she received for doing so didn't deter her. She knew this was the Were inside Lissa acting out; she no longer took it personally.
"What did you come out here for?"
"To be with you," Jean answered simply. "What did you come out here for?"
"To be away from you."
Okay, so she wasn't entirely impervious to her words,
but knowing the cause of them alleviated most of the pain. Her only recourse was to wait it out and shower Lissa with love until the spell wore off. Neither of them knew how long it would last at any given time.
She stretched her legs out. The air felt good on her feet. There was something calming about sitting in nature in the dark, among the stars. Maybe she would do this with her more often, in a bid to connect.
"It's nice out here," she said.
Lissa tutted. "It was until you came. Why won't you just leave me alone?"
"Because I love you, and when people love each other, they want to spend every moment together."
In her heart of hearts, though she knew it was impossible, she hoped that both sides of Lissa would come to love her. One already did; the Were never would. But up until recently she hadn't believed a hybrid was possible, yet here she was sitting beside one. She had all the time in the world, and enough love to give to make it happen.
She thought she heard a window open behind them, but when she turned around, she couldn't see anything. Both Clara and Sandra should have been asleep.
"What do you know about love? You can't love, you're incapable of it."
It was as if she'd taken those words right out of the werewolf handbook. A common misconception about their race; most people believed vampires had the inability to love. Sometimes she wished it were true, because it would have saved her a lot of heartache.
"And what about you? Are you capable of loving?"
A beat of silence, then Lissa looked at her. Gone were the scathing eyes, the hatred. Gone, at least for now, was the werewolf. Lissa edged closer to her, so close their thighs were touching, and rested her head on Jean's shoulder. Jean put an arm around her.
"Do you remember any of what you just said to me?" Jean asked.
"Yes," Lissa said in a small voice more like her own. "But I don't know why I said it. I don't mean it. I love you, you know that."
Jean kissed her on the forehead and held her closer, still unable to tell her the truth.
THIRTY-ONE
Rosie could sell ice to Eskimos; sell fire in hell. The girl just had a knack for closing a deal, and I honestly didn't know what I would have done without her. She ran the gallery during the day, came in on her days off, and was never in a bad mood.
As she buttered up the extremely fastidious artist on the phone, convincing him to let us display a couple of his pieces, I stood in front of her crossing my fingers and silently begging the gods. His pieces had the sort of outlandish, bizarre Picasso-esque style the gallery lacked.
It was approaching half eight, and Rosie's shift had been over for almost half an hour. Dedication.
"Oh, that's great! You won't regret it. If you swing by tomorrow afternoon, I'll have a contract ready for you."
"You did it!" I said as we embraced, laughing victoriously and jumping up and down. "I told you you would."
This was how we always celebrated a closed deal, like kids in the playground. Being the boss and proprietor of my own gallery clearly hadn't matured me much.
"You could have done it quicker," she said modestly.
"Yeah, right. You know I have no charisma when it comes to these things."
She already had her jacket on, and she collected her purse from behind the counter. "You coming?"
"No, I'm waiting for Jean. She's picking me up."
We said our farewells and she left for the night. About five minutes later, while I was at the computer, the gallery door opened. I expected to see Jean when I looked up, and for a split second I thought it was her.
"Where's Jean?" I asked, the excitement I once felt at seeing my girlfriend vanishing.
"Waiting in the car," Clara said. "She's on the phone. I said I would get you."
I narrowed my eyes at her, finding nothing friendly or genuine about her smile. While I closed down the computer and packed my things away, she did a lap of the gallery, hands in the pockets of her long, black coat, heels clicking rather ominously against the tiles. But she wasn't looking at the art, it was the building itself that intrigued her.
"So this is what you get for being the girlfriend," she said. "And you had a problem with her buying me some clothes yesterday?"
"I didn't ask her to buy anything for me," I said, folding my arms. Although clothes weren't the only things Jean had paid for, my argument still fell flat when you considered the gallery. I didn't know how much Jean had paid for it, but it cost a lot more than she'd spent on Clara.
"Oh, so you have a problem with her paying her grandchildren's school fees?"
"That's not what I said!"
She stopped at the counter, gave me a cursory look that made me feel two inches tall, then laughed. "Perhaps the concept of mothers spoiling their daughters is new to you. You don't have a mother, so you wouldn't understand."
