“She's the one, isn't she?” The sound of Susan's voice broke the silence of the empty lunchroom. The rest of the crew and volunteers had headed back to the scene shop a few minutes before, leaving Susan and Rorie alone at the table.
“Who's what?” Rorie answered, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about. The mysterious woman in your past who ruined you for all other women.”
“Do you know how crazy you sound?” Rorie said with a laugh. “There's no such person.”
“You dated my sister for over a year,” Susan retorted. “You don't think she told me everything?”
“Beth told you this? She told you I could never really commit to her because, with all the hot women in Hollywood, I was secretly pining for some suburban Connecticut housewife?” Rorie hoped her dismissive tone would put an end to the conversation, which was hitting a little closer to home than she liked.
Susan shrugged. “Well, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I might not have believed it, but—”
“I don't know what you think you saw, but trust me, you didn't. Because there's nothing to see.”
Susan sat back in her chair and studied the other woman quietly before speaking. “Rorie, you're one of my best friends. You were almost my sister-in-law. So stop trying to lie to me.”
Damn, Rorie thought. How can she see through me like this? Out loud she said, “Look, Susan, setting aside the fact that Beth and I never even discussed getting married, you've already played the almost-sister-in-law card this month. Why else would I agree to spend the only vacation I've had in seven years designing sets for your little glorified community theater?”
Susan glared at her silently in response and Rorie felt a twinge of guilt at dissing the theater. Susan was doing a remarkable job transforming the Oakwood into a serious regional theater. Rorie knew she’d poured her heart and soul into the place, and had been more than happy to come work on the show as a favor to her friend. But if the insult distracted her from their current conversation, it was worth it.
“I have no doubt,” Rorie continued, “that you and your sister spent long nights discussing all sorts of great theories regarding my emotional issues, but you've got this one wrong. Cici and I were just friends. That's it.”
Susan smirked. “Cici, huh? You and Cici were friends? Not just a couple of strangers who had a class together. You know, like you claimed a few minutes ago.”
Rorie grimaced, caught in the lie.
“So, when you said acquaintances, you really meant friends,” Susan continued. “And when you say friends now, you really mean the type of friend that you have a cute little nickname for. Whom you obviously ate with at least a few times, given that she knows about your weird hot sauce thing. Maybe a romantic little dinner date? Maybe something more than that?”
Rorie stared at the table, avoiding Susan's eyes. Her gaze fell on the bright red bottle and she could feel her face burning.
“I'll take the fact that your cheeks are the color of that hot sauce right now as a sign that I’m on the right track. So, I'm just filling in the blanks here, but somehow she breaks your heart and you spend the next two decades emotionally unavailable and self destructive, always the one to leave a relationship before they can leave you. So, am I getting warmer on the type of friendship we're talking about?”
“Susan …”
“'Cause that's the vibe I was getting at lunch, and the look on your face right now is strengthening my case.”
Rorie covered her scalded cheeks with her hands and let out a ragged breath. “We were really good friends, a long time ago. Okay?” Rorie shrugged. “When I was young and naive. And I thought it was something more, and eventually got set straight. So to speak. That's all.” It was a half truth at best, but it was all Susan needed to know.
“Ha! I knew I was right!”
“I don't know what you think you’re right about,” Rorie replied. “And you absolutely cannot say anything about this to anyone. Okay?”
“Trust me, sweetie. Given that Cecily Parker has donated almost half a million dollars to the Oakwood over the past decade, I could walk in on the two of you French kissing in my office and I wouldn't say a word.” Susan looked at Rorie and shook her head. “But my God, Rorie. Did your epically tragic love life really have to involve my biggest donor?”
Rorie laughed. Her friend had a real knack for finding ways to relate pretty much anything back to herself. “Ah, Susan. I promise, if I had known eighteen years ago that she was going to be your biggest donor, I would’ve done it all differently, I swear.”
Chapter 7
“Rorie Mulloy!”
