Christabel

by Karin Kallmaker

  George Berkeley was a master at glad-handing. He worked the crowd in the reception room off the banquet/show hall while Dina stayed within arm’s reach, grateful to let George’s ebullient personality do as much to sell the investment as her extensively detailed prospectus.

  They had nearly one hundred-percent commitment on the IPO, and sufficient institutional investors had signed on at the interest Dina had proposed. The public would never get a chance to buy the stock at the initial price, which was hardly uncommon. The new public corporation would run a full page ad thanking their new shareholders for their faith.

  Goranson wouldn’t thank anyone because he believed no one was to thank but him. Dina wished she didn’t hate him. Hating him made her head hurt and she felt tired whenever she thought about him. Which, of course, would please him. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of wasting her energy or time. But hate him she did—his manipulation of Christa was small and demeaning. How petty could he be, making sure that messages were lost and that they didn’t meet for a simple day at a museum? He didn’t love Christa himself, so his motives were a complete mystery.

  Now they had managed to make another date, and though she’d spent the last few months telling herself she’d imagined the things she’d seen in Christa’s eyes, she’d seen them again tonight. She was scared and excited and calling herself a fool and yet those inner voices kept urging her to hold nothing back with Christa and keep both eyes trained on Goranson.

  “Yes, this is Dina Rowland,” George was booming. “The newest partner at Berkeley and Holland.”

  Dina had to smile, and she let go of her preoccupation with Goranson. Her partnership had come through last week, on the heels of the Goranson prospectus being hand-delivered to the investors. George had known it would be a go. Even now Jeff probably had his feet up on Dina’s old desk, likewise rewarded for his hard work.

  “Tell them what my first act as a partner was,” Dina urged George.

  “Dina gave herself—get this—Saturday and Sunday off.”

  “And I’m going to do it this weekend, too.”

  She turned from the appreciative chuckles and shook hands with one of the textile representatives. She worked her way to the end of the room where Goranson, flanked by his models, was holding court. Christa was at his right hand. For a moment she was the wisp that Dina had first seen in the dim light of Goranson’s building. Then she solidified. God—she was beautiful.

  They were all still wearing the evening gowns from the finale. The man was a genius, Dina thought. The waist of Christa’s gown came in high on her ribs, giving her a Regency air without a whalebone corset. In the finale she had demonstrated a full range of motion, too, by playing catch with another model. The bodice swept over the peaks of her shoulders, leaving her arms bare above opera-length gloves. The cameo at her throat was the only distraction from the soft column of her neck and the generous curves below that made Dina weak in the knees.

  All of the models looked stunning. Their gowns were equally flattering to tummies, arms and thighs, though only Christa filled her gown so spectacularly. Dina told herself not to stare at Christa’s cleavage only to find her mind preoccupied with the full curve of Christa’s hips.

  “And there’s the woman of the hour!”

  Dina jumped slightly, having been too caught up in contemplating Christa to notice Goranson’s awareness of her.

  She found the composure to smile even as an inner voice whispered that failing to keep track of him was a mistake. “It was a long journey to this night. I’m glad we finally made it.” And I’m so glad I don’t have to work with you anymore.

  “Only because you were the harshest task master I’ve ever encountered. You made me behave myself.”

  Her right arm trembled, and she realized she wanted to bury her nails in his face. She felt positively savage, then stunned, by the rush of her rage. She tried to cover the brief vertigo that followed by gesturing at Christa. “What a lovely gown.”

  “For a beautiful woman,” Goranson added. He kissed Christa’s hand. Dina could not tell what Christa was thinking. “And speaking of which, Dina, you must let me fit you for a suit. I’ll do it personally. Your figure is like...Liza’s, I would say.” He gestured at the model on his left. “The suit she wore would be perfect for you, in your own size, of course. You’re considerably taller.”

  He made her height sound unnatural. Hell would freeze over before she wore any of his clothes and gave him any more opportunities to stare so indecently at her body. “And I’m a pound or two heavier.”

