Suddenly they were doing much, much more in the middle of the dance floor. And Amanda had thought again about how much they had had to drink and whether she ought to consider giving up margaritas for a very long time. That thought was banished by the taste of salt and sweet lemon on Clancy’s tongue. It was fused with the soft, insistent exploration of her lips and Amanda heard her own yearning as she opened her mouth without hesitation to the probing kiss. Clancy’s gentleness was also commanding and the sensation of strength and an unyielding demand on her body turned Amanda’s knees to liquid fire. She wrapped her arms tightly around Clancy’s neck and gave herself up to the unique and luscious feeling of being in the power of something she had never before experienced.
As the song began its slow fade Amanda and Clancy finally drew apart and looked at each other like two people who had found an enchanted glade in the midst of a war zone. It was clear to anyone watching that what had just happened was the last thing either had expected. Clancy’s eyes were slightly unfocused and glazed and she blinked at Amanda even as Amanda made a conscious effort to see her partner through the dizzying waves of craving that were surging through her. Clancy laced her fingers through Amanda’s and they stood looking at each other in bemusement. Neither seemed inclined to move even as dancers left the floor and were replaced by others who whooped and hollered and wanted to bop and bounce to the next song.
Clancy perceptibly shivered and asked, finally, “Shall we get a drink? I don’t want to dance to this.”
Amanda looked about the floor and frowned and shook her head. “No, me either. Let’s find Malcolm.” Clancy turned toward the bar and Amanda followed, conscious of the strong fingers that still clasped her own.
“What you having?” Malcolm mouthed through the peppy beat of the music and clamor of voices. He moved to one side and let his sister slide into the space at the bar, with Amanda close beside her. “You two can really dance. Together. I’ve been watching you.” His timing was perfect and his eyes sparkled with mischief and pleasure, especially as his sister and friend chorused, simultaneously: “She’s really good.”
The three laughed and Malcolm nodded. “That was obvious. Just as well Natalie isn’t here.”
Amanda’s stomach turned into a cold knot as Clancy shook her hand free and recoiled, her blue eyes turning to the forbidding, freezing gray once again.
“What’s Natalie got to do with anything?” She said hotly, her eyes bullet hole black pinpoints as she tried to shoot her laughing friend dead. “You know we don’t have that kind of relationship, Mal.”
“Really?” Clancy’s tone was sharp as an icepick. “What kind of relationship do you have, then?”
Amanda opened her mouth to explain, but no words came out. The ice of Clancy’s gaze trapped her and her blood curdled. She shook her head instead, wanting to plead with Clancy that she should not look at her like that. Still no words came out.
Clancy took a deep breath and dismissed Amanda. “Too much to drink,” she muttered, her expression tight and unsmiling. “It was just silly.” She turned away, leaving Amanda abandoned with her heart lurching in confusion and embarrassment. For a moment she stood, nonplussed, but Clancy seemed interested only in her glass and did not look up as her words hung in the air between them.
“I’m going to the restroom. Malcolm, Clancy—excuse me.” But Clancy’s rigid back neither acknowledged nor excused her.
* * *
Although she had hoped for a respite from the conflicting feelings that were surging through her, the restroom turned out to be another bad idea; and Amanda realized it the moment she pushed open the door. In the multicolored glow of a Tiffany lamp she saw a woman backed up against the wall at the far end of the room; her pants around her ankles and another woman kneeling in front of her, face deep and thrusting into her partner’s crotch.
“Don’t mind us,” gasped the woman whose mouth wasn’t full and she grabbed her lover’s temporarily distracted head and pushed herself harder onto the willing tongue, moaning ecstatically. Amanda waved and said, “Go right ahead,” and dived into the first cubicle, bolted the door and leaned against it with her eyes closed. But the sounds from the two women weren’t so easily ignored and to her dismay, after a moment or two of reluctant but fascinated listening, her own traitorous body—still palpably throbbing from the dance floor—began to respond anew to the audible pleasure on the other side of the door.