The voice reverberated down the hall toward the scene shop door. Rorie tensed at the sound, her finger frozen over the keypad. Cecily. She knew it was her even before she saw her approach. Rorie turned and her breath hitched. The woman storming toward her was positively enraged. Stunningly, beautifully, enraged. Cecily’s raw fury might not be Rorie's first choice of emotions, but its animating effects were undeniably alluring.
When she'd entered the scene shop last week, the truth was that Cecily appeared more like a faded photocopy of her younger self. Rorie immediately saw that the years had muted her and drained her of her color. Dampened her spirit. She was still lovely, but the spark Rorie had known so well had gone out of her. That was no longer true today. Cecily's wide brown eyes, dull and melancholy before, sparkled with energy; her once pallid cheeks flushed rosy; her chestnut hair that had hung limply above her shoulders in a tired bob now bounced and swung with every stomp of her foot. It was breathtaking.
“Rorie Mulloy,” Cecily repeated, her voice quieter with just a few inches between them, but still filled with heat. “How could you?”
“How could I what?” Rorie felt a rising panic at the accusation. She hadn't the slightest clue what could have upset her.
Cecily's voice trembled. “I know we can never be friends again, but I thought you were sincere in offering a truce. So why’d you do it?”
Now this is turning the tables, Rorie thought. You're mad at me? It was Rorie who, by rights, should be the angry one. Wasn’t she the one who had been misled? Abandoned? But somehow, when confronted out of nowhere by this wrathful goddess, Rorie found she couldn't summon even an ounce of self-righteous anger in her own defense. For eighteen years it had simmered inside her, poisoned every relationship she’d tried to have. But now? Nothing. Well, not nothing. There was unbridled attraction aplenty, a wave of it so swift and high Rorie thought she might be knocked off her feet and drowned. But anger, or anything similar that could form some halfway-decent armor against this onslaught? Not a single drop.
It was most inconvenient.
“Cici, please. Calm down,” Rorie urged.
“Don't call me that! Don't you dare!” Cecily's voice shrieked and cracked.
“Cecily, then. What is it that you think I did?” She watched helplessly as tears streamed down Cecily's cheeks. “Come on, let's go somewhere and figure this out.”
She reached for Cecily's hand and pulled her through the scene shop door and toward the privacy of her tiny office. Cecily flinched but followed. They sat silently on rickety chairs upholstered in cracked green vinyl, an old Steelcase desk separating them. Cecily made several attempts to speak, with nothing but little sobbing gasps escaping her throat in place of words. Rorie wished she had something, anything, to offer to help stop Cecily’s tears.
“I'm being moved from the scene shop,” she finally managed to say. “Susan just told me. You said you could work with me for a few weeks, and then you went behind my back not two seconds later and asked Susan to reassign me. Why?”
“Cici, I swear I didn't. Susan even asked if I wanted her to, but I told her no.”
Cecily's eyes widened. “If you didn’t say anything, then why would Susan ask that?”
“She guessed a little bit on her own. She's known me a long time. I denied every
thing, but she knows when I'm hiding something.”
Cecily crossed her arms protectively in front of her chest and rocked her wobbly chair from one leg to another. “This is a nightmare. I just wanted one thing in my life to look forward to, one thing for me, and look what happens! It'll be all anyone's talking about around town by tomorrow.”
“Really? With the global economy, and terrorist attacks, and an upcoming election, and all anyone is going to be talking about is who Cecily Parker may or may not have been sleeping with during the Clinton administration?”
Cecily squirmed in her seat. “It's the suburbs. You'd be surprised.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you're exaggerating, just a little bit.”
“I don't like to be the center of attention. I know you never believed that, but it's true. And Daddy's running for reelection this November, so we can't afford a scandal.”
“Some things never change.” The bitterness Rorie felt inside seeped out in her words.
Cecily slumped in her chair. All of the fight had drained out of her, and Rorie noted with dismay that she was back to looking like the “before” picture in an antidepressant commercial. Rorie shouldn’t let herself care, but she couldn't help it.