  “Don’t worry,” he soothed. “The design accommodates that, as long as it’s fitted properly.”

  “Leonard, I’m really tired. I think all of the girls are. After the flight yesterday...” Christa seemed cold to Dina, as if she didn’t care that Dina was there, quite the opposite of what her eyes had said in the dressing room. Then they’d shone like liquid amber. Now they were clouded.

  “Of course, my darling.”

  “I’m not in the least tired, Leonard.” Liza tucked her hand under his arm. “You know me. I can stay up all night.”

  “I know, dear girl, but Christa is right. You were all brilliant tonight, but tomorrow you’ve got to look well rested and fresh as bandboxes for the photographers. So off with you.”

  Liza looked daggers at Christa, who seemed oblivious to everything around her.

  “Everyone,” Goranson was saying. “One last show of appreciation for the women who made this evening possible. They are my inspiration.”

  Under the cover of the applause, he said to Dina, “Liza and the other girls will insist on at least one club before bed, so I’d be grateful if you’d see that Christa makes it safely back to the Omni. She is exhausted, and I don’t trust the night creatures in your fair city.”

  Dina wanted to retort childishly, “Takes one to know one,” but she only nodded. Once again Goranson seemed inordinately pleased with himself. Whatever his reasons were for keeping them apart in London he now consented to their being together. Did he understand that he couldn’t play his little games anymore? Dina was sure that was not the reason, and she resented feeling as if she had had to get his permission to see Christa.

  The models moved toward the banquet hall door. Christa said nonchalantly, “I’ll be about twenty minutes getting changed.”

  “I’ll meet you at the front door in twenty minutes then,” Dina answered.

  She turned back to the crowd, wanting to find George and say good night, but as she gazed over the crowd she found Goranson smirking at her. His grin widened when she was unable to hide her grimace of dislike.

  He knows, she thought abruptly, and turned away, not at all sure what it was she thought he knew. She hardly knew herself.

  Dina was kicking herself when she reached the front door of the hall and saw that the predicted summer storm had arrived. She had no umbrella as usual. Another suit jacket was going to get soaked.

  “I don’t have an umbrella either.”

  Dina lifted her gaze to Christa’s, aware that she was not hiding her thoughts. An umbrella was simply unimportant. All that mattered was that she was here.

  Christa said, in a low voice that brought heat to Dina’s ears, “I don’t care either.”

  In the formal gown Christa had been stunning, but in jeans and a thin cashmere camisole she made Dina break into a sweat. Her face was rosy and scrubbed free of the meticulous stage makeup, and her hair was down around her shoulders. She looked real, and was all the more terrifying.

  “Let’s try to find a cab. It shouldn’t be hard.” She pushed open the door and the heavy smell of wet sidewalk washed over her.

  “Do you suppose there’s some place open for dinner at this hour? Once again, I’m famished.”

  Dina glanced at her watch. Nearly midnight on a Friday. “I know a Thai place that’s open. Near my apartment.” She didn’t know why she added that bit of information.

  “That’s great. I don’t feel
like enduring the bustle of a restaurant anyway.”

  Dina gulped, unprepared for the concept of being alone with Christa in her apartment. Because there was no way it would just be dinner.

  There was a short queue of taxis anticipating people leaving the Fashion Center, so they were soon on their way uptown. Dina was so nervous she could hardly breathe.

  “It seems like a waste of time.” Christa seemed tentative. “We don’t have a lot...I mean, if you have anything to munch on at your place I’d be happy with that. We don’t have to get takeout.”

  “I have canned soup and half a baguette,” Dina said. “And orange juice.”

  Christa whispered, “It’s enough.”

  Dina gave the cab driver the new destination; they were almost there anyway. When they stood on the sidewalk, the aroma of roasting garlic wafted to them from the restaurant. “Are you sure you don’t want to get something more substantial? I owe you a dinner, remember?”

