Sweet Indulgences 3

by Susan Fox

  “I’m not moping.” I hear the incipient tears that clog my voice, and then clear my throat and lie. “Sorry, I’ve had a cold I can’t seem to shake.”

  “Too bad, with the holidays coming.”

  Christmas. The first Christmas in my life without Mom. Damn him for reminding me.

  “Have you made plans yet?” he asks.

  “For Christmas? No, not yet.” Don’t, I pray silently, don’t invite us to spend it in Victoria with you. Just don’t.

  “I thought I might go down to Palm Springs with Henry. Great golf there.”

  I exhale air silently, in relief. Then I wonder, is it possible he’s finding it difficult too, the prospect of Christmas without her? Cautiously I say, “Are you okay, Dad?”

  “Never better.” His voice has its usual heartiness. “Always did like the holidays. Decorations, carols playing. Peace on earth, goodwill to mankind. People smiling and generous.”

  I liked Christmas too, when Mom was alive. This year I’ve avoided even thinking about it.

  “Don’t worry about a gift, son, I’ve got everything I need.”

  “Same goes for me.”

  I hang up.

  Everything I need. Sure. Except for my mother. And then there’s Gina.

  Abruptly I shove up from the bed and go back to the task the phone had interrupted. Not that it really matters, sorting the laundry to the correct drawers, shelves, and hangers. More often than not Gina feels free to borrow something of mine.

  She appropriates my clothing just the way she appropriated me, that first day, with the cool, confident amusement of a cat bestowing a favor.

  I was looking down, buttoning my jacket against a spring breeze, so what I noticed first was legs, as long as mine, clad in slim jeans, heading my way along the sidewalk. Next I noted the boots, terrific black and beige cowboy boots. Then I looked up and took in the rest of the eye-catching package. A creamy turtleneck under a black leather vest worn loose and swinging by a person who seemed unaware of, or untouched by, the brisk weather. A brown face with striking features. Deep-set eyes, bristling brows, a hawk nose, full, sensual lips. Short, thick, gleaming black hair, tossed by the wind but cut so perfectly it didn’t look messy.

  Man or woman? I wasn’t sure, which fascinated me. Definitely not asexual; this person striding past me gave off an animal energy that was almost palpable. I slanted my eyes sideways. Was that the curve of small breasts under the light wool?

  I turned and watched blatantly. The ass was tight and high, could be male or female, but there was something about the walk that made me think woman. It wasn’t a sway, exactly...

  The person turned and caught me staring. I had no excuse but knew I owed an apology so opened my mouth, unsure what words would come out. She grinned then, a quick, mischievous one, and became unequivocally female.

  She walked back a couple of paces and stood, head tilted to the side, giving me head-to-toe scrutiny. I knew what she saw: a man of approximately her own height, slim and wiry, dressed in jeans, a green collarless shirt and a black silk blazer, with gentle features and a wind-tangled mass of curly bronze hair tumbling to his shoulders. What I didn’t know was what she thought, and she, exasperatingly, wasn’t letting me know. She seemed content to stand and look, her lips curled into the tiniest of smiles.

  Take the initiative, I told myself. “My name’s Tim,” I said firmly.

  The smile widened into a captivating triangle. “Gina.” She thrust out a hand.

  Mine met hers and we shook, strongly. Her hand was small and warm, intensely alive in mine, and I didn’t want to give it back. The breeze blew the clouds aside, a shaft of sunlight broke free to slant across us, and Gina nodded appreciatively. “You’ve got great hair. Amazing colors in the sunlight. I’d like to paint it.”

  I, flush with relief and excitement, said, “I’d like that. And I like your hair too, and your whole style.”

  “Hurray for androgyny?” She kinked up an eyebrow and gently extracted her hand from my grip.

  Disconcerted, I said, “Well, yeah, to a certain extent. I mean, I don’t know if that’s what you were going for, but...”

  She rescued me. “It was. I like throwing people, making them look twice, making them think about what it is to be feminine or masculine. I sense you’re the same.”