“Cici,” she said, more gently than before, “let me talk to Susan and see what's going on, okay? I promise that I didn't put her up to transferring you, but maybe she thought she was doing me a favor.”
Cecily nodded. “Thanks,” she said quietly.
“Why don't you just go wherever you've been assigned today, and I'll see if I can get this fixed and have you back in the shop by tomorrow, okay?”
“Thank you, Rorie,” she said, a gentle drawl softening her words. “You're being a lot nicer to me than I deserve. I appreciate it.”
“Rorie?”
Rorie froze at the sound of her name. She'd been so engrossed in working on the set that she hadn't heard Cecily's footsteps on the stage. She sighed. She'd managed to avoid Cecily for almost a week, but this time she was cornered. Arranging her face so as not to betray the hurt she still felt inside, Rorie turned.
“What do you want?” Her words came out more like a growl.
“To talk to you,” Cecily replied meekly, a hint of southern accent peeking through. “You've been avoiding me all week.”
“Yeah, well, I'm not obligated to talk to you, you know.”
Cecily stiffened. “You're the teaching assistant, aren't you?”
“So?” Rorie grumbled.
“So, it's your job,” Cecily replied haughtily. “If I have a question about class, you’re absolutely obligated to talk to me.”
Rorie choked out a bitter laugh. “Yes. You're right. So do you have a question about class, Miss DuPont? Or do you just enjoy ordering the staff around, like the rest of your rich, entitled friends?”
“I … How dare you!” Cecily spluttered. “I came here to apologize, you self-righteous … argh!” She stomped her foot furiously, either having run out of insults or too angry to articulate them.
“You're off to a fantastic start,” Rorie said with a snort. “Come on, sit down before you hurt yourself.” Rorie sat and dangled her legs over the edge of the stage.
Cecily shuffled over, humble once more. “I brought you coffee,” she said, extending the Styrofoam cup in her right hand.
“From the cafeteria? How fancy.”
“Well, I brought you the gourmet stuff the past three days, and ended up throwing it out,” Cecily replied. “If you wanted good coffee, you should've let me talk sooner.”
Rorie silently arched an eyebrow, then removed the lid and stared suspiciously into the cup.
“Cream and two sugars,” Cecily offered. “I asked the girl at the Coffee Bean on Monday how you usually ordered it.”
A ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of Rorie's lips. Cecily had put in some effort, she'd give her that much. Even so, her reaction in the cafeteria had stung, and Rorie wanted to make her squirm just a little more before letting her off the hook.
“Careful, Cici. Asking how the notorious campus dyke takes her coffee? You don't want any of your sorority friends to get the wrong impression again.”
Cecily straightened her back and tossed her head defiantly. “I couldn't care less what anyone at this stupid school thinks.”
Rorie studied her for a moment. “Oh really? So, then, the other day when I told you—?
“I froze, that's all,” Cecily answered, her eyes downcast. “And I'm really sorry. I was trying to think of something clever to say and instead my brain stopped working.”
“So you didn’t just freak out and decide we couldn’t be friends?” Rorie surveyed her doubtfully. Preppy, privileged Cecily DuPont, daughter of the most conservative senator in the state, was pretty much the least-likely person to be her friend. She found it more than a little surprising that she even wanted her to be.
“Well, I should hope not!” Cecily laughed. “It would be pretty silly of me. You're the most interesting person I've met in this place in a very long time.” Her expression softened to one of concern. “Have you lost a lot of friends on campus over it? You know, the gay thing,” she whispered.
“Oh, no. They mostly hated me already.” Rorie snorted. “Getting to hate me for being gay was more like a bonus.”
“But, why—”
“Oh, why not, really? I’m poor, from the North, and my appearance is a little too eccentric, not to mention ethnic, for all the WASPs around here, apparently.”
“Ethnic?” Cecily's brow wrinkled in confusion. “I thought you said you were Irish.”
“Well, I am. On my dad’s side.” Rorie rolled her eyes. “I've got seventeen redheaded Mulloy cousins in Boston to prove it. But my mom’s side is more of a … mystery, shall we say.”
