The legal papers were topped with a cover page that read “In re. Johnson vs. Keilor.” I looked at her. She wore no makeup and for once looked every bit of her forty years. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s my divorce decree. I’m a free woman.”
It was probably only a minute that we said nothing. The kitchen was cold and silent like that cargo plane had been, full of uncertainty about the future and awareness that life and happiness were not givens.
I looked my fill at her with a prickling in my stomach, knowing that I was looking at a woman who loved me. A Life. Together. That had been my objective. Now it stared me in the face and still felt unexpected. I had done nothing to deserve this kind of grace.
But that was no reason not to embrace and treasure it. My mama didn’t raise no fools, no sir, she did not, sir. “I think I understand. Everything.”
“I lied so much, Nat. So much. I didn’t—” She choked back tears. “I felt like I had no honor left, and I didn’t want to dirty you with it.” “I didn’t care about the technicality.” I glanced down at the document that meant so much to her.
“I did. For your sake, if not my own. Don’t you think I see the way you deal with the contractors? They hint at ways to get around permits and save money by cutting corners where it supposedly doesn’t count—you shut them off before they even get started. You care about technicalities. The Army told you you couldn’t have a sex life and you didn’t.”
I realized she was right. I had simply forgotten she was still married, but at some point I would have realized it. “It might have given me a twinge. Not a very big one. You had left him even before we became friends.”
“I didn’t want even a twinge, not after the things I’ve done.”
“You were just trying to survive—”
“You don’t know it all, you can’t.” She was wiping away tears now “It’s not just what I did to Sam, marrying him out of fear.”
“You were just trying to convince yourself—”
“I wasn’t, Nat. Don’t make me out to be better than I am.” She was angry, but I knew it wasn’t at me. “I knew I was a lesbian. I knew it. There was someone—a woman. She wanted me to move in with her, get married in her church in St. Paul. I was terrified. Terrified. She loved me and wanted to be open about it and I couldn’t do it. I told myself I didn’t love her enough to do it, but I was just a coward.”
“You ended up in the right place,” I said soothingly. She waved my words away. “You don’t understand.”
“It can’t be that bad, Cin.”
“It is—good God, Nat, I had sex with her the night before my wedding!” She was shaking all over and I wanted to hold her, but I could tell she didn’t want that. She wanted me to love all of her, especially the mistakes.
I could only think to say, “I’m listening, then.” “She didn’t know about the wedding, I hid my engagement ring whenever I saw her. She didn’t know I was leaving her. We had sex, and I left. I had to take Valium to get through my wedding. Do you know what I did to her? On my wedding night, after I’d—I’d slept with Sam, I took one of the instant photos of the two of us in our wedding finery and I sent it to her. No note, not even a return address.” She tangled her hands in her hair and pulled hard. “It was a horrible thing. It’s unforgivable. I want you to know what you’re getting. I’m a coward, a coward, I don’t deserve you—”
“Stop that. Don’t hurt yourself.” I brushed her hands out of her hair and pulled her into my arms. Her heart was thudding so hard I felt it against me. “You feel bad about it and you should. That’s a step in the right direction, you know.”
She sobbed into my shirt for another minute, then began to calm down. “I wasted all that love, Nat. I looked her up in the phone book and wrote her a letter a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know if she got it. I just wanted to tell her I was sorry and it was all my fault and I don’t think I will ever forgive myself. I can’t even imagine the pain I caused her.”
“I wish I could make it better somehow.”
She surprised me with something that passed for a laugh. “Oh, stop. As if you can fix it.” She sobered. “I have to fix it. I’m trying.”
That’s when I kissed her. I just couldn’t stand it anymore.
Her lips were like silk over velvet and salty with her tears. I hadn’t kissed a woman in at least fourteen years, and I’d never kissed a woman I was completely in love with. And I was, with all of her, mistakes, tiaras and tenacious strength.
