Outing of the Heart

by Lisa Ann Harper

Had she put too much store by their intimacies? Although the lovemaking was not an overwhelmingly glorious experience, she did have deep feelings for Devon which went beyond the physical. Wouldn’t that be more important? On further reflection, perhaps she shouldn’t be feeling like this over her at all? Perhaps, between women it was only a sexual release because a man was not available? Or even, nothing more than something for the jaded palate?

  She looked again at Devon so slim, so beautiful, her emerald eyes shining up at Justin from under seductive lashes; smoking with casual elegance, her laughter tinkling between breaths. When she had let him in, she had chosen the easy chair. Now he was perched on its arm and it was she, who sat alone on the chesterfield.

  ‘I must go, I have a fair bit to do before work tomorrow.’ She jumped up. Devon looked surprised.

  ‘I thought you would be staying here tonight.’ A tiny smile twitched her mouth, full of meaning and amusement. ‘There’s lots of time.’ A sharp stab of memory caused a rising tide of color to stain Tenille’s cheeks and she averted her eyes in confusion. Such thoughts in front of Justin embarrassed her.

  ‘Oh, no … no,’ she stammered. ‘I’m expected back tonight.’

  Devon turned to Justin and explained, mockingly: ‘She has to answer to her landlady for her movements and she’s such a goodie, goodie.’ She made him join in the laughter at her expense. ‘Run along then, we’ll just have to manage without you.’

  Devon could be cruel, she was learning, when she wasn’t getting her own way. At least she knew her departure was not immaterial to her. She wasn’t as disinterested as she pretended.

  Devon regretted saying such words. She had looked into those huge, misty eyes and seen the hurt. She got up too, and offered to drive her home. Too late, she realized the damage had been done.

  Tenille’s face was stonily impassive. In a level, icily controlled voice she declined the offer: It was only a short walk to St. Clair subway. She could manage fine. She looked at Justin in farewell, the smile on her lips stiff. Devon had to let her go.

  Mrs. Sandrelli, bearing a message from her mother, welcomed her home.

  ‘Mom. Is something wrong?’ her eyes widened in alarm.

  ‘I don’t think so. Give her a call tomorrow.’

  Not totally relieved, she’d have to keep the lid on her worry ’til then, but Doris didn’t usually call.

  * * *

  Heart pounding a little, she phoned Lindsay. She would be all right once she knew what this was about.

  The initial exchanges put her mind at rest. There’d been no accident and nothing she’d done.

  ‘Tennie. Dad wondered if you could get us seats the night of the show when you’re dancing? We’d like to see you. We can stay at Carmel’s.’

  ‘Oh Mom, it’s a special performance for the Shriners’ Convention. You would have to be a member. Her voice was sympathetic; she didn’t like to refuse her mother’s request. ‘Anyway, I don’t know if I’m in it yet.’

  ‘Alex thought it was pretty much a certainty. You did tell us that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, only according to Devon,’ she clarified honestly. ‘Belen has to make the final decision.’

  ‘Okay then. Well, is there any other time we can see you? Dad’s real keen,’ Doris persisted. She wanted an excuse to visit, but she didn’t want to look obvious.

  ‘Perhaps in Caravan week?’

  ‘But that’s not ’til June,’ she expostulated.

  ‘I know, Mom. Listen, I really appreciate your interest, but there it is. Thanks for wanting to see me. I’m sure there’ll be a time when you can.’

  Doris had to settle for this. She talked on a little longer, checking that everything was going well for her daughter, then they signed off.

  Tenille had the final dress fitting tonight. Mrs. Sandrelli had done a wonderful job. She couldn’t be more delighted. Serafina looked pleased. It had been a challenge and she had pulled it off. Tenille knew how fortunate she’d been in the cost of the dress too. Something as well made and spectacular as this would have been far beyond her reach.

  She practised at home Tuesday, wanting to avoid any confrontation with Marissa. Waiting until Thursday also gave her more time to cool off. She wouldn’t be missing out on too much. There was Wednesday with Devon. She tried ‘phoning, but there was no answer.