“A mystery? Why’s that?”
Cecily’s expression was curious and caring. For a moment Rorie was overwhelmed by the need to share it. But she hesitated, uncertain. Rorie rarely talked about her mother, especially to girls like Cecily who obviously came from perfect, all-American families. She wanted so badly to be able to trust Cecily, but would she think less of her if she knew?
“She abandoned us when I was little,” Rorie admitted with a sigh. She blinked to keep back the tears. “She left one night, just disappeared. I can’t even remember what she looks like any more, and Dad burned all her pictures. Now he pretends she never existed.”
“I'm so sorry,” Cecily said, resting her hand gently on Rorie’s shoulder. “That must’ve been really hard. But what does it have to do with people hating you?”
Rorie relaxed at the kindness of her words and the warmth of her touch. She took a deep breath, determined to confess the rest. “When I started freshman year, a few of my teammates resented the school's biggest athletic scholarship going to a Yankee. Which is hilarious because my dad was in the military, so I’m not really from anywhere. But whatever.” Rorie shrugged. “So they picked on me for that, and finally I told them my mother was a southerner, just to shut them up.”
“And, was she?” Cecily asked.
“Yeah, she was. And that’s about the only thing I know,” Rorie replied. “As soon as I told them the name of the town where she was born, a couple of the meanest girls pounced. One of the girls said she knew that town, and only black people live there. Then her friend joined in, and they just wouldn’t let it drop, and pretty soon the whole team was following their lead like a bunch of sheep. I swear, their language alone was like something straight out of the Confederacy.”
“Oh, Rorie,” Cecily said, face pale and aghast. “But you know most people aren't like that anymore. It’s 1998!”
“Maybe I just got lucky, then.” Sarcasm couldn't hide her bitterness.
Cecily shrugged. “Well, maybe they’re just jealous. You're gorgeous, whatever heritage made you that way.”
Rorie couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, delivered in a southern accent that was now as thick as molasses. And at least twice as sweet. Thi
s was the real Cecily, Rorie thought, in her natural and unguarded state. She liked her this way. Maybe liked her a little too much, she chided herself. There were smarter things she could do than fall for a senator's daughter who was nearly engaged to some fancy Ivy League lawyer. She’d need to be more careful.
“Rorie? May I ask you something?” Cecily looked her squarely in the eyes.
“Of course.” Rorie’s breath caught and she felt a sudden spark of nervousness and what she might ask. Could Cecily tell what Rorie had just been thinking about her?
“It’s…well, you weren’t upset at all about the idea that you mother might be part African American, were you?”
Rorie chuckled, relief spreading through tense muscles. That was a question she could answer easily. “No, that didn't upset me. It's kinda cool, I guess. What upsets me is that I don't know enough about where I'm from to even know if it's true. Not that it even matters,” she added with a sigh. “The suggestion alone was like throwing gasoline on a fire when it came to my teammates.”
“Is that why you quit?”
Rorie shook her head. “No. Are you kidding? I had a full scholarship. I wasn't going to give that up for anything. I quit because I got hurt.”
“By your teammates?” Cecily’s eyes widened.
“Nothing that dramatic. I blamed them at first, but it was my own fault. I pushed myself too far, always thinking I had something to prove. I blew out my shoulder junior year and the doctor said I couldn’t play anymore.”
“So you lost your scholarship. Is that why you go part time now?”
Rorie nodded. “By then I had so many credits it didn't make sense to transfer, but I couldn't afford full time tuition, either.”
“And your dad didn't help?”
Rorie laughed. “Not everybody's got money to spare. We're not all DuPonts, you know.”
Cecily tossed her head back with indignation. “That’s not what I meant!”
“Okay, relax.” Rorie shrugged. “He's also not so thrilled with the lesbian thing. President Clinton might think he invented ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ but my dad was way ahead of him on that one. Only I was a bad little soldier and broke the rule.”
Love's Encore Series (Books One and Two) Page 5