“I must get out of here,” she muttered. “But I have to pee. Oh God.” She unhitched her belt, unzipped her pants and felt the wetness of arousal in her boxers. She crouched on trembling legs and let go as sounds of imminent orgasm filled her ears. She propped herself against the walls of the cubicle with her elbows and hungrily listened to how good it was on the receiving end of that tongue. She thought of Clancy and wondered how they had managed, in the space of three minutes, to make the leap from sworn enemies to that sweet, sensuous kiss and all the way back again. It made no sense, but she knew—even as she tried to deny it—that the two strangers were echoing the way Clancy’s touch made her feel. And so she stayed in the cubicle and listened until the sounds subsided to panting aftermath and hushed giggles. Amanda carefully put herself back together and coughed loudly, pressed the flush button and rattled the bolt before opening the door. She peered out cautiously, straight into the mirror and the reflected eyes of the woman who was not the one whose moans were still ringing in her ears. This one’s face she didn’t recognize, but her tousled spiky black hair and wet mouth and chin gave it away. Amanda looked about, but there was no one else in the restroom.
“Hi,” said the stranger. “Hope you didn’t mind.” She bent and sluiced the lower part of her face with a handful of water, spat and looked up into Amanda’s eyes again. She had a wicked smile; a nice wicked smile.
“No, course not—it’s a free country,” Amanda said lamely and pumped liquid soap into her palm, then stared at the glistening translucent blob before getting the giggles herself. “Well, actually it’s not, I don’t think—not for that kind of, um, recreational activity anyway. But this isn’t really public is it?” She began vigorously rubbing her palms together and shut her mouth to stop it babbling. It was getting to be a bad habit.
“True,” said the stranger. “Nearly forty years on and the zipless fuck is still a scandal, yeah?”
“I beg your pardon?” Amanda rinsed her hands as the stranger’s eyes twinkled at her in the mirror.
“Erica Jong. Fear of Flying. The zipless fuck—you know?”
“Oh! Right, my mom has a copy but I’ve never…ah…”
“Never what? Read it or done it?” The stranger’s eyes were all over Amanda, appraising her body. Amanda felt herself blushing and smiling weakly into the dark brown eyes; the heat and tingling from her slow dance with Clancy still stirring deep inside. The stranger pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and dabbed her hands and chin. “You don’t know what you’re missing. You should try it some night. I’d be happy to show you.” She dropped the crumpled towel in a bin and with a spicy grin she was gone.
Amanda let the cold water run over her wrists and stood staring at her reflection in the mirror, wondering about life’s strange twists and turns. Three laughing women clattered into the restroom on perilously high stilettos and Amanda grinned at their smiling reflections as they disappeared together into the end cubicle. Whether it was coke or a threesome, Amanda couldn’t tell and anyway, it was all too much for one evening. She took a slow deep breath and gathered herself to return to the bar. She hoped her own pulse had slowed sufficiently so that she could look Clancy in the eye and try to salvage some kind of dignity and the evening. At the same time, what she wanted more than anything else was to feel that soft, full mouth on her own and to press herself once more against the long body—even though, she acknowledged to herself, Clancy was the most arrogant, annoying woman she had ever met and now obviously thought Malcolm’s best friend was some kind of frivolous, feckless flirt. It was a bizar
re jumble of feelings that swirled around inside her head and heart and Amanda was puzzled and disturbed by the sensation.
As she approached Malcolm and Clancy through the crowd she saw them, heads together, in urgent conversation. Clancy was stony-faced and Malcolm seemed to be trying to placate her but whatever he was saying wasn’t working and apprehension dropped into the pit of Amanda’s stomach. She threaded through the revelers and stopped in front of the Darling siblings.
“Here I am,” she said brightly. “Are we having that drink?”
Malcolm’s attempt at a smile was not successful. “Um, I think Clancy is feeling tired,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “She wants to go back to the hotel, so I’ll take her. What do you want to do?”
“I thought we were celebrating,” Amanda said too brightly as she grinned at Clancy. Clancy glanced down at her watch and didn’t return the grin.