She pulled back, turned her face away. “Shit, Natalie, I’m a mess.”
“I don’t care how you look.”
“I know that, but still.” She scrubbed her face with a napkin from the holder behind me. “I’d like to have the illusion of seductive powers.”
“Okay,” I said. “Seduce me.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me. My knees went to jelly.
“You’re on,” she said. Her voice was husky and it sent a chill down my back.
My vision went flat. All I saw was her fingertips as she slowly reached for me, fingertips that glowed golden. They brushed my jaw as she leaned into me and lifted her mouth for my kiss. For a moment I couldn’t breathe, then I realized I had been holding my breath as those fingertips mesmerized me. I fell dizzily into her, tasting all that she offered. It was a kiss that gave up everything and yet painted mysteries and fantastic promises. I was suffused with a dazzling array of sensation throughout my hungering body. She was strong under all that soft skin, thank God, because I held her tight and hard and close as I kissed her.
The arms that had circled my shoulders were suddenly gone and I felt her hands under my sweatshirt, moving upward. I shuddered as her nails grazed my back, swayed when they brushed my ribs and found my breasts. She whimpered into my mouth and broke off that incredible kiss.
She had my sweatshirt up. Her mouth was hot on my skin. I was abruptly self-conscious of the uncurtained windows and the lights on. Sex in the kitchen, before dark no less, was simply not done in Woton.
Her palm pressing hard between my legs made me forget about that. She leaned back far enough to yank the snap to my jeans open. One little snap and I felt naked.
Her body was stretched the length of mine as she kissed me again, arms around me, tongue promising. I had the leverage I needed to pick her up in my arms and spin slowly in a circle while she kept on kissing me. Out of the kitchen, flipping the lights off with my shoulder, I carried her to my Spartan bedroom. Someday this bed would be sufficient for guests while she and I coiled on something bigger and more luxurious upstairs. Tonight it was my paradise as I set her down and stretched out over her, liking the dim light and the wonderful softness of her sigh.
I unbuttoned her sweater and devoted myself to her skin. She tangled me in my sweatshirt but it was so much better with it off, her skin against mine, her mouth whimpering against mine. Beautiful woman, I thought, strong enough to need me and say so.
“I can’t take much more,” she whispered. “Whatever you like, want, take me there with you. Show me.”
I tugged off her slacks so I could touch her, my hips between her thighs. She bared her breasts, the stuff of my fantasies and dreams, her wetness, her taut nipples, her voice rising. Her thighs crushed my hips as my fingers slipped inside and we moved together, slower, slower, until every stroke was an aching eternity. She held me against her breasts as her hips convulsed under me. She cried out once, then again. I broke her grip on me so that I could taste her sweetness and begin again.
We rocked against each other, knees to shoulders, and there was nothing of her that I did not learn, her hungering, sensuous depths, her unreserved passion. I planned a lifetime of worship. It would take that long to satisfy me.
She lay still as I wrapped my arms around her hips, eager to resume pleasing her, needing only the slightest encouragement.
She surprised me by rolling me onto my stomach, then covering me with her warm, damp body. The room was chilly and
the heat of her was healing. Her mouth was on my back, her tongue on my shoulder blades.
“I love your shoulders,” she murmured. “Love them.” Her warmth was abruptly gone as she knelt behind me, then pulled me up into her arms. Her hands explored my stomach, my breasts, my thighs. My head fell back onto her shoulder as she caressed me gently but thoroughly. She pushed me forward, onto my hands, and her tongue traced my spine.
I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to be gentle with me. She must know that I am as strong as she is and I had been loving, but not particularly gentle, with her.
I felt her fingertips on the backs of my thighs and my arms trembled. Her voice was in my ear, husky and desirous. “Tell me what you like.”
None of my strategies had taken me far enough to envision this moment. I had imagined her surrender and never foreseen mine. She heard my answer in my gasp and shudder as her fingers plunged inward and we were moving faster toward a release that would fuse us for much longer than that moment.