  “I’m sure. And I do remember...everything.”

  Dina set about making the soup the moment they were in the door, leaving Christa to wander through her tidy living room. Pedra had obviously been in during the day, and Dina was grateful the pile of dry cleaning was gone.

  “Is this your mother?”

  “Yes, those are all of her.” She dropped the saucepan, then the can opener.

  Christa was touching the collection of frames with gentle fingertips. “I remember you telling me she was beautiful. You were right.”

  “It wasn’t just that all daughters think their mothers are beautiful.” Dina tried to control her trembling, but orange juice splattered on the counter.

  “Not all daughters do, but you weren’t exaggerating. I feel as if I know her. As if I could tell her anything. All my secrets.”

  “She had that effect on people.”

  “You look just like her.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s still true.”

  Dina fumbled with the can opener, having no success. Her hands were shaking too much.

  Christa came to lean against the counter. Dina continued fumbling.

  “I just launched a multimillion dollar IPO, and I can’t open a can of soup.”

  Christa began to reach for the can opener, but smiled ruefully. “I ruin this manicure, and I’m a dead woman.”

  “So what do we do now?” Dina tried to smile lightly, but failed miserably.

  Christa seemed to shiver with cold, then she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Dina finally found the strength to look into Christa’s eyes.

  They were a storm, a roiling turmoil of darkness and fear. Dina wondered what it would take to bring warmth permanently into those eyes, to make Christa feel safe. “For what?” she repeated.

  “For this.”

  Christa cupped her face and her thumbs traced the outline of Dina’s lips. “And for this,” she murmured, as her fingertips brushed over Dina’s throat. “I can’t help myself.”

  “Neither can I.” Dina arched her neck, her body singing in response to Christa’s touch. Like in the vision she’d had, she felt whole and loved for the first time in her adult life.

  Christa’s sob brought her back to the present. They were not young, naive lovers. Christa was trembling with fear, and yet her hands still explored Dina’s shoulders and hair.

  “I could never hurt you,” Dina tried to assure her. She stilled Christa’s hands long enough to remove the braid clip and shake it loose. She rubbed her head against Christa’s hands.

  “I would never mean to hurt you,” Christa answered lowly. Her fingers were unraveling Dina’s braid. “And tomorrow doesn’t matter. Who knows how many tomorrows we have.”

  As many as you want, Dina promised in her heart. As many as I can make for you. She pulled Christa to her for the first of many long, hungry kisses. When kisses were no longer enough, Christa pushed her away and walked to the living room. In the dim light she pulled her camisole over her head and held out her hands.

  Dina went to her, let Christa put her hands on the lacy straps of her bra. She had already known what Christa’s skin would feel like, but really touching the smooth satin brought back every aspect of the vision—how she had loved that other Christabel and been loved in return.

  “Touch me everywhere,” Christa breathed.

  Dina promised with a kiss and where her fingers stroked, her mouth followed until their bodies stretched out on the rug, straining against each other. She trapped Christa under her and pressed her shoulders to the floor. Her languid kiss tasted deeply of promised passion.

  She did not believe in the vision, and yet she knew every tender and sensitive inch of Christa’s breasts, knew that gentle, persistent attentions with her teeth and tongue would release the long, crooning encouragement that filled her ears. Her fingers, equally gentle yet persistent, slipped into a welcome of soft fire.

  They were almost motionless. Dina had never made love to a woman this way before. Minute attention in near silence, completely focused on the hammering of Christa’s pulse. But she knew it would only be a few moments more...

  A few moments more...

  Christa convulsed, and Dina lost her balance for a moment. Dizziness welled up in her and she pulled the bear skin over them, drying Christabel’s tears, saying it was not the last time, they would be together again, she should not be afraid.

  In stereo, from within her vision and next to ear: “I can’t help it. I’m so frightened.”

  She gasped for breath as if she’d woken from a nightmare, but lost the sensation in a new flood of feelings as Christa pressed her down and unbuttoned her shirt.