  When Devon saw her at the studio, she was extra nice, trying to make up for Sunday; knowing she had wounded her feelings. Tenille, for her part, wanted to ask if Justin had stayed over, but she couldn’t, having no claim over her. Had she been with him yesterday? But she couldn’t ask that either. This must be the difference when two women get involved. The commitment was more casual and, of course, secondary to any relationship she would have with a man. She must get used to being in second place. But Devon was in first place with her.

  ‘Any decisions made?’ Tenille enquired, asking about the show.

  ‘Belen will make the announcement tomorrow.’

  ‘I know, but you have talked to her,’ she persisted.

  ‘She didn’t tell me anything, only asked my opinion. Don’t worry, Honeycakes, you know I told you, you are good.’ She gave her her special look from under curling lashes: ‘Very Good.’ Despite herself, Tenille’s heart fluttered at the implication.

  ‘Let’s go over the show dances.’ Devon was back on track. Raoul may drop by later so we’ll look at the Segurillas, too.’ Devon’s voice brightened with expectation. ‘Tenille, if you can do well with this one and get in with Los Flamencos, it will be fantastic.’

  ‘The prospect is so exciting,’ Tenille enthused: ‘But I have to do the Shriner’s show first,’ she cautioned.

  ‘You are worrying for nothing.’

  Halfway through the session, Raoul did turn up. He very much wanted to get on closer terms with this new interest and figured he could do it through dance.

  Tenille lifted her bar a notch when Raoul was there. She put her Devon worries, as she thought of them, to one side and entered wholeheartedly into the new zapateado, finding it therapeutic for her harried mind.

  During one of the breaks, Raoul suggested she could learn with Los Flamencos each Sunday afternoon. ‘You can still take classes from Belen,’ he pointed out. ‘Our sessions are not as expensive as hers since we only aim to cover room hire.’

  She was flattered by his interest and the suggestion.

  Devon was amused, watching this exchange with a derisive smile on her face. She knew how Raoul felt about Tenille and was pretty confident he’d never get anywhere with her. Meanwhile she could milk him for all his expertise. She would be able to go far with what he had in his brain. As for what he had in his pants … well, despite the fact Tenille had been married, she suspected that was a lost cause. Such an intense creature. For herself, a good screw was a good screw and it didn’t matter where it came from. Yes … she could have the best of both worlds and until something new came along, Tenille suited very nicely.

  With mocking eyes she continued her observation. Tenille was a willing learner in the making of love the way she liked it. In fact, Tenille was willing to do whatever was asked. A bit like a puppy, she laughed to herself, not unkindly. In retrospect this was surprising. She seemed to have had a limited, rather conformist upbringing. Not what you would call your liberated yuppie, she pondered. Yet, inside that perfect body there was a sexually sensuous female who could fire up anyone. With narrowed eyes she looked across at Raoul’s handsome face, his taut, lean body so different from Tenille’s. There was an animal magnetism all the same. He had been fun too, but now he was pursuing Tenille. He wouldn’t be looking in her direction for a while.

  * * *

  The atmosphere was highly charged that evening at the studio. So much excitement. Not only over the dress rehearsal, but also at the prospect of Belen’s announcement. The hubbub rose to deafening levels at times until Devon told them to cool it. Compliments flew and giggles increased. Some individuals were more silent than usual, others wou
ld break into nervous titters with little provocation. Tenille became one of the quiet ones, constantly looking across at Devon, but she was too occupied organizing everyone.

  She wanted to smile at Marissa, but she averted her gaze if ever their eyes met. Help was given with flowers in the hair; some wore it on top; others preferred it at the nape of the neck. Tenille wore hers low down, her hair pulled back into a heavy bun. They all looked suitably Spanish; this unusual appearance providing an excuse for self-conscious parading.

  At last Belen clapped her hands and they lined up, the silence after busy chatter lending even more drama to the moment. She checked them out, adjusting a shawl here, a brooch there. She had them dance Verdiales with the men. Choreographed as a chorus number, the formation of the colors of the dresses with the young men’s black and white, became most important. Next the partner dance, Fandango de Huelva. She coupled Tenille with Roxanne and this time Marissa danced with Ingrid. Tenille had to admit the red and orange of their dresses did go well together. Dancing with Roxanne, they were turquoise and midnight blue. The finale was the Caracoles. Belen scrutinized attentively; then it was over. She thanked everyone for bringing their costumes. They were to change and on their return she would announce the selection.

