by Robbi McCoy
“But, you?”
Chelsea looked embarrassed. “That was my doing,” she said. “I forced my way into her life. She resisted, believe me. Her students do adore her, and plenty of them desire her. She’s fended off dozens of students, men and women, and she knows how to do that. Her attitude about them is that they’re messy— her word. No, I was a rare exception.” Chelsea narrowed her eyes at Harper. “Look, can we talk about something else, something more interesting?”
Harper found the subject of Chelsea’s relationship with Mary extremely interesting, but she said nothing more about it. The rest of the time was spent on more lighthearted topics. She found herself talking about her family in Cape Cod and her idyllic New England childhood. They also talked about music. On that subject, Chelsea said, “I’m an imbecile when it comes to music.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“No, it’s true, even though I go to the symphony and all that.
I like music, but I don’t really get it, if you know what I mean. Of course I like pop music. But classical, it can be a little tedious... sometimes. Sometimes it’s wonderful. Your cello solo that time, that was wonderful.”
“Thanks. You don’t have to like everything. Even I don’t like everything.”
Chelsea smiled. “But opera, that just has to be the worst! I will never figure that out. Mary loves it. I went a couple of times for her sake, but it just seems so ridiculous to me.”
It was nearly impossible, Harper realized, for Chelsea to have a conversation without mentioning Mary, despite her own request to avoid the subject. That wasn’t surprising. Practically her entire adult life had been spent under Mary’s wing.
Harper studied Chelsea as they talked, absorbing details of her appearance—her skin with its fine blond hairs, a nose slightly flattened at the end, the smile which lifted only the right side of her mouth, and her light, pleasant laugh. Glimpses of her diminutive round ears and the tiny scar under her left eye mingled with the faint whiff of a blooming tea rose in the planter box below the open window. An interleaved memory of sight and smell insinuated itself into Harper’s subconscious, producing sensory echoes that resounded in her mind often after that day.
She found herself waiting for Chelsea to appear in the library, looking up from whatever she was doing when she heard the swoosh of the automatic doors opening and feeling disappointed when it wasn’t her. Chelsea’s face appeared in her mind involuntarily, along with bits of conversation or the way Chelsea hooked her hair behind her ear, unhurriedly, with her index finger. These images came to her as she hung clean kitchen curtains or mowed the lawn. They came often and unexpectedly and left her feeling warm and happy. She started mentioning Chelsea to her friends, even Eliot, often just to repeat something clever she had said. And, as springtime waned, she began to wonder if there was any possibility that she and Chelsea could be more than friends.
By May their friendship had moved unopposed into that realm of desire that had always been mysterious and alluring to Harper. Understanding and unafraid, she allowed Chelsea to move deeper under her skin. They went to dinner together, then to a chamber music concert and then to the theater to see Mary Zimmerman’s play Metamorphoses. Harper had always had a special love of Greek mythology and Chelsea, with her Morrison education and years of devotion to a woman in love with all things classical, proved the ideal companion for this event. During the performance, they exchanged smiles with one another over special moments in the action, wordlessly conveying their enjoyment. Afterward, they went out for dessert, sharing a piece of Kahlua cheesecake at a round, rickety table in a noisy diner.
“The pool was practically a character in the play,” Chelsea remarked. “And not always the same character. It was sometimes benign, sometimes threatening. It was the one constant. Always there, but you never knew what part it would play.”
Harper nodded. “You’re right. Surprisingly versatile, considering that, as a prop, it never really changed at all.”
“The staging, the costumes, everything, that production was just gorgeous to look at.”
Harper sipped her decaf, watching Chelsea’s eyes. She looked lovely tonight, dressed in heather gray slacks and a cute embroidered jacket over a silky azure blouse. She wore gold hoops in her ears, and her sunny hair was swept up and pinned haphazardly on the back of her head, leaving her neck bare.
“Which story did you like best?” Chelsea asked.
“Orpheus and Eurydice, I think. It’s such an intriguing idea, isn’t it, that you could go into the underworld and bring back a loved one who’s died. To cheat death, it’s something we’ve all wished for at one time or another.”
“Yes, a universal fantasy. I have to agree with you about that one. It was very moving. So full of suspense as he led her back up to the world of the living.”
“I know! I found myself gritting my teeth while they did that slow march out of Hell.”
Chelsea poised her fork over the last bite of cheesecake and looked inquiringly at Harper, who nodded assent. Chelsea took the bite. “He just had to believe she was following him. It was an incredible leap of faith.”
“You could feel his agony. He wanted desperately to look, to see if she was still there or just to see her.”
“And, then, of course, when he turns and looks at her, your heart just sinks.”
“Even though we knew he would,” Harper added.
“Yes, we knew he would, but somehow we hoped he wouldn’t. We wanted a happy ending.”
“We always do.”
Chelsea nodded. “Yes, people do so want a happy ending!” She poured milk into her coffee, then asked, “Could you do it?”
“Not look, you mean?”
“Yes. Just trust, blindly.”
Harper thought for a few seconds and then said, “Yes, I could.”
Chelsea shook her head. “I don’t think I could. I’d look. Wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”
“You can’t make the leap of faith?”
“I’ve never been very good at faith.”
“Even when it comes to love? In that case, what else is there but faith?”
Chelsea smiled crookedly. “Well, maybe a couple of things, but you’re right. Believing in love is largely a matter of faith.”
After dessert, Harper drove Chelsea home, parking outside her apartment building.
“I had a great time,” Chelsea said, her expression conveying more than her words. “I really like you, you know?” She touched Harper’s arm briefly, then slid out of the car on the passenger side.
“I’ll call you,” Harper said. “Maybe we can do something next weekend.”