I wanted to tell her I loved her, but I didn’t. Not then.
I waited five minutes. She didn’t seem surprised. “I love your house,” she answered, teasing.
“Good.” I kissed her with desire for more of her. She was yielding to me again, inviting my hands and mouth to take and enjoy again.
“Natalie,” she whispered. “Look at me.”
She had her hands in my short, almost curling hair and her thumbs caressed my forehead. Her honey-blond hair was spread out over the pillow. “I’m looking,” I said. “I love what I see.”
“So do I. I love you, too.”
“Sweet,” I murmured. “I want you.”
“You have me.” She laughed with her lips on mine. “I think you had me with the iced tea—do you remember?”
I remembered, though it seemed almost a lifetime ago. “Play your cards right and I’ll get you another one just like it on Valentine’s Day.”
“Tell me exactly what I need to do,” she said, teasing again, but the kiss she gave me was serious with desire. I told her.
I Will Go with You
(2 years) Don’t cry.
Rett had wanted to wait outside until her turn came, but Angel had been holding Rett’s hand like a lifeline since the moment they arrived. Even now, when Angel knew that Rett was going to have to stand up, Angel’s grip grew tighter.
Their relationship had only two years of history, but two or twenty—time didn’t seem to matter. Rett’s reluctant return home for her class reunion had brought her and Angel together finally, and in so many ways it seemed as if they had never wasted all those years. They shared a home together near Rochester, Minnesota, where Angel was completing the first of two extensive research studies for the Mayo Clinic. Even though Rett was on the road with the Henry Connors Orchestra three weeks out of five, instant messaging and the Internet kept them in constant contact so that when they were together it was as if no time had elapsed.
Rett gently disentangled her hand because her cue was coming. Angel’s lashes were heavy with unshed tears and Rett had to look away or she would cry herself.
The priest paused and nodded in Rett’s direction. He had been amenable to interrupting the mass at this point for Rett, even though she was not Catholic and was only there because her lesbian lover was there. The day was not about Rett, but about the family that surrounded her, Angel’s family. They were Catholic and had always attended this church here in Woton, been christened here, learned their catechism here, for the most part married here.
They were saying good-bye to their father here, too.Don’t cry.
In the five days since Antonio Martinetta had succumbed to Lou Gehrig’s disease Rett had not cried. She had one last gift to offer the man who had changed her life over the past two years, and tears would take it away.
The organist was sufficiently skilled, and the opening strains were lightly presented. The tempo was a little too fast, but Rett had anticipated that. She finished her last deep breath and sent Big Tony, Angel’s oldest brother, silent thanks for his help with her pronunciation.
“Quando sono solo,” When I am alone...
She did not have Andrea Boccelli’s lyric phrasing, nor his incredible lung capacity, but she could do the song he had popularized justice.Yes,I know there is no light.She sang,averting her eyes from Angel’s mother’s tear-streaked face. When Rett had suggested the song, knowing how well Antonio had liked it, Angelina had quickly agreed. Antonio had been the light for his family and it was time to say good-bye. She let her gaze move over the assembled mourners. The small church was filled to capacity. Rett knew there were people like her, who had never set foot in a Catholic church before, but they had all come to show respect for the Martinetta clan.
Yes, I know you are with me…Antonio and Angelina Martinetta had moved to Woton, Minnesota, shortly after they’d married. Even now, surnames ending in vowels were rare in Woton, but everyone knew the Martinettas. In the two short years since Rett had become a part of the family, she’d heard of Angelina’s and Antonio’s unstinting gift of their time to their neighbors and community. They had also raised an incredible family. Antonio had had a gentle, loving spirit that had infused his children with the same, and his grandchildren, too. They were everything to Rett that her own family had never been.