“Okay, so the evening’s over,” Amanda had said, trying to remain chirpy even as her spirits sank. “Well, don’t worry about a thing, Mal, I’ll get myself home and you take care of your sister.”
Amanda sighed now at the memory. Clancy had bid her a glacial good night and Malcolm had awkwardly kissed her cheek and muttered, “I’ll call you tomorrow about the weekend.” And they were gone, leaving Amanda grappling with an odd mix of feelings that included arousal and annoyance.
Now, the idea of meeting Clancy—on her home territory—was partly alarming, partly alluring, and partly made Amanda bristle with antagonism. It was a surreal combination of feelings and she hadn’t even begun to examine the memory file labeled “Weekend at Heron Creek.” She shivered and continued walking until the immensity of St. John the Divine Cathedral loomed in her path. It was about then that she realized the cute and sexy ankle boots were going to cripple her if she went much further. Instead she climbed the steps into the great cathedral and found herself a quiet pew. She sat and let the benign atmosphere settle around her as her eyes wandered over the soaring roof, stonework, the altars and statuary. Somewhere close by she could hear the “chink-chink-chink” of a mason’s chisel on stone and from across the nave in a side chapel came the sound of women’s voices speaking Spanish.
She breathed in the dry, slightly musty air of the great building and savored the pleasure of feeling her shoulders relax and the lingering headache grudgingly retreat even further.
Chapter Seven
Eleanor McIntyre’s rambling clapboard mansion that she ran as an old-fashioned country inn had always been popular with Amanda’s friends. Officially known as Heron Creek, it had a thrillingly creepy attic they had played in as kids on rainy days and in summer, out in the cool grass between the gnarled apple and plum trees. Winter meant skating on the pond and toffee apples in the kitchen, warming hands and frozen noses beside the range. It had been years before Amanda realized how hard her mother worked, how tough were their economic circumstances and how lucky she had been. By then she was at Yale and a school friend had stirred half-forgotten memories by reminiscing about the fun times.
“I remember being so disappointed when my parents insisted I go with them to Gstaad and I couldn’t invite you,” Melanie had sighed. “It was so fun at your house. I loved Eleanor.”
Amanda frowned, puzzled. “Why couldn’t you invite me?” she asked as Melanie lay across her bed, swinging her crossed feet in the air.
“Oh, you know how it was.” Melanie tossed back her long dark hair and peered up at Amanda, sighing an exaggerated sigh. “Eleanor couldn’t afford the airfare and Daddy wouldn’t pay.” She made rabbit ears with her fingers as she continued, “Like ‘on principle.’ It was so silly, just because Eleanor’s a liberal. I mean—duh.” She slapped one hand to her forehead and giggled.
It was the last time Amanda had invited Melanie to visit with her and they soon drifted apart. It was also when Amanda had resolved that she would never again be anyone’s poor friend, nor ostracized because of the wrong politics. But as much as she had secretly adored Bill Clinton and couldn’t bear George W. Bush, it meant her political involvement at college had been zero and she had never voted. It was yet more argument material with Eleanor; a lifelong registered Democrat and rusted onto the Clintons—Bill and then Hillary—“like a barnacle on a tugboat’s butt” as Eleanor had put it one memorable time.
Amanda smiled, recalling Eleanor’s rare venture into raffish language, and the pew creaked as she sat back, remembering how Malcolm, Ted and Clancy had roared with laughter when Eleanor made that announcement as they sat around the kitchen table late on a Saturday morning.
“Well it’s true,” Eleanor said defiantly, wielding the French blue enamel coffeepot like a medieval weapon. “I loved Bill, despite his, well…you know…and I just know Hillary will make a wonderful president.” She paused to carefully aim the spout at the mug in Clancy’s outstretched hand, and then continued, “I just wish I didn’t have to decide between her and Barack. Although I think he’s a bit young, he could wait.”
“I agree,” said Ted. “It’s a helluva thing: we get a real black candidate, a real female candidate and we get ’em together! I mean how cruel can it be? Imagine how my momma’s feeling!”
The laughter around the table was interspersed with groans that stopped on a dime when Amanda said, “If I get the chance I’m voting for Hillary.”