There was just something about Clara's words that stung me more than anyone else's ever had. They penetrated my core, causing more sorrow than anger. It had everything to do with her position in Jean's life. Robyn had called me every name under the sun, but she'd never succeeded in making me feel this bad.
"Shut up," I said, my nose tickling, my vision blurring slightly. Please don't let me cry in front of this bitch! I said to myself.
"Je suis désolé," she said. That was her thing, apologizing in French, and smiling while she said it. She didn't mean a word of it. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"Yes you did." It took all my might not to reach over the counter and choke the life out of her. With no effort at all I would be rid of her. But I didn't do it for the same reason that I didn't give her verbal abuse: she was Jean's daughter, and I feared she would take her side.
"I merely want to point out that I'm here now, you don't have to play the surrogate daughter anymore."
Everything she said was designed to get a rise out of me, possibly even to provoke me into attacking her so Jean would turn on me. I knew that. Yet, her words did strike a chord. Had I really been playing the surrogate daughter role this whole time, as a substitute for her real one? She'd been my protector, my savior, my financier, the one I ran to when I needed to be comforted.
It was too painful to think about. Too sickening.
"She's never seen me that way. I'm her life partner." My words came out as weak as I felt.
She laughed. "Of course. I do wonder how long that will last. After the way you spoke to her last night in the garden, I wouldn't imagine you'll be around for long."
"You–" I started, hand clenched into a fist. But Jean's arrival cut me off.
"Is everything all right in here?" She looked from me to Clara, then her concerned eyes remained on me, on my clenched fist. "Lissa?"
"Everything's fine," I mumbled.
I sulked all the way to Island Delight, and made very little effort with the conversation. Being seated in the back like a child while Clara rode up front with Jean also didn't help my mood. I decided then that when we got home, I would tell Jean everything. About all the other snide little comments Clara had made about me, about my orphan status, about our relationship. I'd kept shtum in order to protect Jean, but I could no longer hold my peace.
First I would have to endure a meal with my wicked stepdaughter.
Nadine and Robyn were the only people in the restaurant when we arrived. Not only hadn't I expected it to be bare, the sight of Robyn and Nadine in the same room again came as a shock. What was that about? Robyn even smiled at us, though it could have been fake; it was hard to tell. Were they back together? Jean hadn't mentioned anything.
Jean introduced Clara to Nadine, making sure to put emphasis on their familial connection. I fought back the urge to roll my eyes. How proud would she be when she realized what a bitch her daughter was?
It didn't take long for me to regret coming. Even before the meals arrived, misery had claimed my mood. Listening to Clara's tales of her childhood in France, and watching everyone, Robyn included, become enchanted by them, in awe of her, depressed me. All of a s
udden her English vocabulary failed her, and Jean had to help her out, playing the good mother. Why couldn't anyone else see the con game she was running?
"This is divine," Clara said of the food, as she scoffed down her meal. "I would love to be able to make this. A restaurant like this would do very well in my city."
"You said you're a chef," Nadine said, always cheerful. "Did you ever think about running your own restaurant?"
"I've suggested it before," Jean spoke for her. She was sitting between me and Clara. "Now that the children are older, she definitely has the time to open one."
Clara laughed with false modesty. "I could never afford it."
"Money won't be an issue," Jean said, just as I knew she would. Just as Clara knew she would. If I got a gallery, it was only right that she got a restaurant. Couldn't have me getting so much. After all, I was just the girlfriend.
Luckily, I wasn't the only one who heard alarm bells going off. From across the table, Robyn shot me a look. As the person who handled Jean's money and business affairs, she had every reason to be concerned.
"I will have to think about it," Clara said. I was certain she had thought extensively about it, and already had a location in mind. Probably even had the color scheme picked out.
This was a special kind of hell. Firstly, having to sit through a meal, unable to eat any of the delicious-smelling food; and secondly, pretending as though I was enjoying myself.
It was only when the three desserts came, and Clara and Nadine were chewing the fat over the best spots in France to visit before Paris, that Jean finally noticed I hadn't said much since we'd left the gallery.
She stroked my cheek with the back of her hand, her eyes soft. "Darling, why so quiet? Is everything all right?"
I forced a smile. I'd had to do that a lot lately. "Yep." And because I couldn't bear to look at her without wanting to bawl my eyes out, I excused myself and went to the restroom.
I threw cold water on my face. For some reason the chill of it calmed me. The window was ajar, but too small for me to climb out and flee. I would have had some explaining to do when Jean got home, but at least I would have been out of there.