  The change room seemed even smaller, frothy dresses taking up so much space on their hangers, although the process of getting back into regular dance clothes went faster. People scurried into the studio as quickly as possible, water bottles to hand.

  Belen began by saying how much she liked all their outfits and that they would create eye-catching tableaux. She went on to explain that not all of them could be in the show. ‘If I had my way, I would like everybody to take part,’ she looked at the intent faces before her, drinking in her words. ‘But this cannot be for several reasons which I won’t go into now.’ She continued by giving an outline of how selection of the participants was arrived at, looking at several criteria which she had found to be very important. She ticked them off on her fingers.

  ‘#1. Degree of confidence shown in each of the dances. If you are sure of one, but uncertain in the other two, this would lessen the chance of selection.

  2. The right look for the night. This includes your dancing style as well as appearance.

  3. Stage and performance experience. This is major and we weight it quite heavily. We’re being well paid for this show so the risk of stage nerves is an important factor.’

  Lastly, Belen explained that for those not selected, the effort they had put in was not wasted. These dances would be called into service for future shows and they would need their costumes for other stage work. This preamble completed, she read out first the dance then the names. The room was hushed with silent expectation. They all appreciated her attempt to let them down gently, but they hoped against hope, their personal labor to achieve this objective would receive its just reward.

  As expected, most of the experienced dancers were selected, however, none of the new recruits were. Tenille was dumbfounded. She looked at Devon, but she would not look in her direction. Her disappointment was agonizing. Another blow to be notched up to life’s experience. She had received it full force and it had winded her. Had her craving been too desperate?

  The people selected took their places to run through the numbers. The others remained seated on the floor, ranged along the wall and watched. Her head was spinning. What had gone wrong? True, she had joined the class late; the others had more experience, but she had worked so hard. Everyone had seemed so pleased.

  Marissa partnered Daphne. She hated to admit it, but they did go well together. However, Marissa didn’t look happy, a tension was evident about her mouth.

  Tenille’s thoughts reverted to Belen’s list. She had put in so much extra time. She hadn’t even been chosen for the Caracoles. But then, they’d picked the ones who were good at all three numbers. This provided enough people to fill the stage with color and action. Her beautiful dress. The white flower and floral shawl. All Mrs. Sandrelli’s work. How could she tell her? She was fast developing a new awareness. Life in the big city. “You can’t stay a small town product for ever,” she concluded accurately.

  How much would this exclusion set her back, in her bid to join Los Flamencos? They had expected her to come out with stage experience. The next event wasn’t ’til Toronto Caravan and by then they could have lost interest. There were others they could choose. It was a very long sigh that escaped her heaving chest; lost before she had even begun. Her shoulders sagged. So much for dreams.

  Devon came and sat next to her on the floor while the others were going through their paces. She could see in her eyes, although shaded by her thick lashes, how upset she was. She, above all, knew how much dedication had gone into this. She felt so sorry.

  At the end of the class she invited Tenille back to the apartment. She wanted to go, but was reluctant. However, looking into Devon’s concerned face and the sympathy in her eyes, it was hard for her to recapture the bitterness of before. She agreed, but would not stay late.

  ‘I understand.’ There was no sign of a patronizing attitude.

  In the change room, commiseration abounded for the unfortunate. She wished they’d just drop it. Marissa didn’t come anywhere near her and she found this behavior unexpected. Something wasn’t right, especially when she was one of the chosen.

  Marissa watched them leave together, but her face gave nothing away. Their goodbyes behind them, it was a hasty dash to the subway. The cold bit in and checking the sky, they saw the moon was ringed, presaging a break in the weather. However, the sky was clear, even the stars seemed closer, glittering brightly between the angular branches of the trees which reached up to them. Only a short walk, before they plunged underground.