  “But I have to do this. I’ve waited all my life to do this.”

  “Please.” Dina seized Christa’s hands and pulled them under her shirt. She arched her back and Christa struggled with the hooks. She gasped with surprise and anticipation when Christa swore and yanked her bra down. The straps bound her elbows to her sides as Christa caressed her breasts first with her cheek, then her lips, then her tongue.

  Christa’s urgency wasn’t particularly gentle, but Dina didn’t want it to be. She could feel more than her body joining with Christa. Invisible ties, like ribbons of light, were spiraling around them, fueled by passion and solidified by the gasping words that passed between them.

  “Now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Kiss me.”

  “Be in me.”

  “I love you.”

  “I will always love you.”

  There was a flash of light that Dina thought her imagination until the thunderclap several seconds later rattled the windows.

  They fell apart, both panting. In greater haste they grasped and pulled at their remaining clothing until they could twine bare arms and legs and start over.

  Christa swept her hair over Dina’s thighs. Dina had never felt something so sensuous before and yet it felt like the return of a treasured memory.

  She closed her eyes.

  Overhead starlight trickled through the full branches as the tree sighed in the wind.

  Chapter 11

  Christabel had never dreaded nightfall before, and never given much credence to the idea that evil walked abroad only when the moon rose. She believed it now. There was evil in the streets at night, lighting its way with dozens of torches.

  Three nights ago the mob had burned their second tavern, and dragged the publican to the stocks while his terrified family had watched. Bitsy Albright had recounted the events with fascinated horror and her exhilaration had been deeply unsettling. Through the lifted curtain Christabel watched tonight’s mob stream past their house. A gaggle of onlookers followed, mostly children and silly girls like Bitsy.

  “Chrissy!” Ma’s sharp call brought Christabel back to her work near the fire. “We don’t have time for that. If we can get this bit of piece work done we’ll not need so much charity from other folks.”

  She bent her head over the needle and thread
, and worried about the cup Ma kept almost constantly at her side. It was only ale, true, but it seemed that Ma was not quite herself and not because of the way they’d lost Pa. “There’s no more taverns left, Ma. Who do you think they’re after now?”

  “Troublemakers who ask too many questions.” Ma nodded at the lace in Christabel’s hands. “Keep the hem straight. I want to take this back to the tailor in the morning.”

  “What if the tailor is the one getting burned out?”

  Ma gave her a sour look. “Next you’ll be saying it’s the pewtersmith or blacksmith. Decent folk who do honest work have nothing to fear.”

  Recognizing one of Reverend Gorony’s favorite statements, Christabel thought it best not to answer. Every time she spoke of him the preacher would show up at the doorstep. He would always tell Ma he was there to see that they were doing well, but his eyes followed Christabel with indecent intent.

  Ma’s eyes began to droop and Christabel watched anxiously as her mother slipped into another ale-bidden sleep. There was a scream in the night—the mob couldn’t be far. She could see nothing from the window. Not knowing what was happening became unbearable.

  Pa’s cape covered her hair and form well enough. The noise of a large crowd was easy to trace, and she rounded a corner not five houses from her own home to see that they’d gathered around the Dawson’s cottage. Lord Berkeley had given them the summer to mend their ways and yet, it was true, waste and garbage stood deep in the street and the rats grew bold. Their house was a blight, but burning it down wasn’t right.

  There was an argument of some kind and Christabel made her way around the outside of the crowd. She recognized the rise and fall of Reverend Gorony’s words, but wasn’t sure who had the audacity to argue with him.

  “This is not the Lord’s work you do. The Lord gave us only two commandments. Love God. Love thy neighbor—you strike your neighbor instead.”

  On tiptoe Christabel could just make out one of those odd Quakers, unmistakable in the round hat. Most of their kind had gone someplace south, but she was almost certain this was the furniture maker. Pa had got their table from him, if she remembered rightly.