  She was right. And that conversation carried us through the first cup of coffee and into refills.

  That was a year and a half ago.

  It’s been a dizzying ride. Gina’s like Rue, the Siamese cat Mom had when I was a kid. Loving, affectionate, and cuddly when she’s in the mood. She makes me feel special—honored to be the one whose company she chooses. But then, elusive and unpredictable, she’s gone, off on some private mission she may or may not deign to tell me about. She intrigues and confounds me; she delights me; she’s good for me.

  Now I hang up my smoke-blue silk shirt and remember Gina wearing it over black leggings, with her cowboy boots and a wide belt with a tooled silver buckle.

  Our time together has been a lark. We’ve done the gender-bending thing to the hilt. I’m sure we fool a bunch of people, especially from the rear, as we saunter down the street arm in arm, hips bumping, Gina’s neatly cropped dark head leaning close to my untamable curls.

  A lark.

  It isn’t that we don’t talk about serious things. Our minds stimulate each other’s, we can debate philosophical issues all night, and then there’s the fact that it’s been a pretty heavy year, with my mother’s cancer. Gina’s support during Mom’s illness...well, I doubt I would have come out of it sane, but for her. Yet for all that, we’ve managed to avoid some of the personal subjects. Like what we want out of the future.

  I stuff her skimpy cotton panties into her top drawer and wonder how well I really know Gina. Being enigmatic is part of her fascination, true enough, but I’m realizing I may be more of a domestic animal than she can ever be. Or at least be now, with me. I’m ready for the next stage, whatever that might be. Maybe not marriage—that’s too conventional for us—but a commitment deeper than our casual living-together arrangement.

  In fact I was almost ready to raise the subject when Gina went strange on me. She’s been doing her aloof-cat act much more frequently and she’s got me scared. I’m walking on eggshells. Pressing her for commitment now might backfire.

  I sigh and stow the laundry hamper in the closet. And hear the front door click. Gina, home. Earlier than I expected her. Inexplicably, I feel a thrill of apprehension.

  I disguise it by shouting cheerfully, “Perfect timing, I just finished the laundry.”

  There’s no answering call. The apartment is silent. Then she materializes in front of me. Gina, elegantly lean in a soft cherry-red sweater and jeans.

  “Hey, Tim.” Her voice is casual, but it’s a contrived casualness.

  “Hey, Gina.” I want to kiss her but I’m not sure she’s in a mood to be touched. “Dad called,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

  “Oh?” She shifts lightly from one foot to the other, a restless cat.

  “He’s going to Palm Springs for Christmas. He doesn’t want a gift but he’s full of Christmas carol spirit. ‘Goodwill to mankind’ he says, though he probably means it toward women too. He asked after you.” I’m babbling and she’s watching me with huge unreadable eyes. Trepidation leaches into me and turns my bones to jelly and shuts me up.

  “You’ll miss your mom a lot this Christmas.” Her voice lacks its natural inflection and cadence.

  “Yes, sure. But...” I want to say, “But I’ll have you,” but I don’t know if it’s true.

  I don’t want her to leave me, but I don’t want her to stay out of pity for how fragile I still am in the aftermath of my mother’s death. Generosity, Dad had said, referring to people’s mood at this time of year. Gina is generous, but it’s not generosity I want from her this Christmas.

  “Were you nice to him?” she asks.

  I swallow guilt. Then, because
I can’t be dishonest with Gina, I say, “Not as nice as I could have been.”

  She shakes her head. “Men! I swear. The two of you need each other, and neither of you will admit it.”

  Need? That’s not a typical Gina-word. Once, in the early days of our relationship, I’d said I needed her like the orchid in her window needs the sun, but she’d said, “Nonsense, Tim. You want me, and that’s great. But need is for dependent people, and you’re not one of those.”

  Want, need. Semantics, I’d thought at the time. I knew how I felt; the verbal labels didn’t matter.

  What does she mean now, using the word need? Surely not that Dad and I are dependent on each other. Something else, then, but what?