  At the apartment Devon was all she could wish for; attentive, almost to the point of ‘mothering’. She ordered-in from her favorite Chinese delivery, this time without asking. They sipped red wine while they waited, sitting close on the chesterfield. Eventually, she had to ask what had happened. Devon was unwilling to get into it, but Tenille urged her on, saying she felt worse not knowing.

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you. The veto came from Marissa.’

  Tenille’s dark eyes opened wide, as her face registered her shock.

  ‘Marissa. But why? She’s my friend?’

  Devon took a deep draught from her glass. I can only speculate as to why, but I can tell you she told Belen she felt you were not ready; that you still relied too heavily on her in the partner dances.

  Eyes round in disbelief. ‘That’s not true,’ she blurted. ‘I know those sequences.’

  ‘She also told her the extra time you’d have to get ready for Toronto Caravan, would all work in your favor, building confidence and polish. Belen listened to this and agreed.’ Devon turned anxiously towards her, twisting her body where she sat. ‘I tried to persuade her otherwise, honestly, but it didn’t work because Belen didn’t see any hurry either. She felt the three more months would be better for you.’ Putting down her glass, she took her in her arms, caressing and soothing; helping to take away the hurt.

  Tenille breathed into her shoulder, ‘Los Flamencos is lost to me now.’ There was a catch in her voice as she tried to get the words out through a tight and swollen throat. Her suspicions began to crystallize. She knew why Marissa had acted so strangely toward her. A guilty conscience. Deliberately spreading about falsehoods and they had taken Belen in. Well, that explained tonight’s behavior, but there was still the unanswered question of why.

  Devon lit a cigarette and took a moment to savor it. ‘You are wrong about the group. Raoul wants you with us. I told you, he really likes you and, if you play your cards right, you could have him eating out of your hand.’ She gave a twisted smile as she flicked ash in the direction of the crystal tray. ‘To put it crudely, he’s got the hots for you, so he’s keen to see as much of you as possible. Keep working,’ she advised, ‘and you’ll be in there.’ Having delivered herself of this counse
l, she stubbed out the cigarette and left her to attend to the food.

  Tenille reached for her glass and sipped, pensively. She was reeling from an overload of information, but then she got up and went to the kitchen. Leaning against the doorjamb she asked: ‘Why would Marissa do that, though?’ Then she reiterated: ‘She’s my friend.’

  Devon put down the sweet and sour pork container and turned to her resignedly. ‘Marissa, my Sweet, is a Lesbian. She has seen you and me together and she’s jealous.’ She watched the look of incredulity develop on Tenille’s amazed face as her jaw dropped.

  ‘Yes. In plain speaking again, her nose is out of joint because you prefer me to her. She was able to get her revenge by blocking your wish to be part of the show … and there you have it.’ She turned to the counter. ‘Now, I want you to eat this. Worrying on an empty stomach does no one any good.’ Turning back, she handed her a selection. Dutifully, Tenille took it to the table and there waited for Devon to join her, staring at her plate, but seeing only Marissa’s strained, pale countenance as she had watched them leave. So … Marissa did know the same heartache. Now it was clear why she was always looking at her; always wanting her company. Poor Marissa and she had thought it was just a case of loneliness. She really did have a lot to learn.

  After the meal, Devon put on some music. Close together she caressed Tenille, then moved on to a few tentative kisses. This was just how she liked it. She could feel herself responding, but then Devon became more physically insistent. She began whispering in her ear as she pushed her back against the downy cushions. Tenille wanted to check her watch. She knew it was late, but she could feel her resistance weakening. Having decided sexual involvement wasn’t for her, now her body was telling her something different. She was never so changeable before.

  Devon became more ardent, but this time mindful of Tenille’s hesitation. ‘Don’t say no, Ten. It’s what we both want. I know you feel as I do.’ She began to remove Tenille’s wool pants, then slipped off her own skirt. Now just their tops remained, but she didn’t bother with them. Instead, she slid her hand into Tenille’s panties from the crotch and before she knew what was going on, she had her thumb into her vagina and was begging her to touch her too. She did, but she was anxious not to cause pain, the position being so awkward. She felt fumbly and gauche, preferring to be stretched out on the bed, but Devon seemed to have a thing about the living room. She was so wet and she did like feeling her like this … all soft and hot.