Eleanor turned and fixed wide brown eyes on her daughter; her mouth was a perfect O of delighted surprise. Malcolm whooped and high-fived with Ted while Clancy sipped her coffee, her calm gray eyes studying Amanda over the rim of the mug. Amanda felt her chin lifting in defiance at the so deliberate appraisal and the boys’ jubilant laughter; then, as if that were not enough, Clancy aimed a deliberate, slow wink at her that nobody else could see. The blush that rose from Amanda’s neck to her cheeks was provoked by irritation, but nevertheless, her treacherous heart turned a somersault. For such a mean bitch, Clancy was unfairly attractive and could be maddeningly charming.
After breakfast and more teasing about her apparent change of political allegiance, Amanda followed the boys out to the back porch. They sat in the sun on the steps to watch Eleanor’s kitchen garden grow. It was a warm May day, birds chirped and bees buzzed. Clancy had stayed behind to help Eleanor clean up and Amanda could hear their animated voices and intermittent laughter but not what they were saying. It was obvious that Eleanor and Clancy liked each other. Amanda sighed and stretched, trying to dismiss the feeling of being left out. She turned her face up to the sun, partly listening to Malcolm and Ted, partly trying to work out what was being said in the kitchen. When Malcolm nudged her for failing to answer a question she gave up eavesdropping and focused her full attention on the two men who wanted to know where the fishing rods were stowed. When they went off to the river with rods and a package of bread dough and ground beef donated by Eleanor, along with the advice that they would catch nothing, Amanda returned to the porch and the swing seat. She stretched full length and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the laughter that erupted intermittently from the kitchen.
It was three days since Clancy and Amanda had shared the dance and the kiss and the tortured end to the evening. To Amanda’s surprise Clancy had not tried to pull out of the Connecticut weekend. And, after a halfhearted attempt to tell Eleanor that she was too busy to come up, for which Eleanor had given her the sharp end of her tongue, Amanda met the other three at Grand Central for the train ride north.
She and Clancy had been polite in the way of distant acquaintances. It had thrown Amanda that this handsome, self-possessed woman could sit opposite her and exchange pleasantries while Amanda could only stare at the way the intimately familiar lips moved as she spoke. Finally Amanda had pretended to fall asleep on Ted’s shoulder rather than suffer any longer the burning sensation that flared between her legs every time Clancy smiled. Snuggled in the sun, rocking quietly on her mother’s veranda, Amanda remembered the infuriating sensation only too well; she wriggled and pulled the crotch of her jeans lower. At the same time
another part remembered how not infuriating Clancy had been the previous evening when, at Eleanor’s insistence, Amanda had walked their guest around the garden and down to the river.
“This is what I’ve always imagined New England to be like,” Clancy had said as they strolled along the path between the raised kitchen garden beds. Twilight wasn’t quite ready yet to descend. A clear sky retained the luminous reminder of the sun and haloed Clancy’s head in subtle light.
“It’s pretty classic, isn’t it?” Amanda looked back at the rambling clapboard mansion, its two floors, gables and verandas cast in many shadows and planes; the windows glowing gold and welcoming. “You should see it in summer. Mom’s kitchen garden is famous in these parts. What started out as necessity is now one of her visitor attractions.”
“I bet.” They walked on in silence while Amanda tried to be less aware of Clancy’s perfume.
“The house was built by a ship’s captain for his wife and daughters, early 1800s,” Amanda said suddenly, relieved at hitting on a reliable topic. “But he was lost at sea and they fell on hard times. A bit like Mom really. They both looked after their kids by taking in paying guests. Funny isn’t it?”
“Resourceful women,” Clancy remarked. “So many resourceful women.”
They reached the white-painted hexagonal gazebo; a pale lilac wisteria softened its geometric structure and it stood on a small bluff above the water meadow and the river. Clancy sat on the bench seating that ran around five of its sides. She rested her folded arms on the railing, propped her chin on her arms and looked out at the ink-dark water. “I wonder how often she came out here when the day was done. It’s so peaceful.”
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