  I’m busy pondering the question when Gina shifts feet again, makes an abrupt gesture toward the window. “It’s gorgeous out. Want to go for coffee and a talk?”

  Suddenly I’m desperately afraid. Had she meant that I’m going to need my dad because I’ll no longer have her?

  I have to know. I say, affecting offhandedness, “Sounds good.”

  From the hall closet she takes two jackets, both mine. She hands me the bomber she gave me for my birthday. She told me the teal color turns my grey eyes to tropic ocean. For herself she’s chosen my khaki walking coat with the red accents. Desperate for omens, I think that surely she wouldn’t wear my coat or dress me in my birthday jacket if she were going to break up.

  We walk in silence to our favorite coffee shop. The outside table in the corner is empty and I expect Gina to claim it triumphantly. Instead she orders our lattés to go, saying, “I feel like the beach.”

  I know she means the tiny bay where the crescent of pale sand is framed by rocky outcroppings.

  It’s empty of human life on this chill, bright day. Gina goes to our usual log and I sit beside her, feeling damp coolness seep through my jeans. The salty pungency of seaweed and ocean makes my nostrils tingle, and sunlight dazzles off the dark water, hurting my eyes and making me squint. A great blue heron stands one-legged on a rock, mallards and coots bob in the shallows, and there are Canada goose tracks in the sand.

  Gina isn’t touching me.

  I force my eyes away from the scenery and focus intently on her face, searching for clues. I see tension, tiny signs of it. Skin drawn more tautly over her amazing cheekbones, smudges of purple-blue under her black eyes. Everything comes crystal clear. I love her, and I am going to lose her. Where will I find the strength to cope?

  She clears her throat. Today is the first time I’ve seen Gina nervous.

  “Tim,” she starts, turning her face away from my inspection. She stares intently into her cardboard coffee cup, swirling the foam. “You know this androgyny thing we’ve both bought into?”

  She’s taken me by surprise, yet again. “Uh, yeah.”

  “How far can you see us taking it?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s just that...” She tosses her head; black hair shifts and settles. “I just wondered how...uh, how you feel about women who don’t have breasts.” She stares at me then, her eyes huge in her sculptured face. Her eyes defiant and yet vulnerable.

  Vulnerable. Gina.

  My heart races like wildfire, but a chill seeps through my veins. “C-cancer? You don’t have cancer!” I deny it loudly, as if that could change reality.

  “Yes, actually, I do.” She tilts her head in that tough-girl way she has. A muscle twitches at the corner of her mouth, but she controls it. “I have no intention of dying,” she says briskly, almost arrogantly, “but it won’t be pretty. It won’t be easy, especially not for someone whose mother just died of cancer.”

  She is still staring at me, now not allowing either of us the privacy, the indulgence, of looking away. “I don’t want you to feel any obligation, Tim. I’ll be okay on my own.”

  I inhale slowly, feeling the breath stutter and rasp through my throat. I retreat behind my eyes and think about Mom, even about Dad. About Christmas. I think about Gina. I want to cling to her and wail in her arms. Gina hates that kind of display.

  Then I realize something else. She told me. She didn’t shut me out, walk away. She gave me a chance. Is it just possible that, by her new definition, she needs me the way I need her?

  But God, how can I go through this again?

  Her cheeks are pink, whether from the breeze or nerves. She looks the picture of health.

  How can I not go through it? I love her. Ten minutes ago I feared a Christmas without Gina, and now she’s given me Christmas. Maybe a whole future.

  I wait until I have the strength to speak, and words she’ll accept. No tears, no pity. Somehow, I find a grin to give her, and bump her shoulder with mine. “Hey, what would you do without my shirts to borrow? Besides, it’ll make the gender-bending thing even more confusing for folks, won’t it?”

  I’ve never seen Gina—my eternally proud cat—cry, but there is a sheen in her dark eyes as she continues to stare at me. For a very long time, as if searching me inside and out for any sign of falseness. Then she gives a tiny nod. “So we’re in it together?”