Even in that bitter comparison, Antonio had made a difference. It wasn’t unusual to find him watching an old movie in the middle of the night, and Rett’s body clock had often been in a different time zone when she and Angel arrived for visits. She and Antonio had had some interesting late-night chats. The one about family and forgiveness still resonated in her.
The final chorus began with her voice rich and soaring. Con te partirò, I will go with you, once in Italian and once in English. The organist repeated the last sweeping theme again and then there was a long silence.
Rett returned to her seat and the mass resumed. Angel laced her fingers through Rett’s and gave her a gentle peck on the cheek.
Everyone went back to the house. Angelina Martinetta would not have it any other way, of course. Tia and Carmella had hired a caterer, ruthlessly overriding their mother’s objections. When the struggle had threatened to turn acrimonious, it had been Rett who’d found the right words.
“Mama,” she’d said, using the endearment as Angelina had asked her to, “let us be selfish. We need you right now, for ourselves. If you exhaust yourself cooking for a hundred people there won’t be any of you left for us.”
Even the ensuing tears from all the Martinetta women had not drawn any from Rett. She could not cry then - the damage it did to her voice would have limited her range in the challenging piece she was going to sing to honor Antonio.
Rett felt her throat tightening as she spied the well-loved and worn concertina that Antonio had played so often after family dinners. She could cry now, she thought suddenly. She walked quickly toward the back yard, but there were a lot of people under the trees. The front yard was similarly full.
“Rett.” Cinny Keilor’s voice stopped her in her tracks, but not for the same reasons it had during high school. The un-requited longing had finally been vanquished by Angel’s love. Cinny had become a better friend these last two years.
She accepted Cinny’s comforting embrace and knew she couldn’t hold back the tears much longer. Natalie’s squeeze of her shoulder was less demonstrative but equally moving. They were a well-balanced couple and Rett had always thought they deserved the happiness they seemed to have found in one another.
She couldn’t speak and both seemed to understand. She hurried back into the house—the garage, she thought. It was at least empty. Better still was the backseat of the Oldsmobile.
Tears came. She had held them back for so many days, right from the start at the hospital where Angel had dispassionately checked her father’s vital signs and said in a low tone to her mother, “It’s any time now, Mama.” She couldn’t cry, not then. Nor when, a half-hour later, Big Tony had sobbed into his mother
’s shoulder while T.J. hid his tears in his wife’s hair. Angel had remained calm for quite a while, reminding the nurses about Antonio’s donor status, but even she had finally gone to pieces when Tia had rushed in only to find she was fifteen minutes too late.
But Rett could cry now. She fumbled in the box of tissues on the floor and mopped her face. She lost track of time for a while and let herself grieve. Family and forgiveness. Gratitude instead of regrets. That was what Antonio would want. The part of her that had found such rapport with him would be forever lonely, but she told herself to be grateful for the time she had had. He’d shone a light into her and it had not gone out.
She was almost composed when she remembered getting the call from Angel to come home now if she wanted to say good-bye. Although she’d been prepared for a month to get that news, it had left her numb. Henry Connors himself had taken charge of her, postponing the morning rehearsal for that night’s Seattle performance and then going with her to the hotel so she could pack a bag.
By the time that was done, Jerry Orland, Henry’s partner in more than ways than one, called with the flight information and the promise to have the rest of Rett’s luggage packed and moved on with the tour. Henry had kissed her like a father and put her in a cab. Rett knew he had to be thinking about the performance that night, and how to cover for the loss of his star vocalist, but it hadn’t shown on his face. She had no idea what she’d done to deserve his concern and affection.
She angrily blew her nose. Just when she thought she’d finished with a lifetime’s refrain of self-doubt, of wondering why anyone would care for her, of believing she didn’t merit love, she would fall back into the trap. Thanks, Mom. And kicked herself again. Forty-two was too old to be blaming her mother for her own negative thinking. She was past that—she had to get past that. Family and forgiveness.
She was caught by surprise when the opposite door opened. The dome light made her blink.
Frosting on the Cake Page 20