  Relief and fear crowd my heart. I touch my coffee container to hers. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  In the Frame

  Nick checked his camera gear and made sure he had enough film. Most of his colleagues teased him about his old-fashioned style, but in this age of digital cameras he still preferred the traditional methods.

  He loved his craft and took pride in it, but had no delusions he was some kind of great artist. It gave him a sense of accomplishment if his clients smiled when they saw their pictures.

  His preference was candid photography, but a lot of people preferred more formal settings. Like today. The assignment was to take PR photos of the staff at a career counseling firm. He knew the image the company wanted him to convey: professional, approachable, sincere.

  They’d asked him to shoot in their boardroom, but the moment he saw it—artificial light as unflattering as in a public restroom—he said, “We’ll shoot outside. Downstairs. The brick of the building’s façade will make an interesting background.”

  So he set his tripod and camera up on the sidewalk, and one by one the couple dozen staff paraded in front of his lens. Most were poised, at ease with the process.

  But then his lens framed a scowling blonde.

  “I warn you, I’ll break your camera,” she said.

  He lifted his head. “Um…?” Was this a threat?

  “The lens will crack at the sight of me,” she clarified. “I’m completely unphotogenic. I hate it that they’re making me do this.”

  Nick ran a quick, appraising eye over her. She was slim and trim in a sage-green suit and a yellow blouse the color of the primroses that lined his mother’s front walk. Her sunny hair was cut in a soft, casual way that framed her oval face. Her features—well, if they weren’t all squinted up in a scowl, she might be quite pretty.

  “It’s a myth that people are unphotogenic,” he commented. “They just haven’t been photographed by a good photographer.”

  She shot him a disbelieving look that at least diluted the scowl. “Wait until you see the pictures. They won’t come out.”

  And then she did her best to make her prophesy come true. Oh, it wasn’t deliberate sabotage, but she was so tense—obviously this “thing” she had about being unphotogenic had taken on gigantic proportions in her mind—that her smiles were forced, more like grimaces, and never reached her sky-blue eyes.

  * * * * *

  Nick wasn’t surprised when he viewed the results, but he was disappointed. Disappointed for her, because he knew these images would further eat away at her confidence, and disappointed for himself too, because he knew he could do better work.

  Portfolio under his arm, he went back to the career counseling firm and, in their boardroom, met with each person individually, spreading out their photographs and letting them choose their favorite.

  When he met with his anxio
us subject—Belinda Brown, according to his records—he noted the tiny flare of anticipation in her eyes as he opened the envelope.

  It died as he laid the pictures on the table. She studied them, frowning, then picked one up and summoned a resigned smile. “This is the best.”

  “They aren’t what you hoped for,” he said.

  “Hoped? Believe me, I’m long past hope. And I’ve seen much, much worse.”

  Despite her words, he’d seen her expression, that flare of hope she now denied. “Give me another chance,” he said urgently, addressing her back as she headed for the door.

  She turned. “Thanks, but there’s no point. You won’t get anything better.”

  “Yes, I will. Trust me on this.”

  That elusive something flickered again in her eyes.

  “It’s a matter of professional pride,” he said. “You’d be doing me a favor. And of course it would be at my expense.”

  “You really take your work seriously.” She gave him a smile that, this time, was genuine rather than forced. A smile that illuminated her face and made him catch his breath. And now he had another reason for needing her to say yes. It had gone beyond her ego and his pride. Now he wanted to get to know the woman with the heartwarming smile.

  * * * * *

  When Belinda met Nick after work, he said, “Let’s go to the park down the block.”

  “But don’t you need the brick wall of the building as background, so all the photos match?”

  “There are times technology comes in handy. I can scan in my images, then I’ve got a program that lets me copy background from one photo to another.”

  “But, why the park?”

  “People are heading home from work. I don’t want to block the sidewalk.” It was only part of the truth. Secretly, he was hoping she’d relax once he got her away from her workplace.

  As they walked between spreading maple trees, their leaves a fresh spring green, she said, “I love this place. I often come here at lunch time.”

  Unobtrusively, Nick fell back half a step, letting her lead the way. He pulled out his camera.