Harper recognized that they were now dating, that they were no longer two friends “hanging out.” She also knew when she invited Chelsea to her house for dinner a week later that she was inviting her to the next stage. That Saturday, Chelsea arrived with a basket of nectarines she had picked from her parents’ tree, a gift of summer fruit. She wore her hair in a ponytail, exposing her small ears with their gold hoops and the tufts of light hair down either side of the back of her neck, hairs too short and wispy to be pulled into the elastic band. Across the top of her nose ran a random pattern of light freckles that hadn’t been there the last time Harper saw her. As the weather warmed, the freckles emerged from their winter dormancy. Her hair seemed lighter too, as if it were absorbing summer sunlight.
Chelsea placed her hand on Harper’s more than once during dinner, smoothly guiding their evening toward the physical. Harper had already told Chelsea what she needed to know, that, although certainly not naïve about sex, she was inexperienced with women. She had never even kissed a woman, though that time with Peggy, in college, had gone well beyond kissing. That had been seventeen years ago, but it was close to the surface of Harper’s consciousness once again. Chelsea’s experience, Harper knew, was also limited, though in a different way—but in this particular dance, they seemed to have agreed, she was leading.
After dinner they sat in patio chairs on th
e redwood deck, sipping a crisp Riesling and eating nectarine slices while the lively tones of Vivaldi serenaded them from inside the house.The night was warm with only an occasional slip of a wind cutting through the heavy air. They were both tired of talking, it seemed. They sat side by side, enjoying one another’s company in silence, watching the night sky and listening to the faint tinkling of a neighbor’s wind chimes, an odd, but not unpleasant, percussive addition to Vivaldi. At one point Chelsea reached over and took hold of Harper’s hand, clasping it easily between them, casting an uncomplicated smile at her. Harper felt calm and happy and strangely as if the two of them had been sitting here like this, contented and familiar, for years. She felt, in fact, as if they were already lovers.
As their magical evening concluded, they stood just inside the front door, looking at one another wordlessly, an air of expectation between them. Chelsea put her hand to Harper’s cheek, caressing her gently as she moved closer. Her eyes were full of portent. She’s being careful and polite, Harper realized, because this moment is a powerful memory in the making, a moment to be cherished. Chelsea took Harper lightly in her arms and kissed her tentatively. As soon as Harper felt those soft lips gently pressing hers, she gladly abandoned herself to the feeling. She’d been imagining this for several weeks already.
They kissed one another tenderly for several minutes during which neither of them spoke. Harper tasted sweet nectarine juice on Chelsea’s mouth, a flavor that diminished as they continued kissing. Chelsea was a wonderful kisser. Harper felt immediately comfortable and natural with her, their mouths meshing perfectly in a leisurely, luxurious communion. She felt Chelsea’s hands on her back, their breasts and thighs touching. Everywhere their bodies intersected, there was heat and a heightening of senses.
Chelsea’s lips grazed her neck, her ear, her collarbone, so tantalizingly soft and sensuous. Harper, her eyes closed, felt as if she were being transformed into music. She felt like a Mendelssohn sonata drifting through the room. Ironic, she thought, remembering how Chelsea professed no musical talent. And yet she was masterful at playing Harper.
Chelsea could have done anything she wanted to at that point. Harper was completely under her spell. But she said good night instead, leaving Harper’s body craving more, leaving a promise of something extraordinary yet to come. Long after Chelsea had gone, Harper felt the splendid sensation of her mouth.
She knew why Chelsea hesitated. It was because of Eliot. She was waiting for Harper to be done with him. She didn’t want to be involved in a triangle. She was moving cautiously. If Harper had felt any doubts at all about what she should do next, Chelsea’s marvelous kisses would have easily dispelled them. But she had no doubts.
The following week Eliot arrived for his summer visit. Harper had told Chelsea, weeks earlier, long before she had tasted those velvety lips, that she planned to break up with him this summer. She didn’t want to do it on the phone, though. She wanted to do it in person. So she let him come as planned, but, soon after he arrived, she told him what she had been rehearsing for months.
“You can’t see me in your future,” he said, repeating the gist of what she was trying to explain. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s right. There’s no future for us. We’ve known that for a long time. I don’t want to invest any more of my life in something with no future.”
“I thought that’s what you liked about it,” he objected, “that you didn’t have to invest anything. You know, the lack of commitment, the free and easy good times. You’ve said as much, that you didn’t want to be tied down or deal with expectations.”
“Yes, I know, but I’ve been feeling differently lately. It doesn’t feel right to me anymore. It feels hollow. I think I need something more substantial.”
“Harper, I’ve been trying to persuade you for years now to get married. You can’t get any more substantial than that.”
“I’m sorry, Eliot, but I just don’t see you as a part of whatever substantial means for me.”
“So you don’t love me anymore?”
“As a friend, Eliot. I love you as a dear, old friend.”
“Since when?” he asked.
“Honestly, it’s always been that way.”
As Eliot slept in the guest room that night, Harper considered the sixteen years of summers that he had inhabited and felt a vague sense of loss. She was buoyed, though, by the tremendous potential of this new summer. And, although he was disoriented, she knew he would be okay. Better than okay. He had a life already that didn’t include her. This breakup felt anticlimactic to her. She thought it would probably be similar for him, once he got over the sting.
After breakfast the next day, Eliot hugged Harper goodbye and left. It was a sad moment, the end of an era. But by the time she had dialed Chelsea’s number to report that he was gone, the sadness had completely left her. Now, an hour later, as Chelsea’s Honda appeared at the curb, Harper couldn’t have been happier. She was ecstatic, in fact. Eliot was completely forgotten as she watched Chelsea approach. She moved like a waltz from the street to the door. Her hair, loose, bounced over her shoulders as she stepped up the walkway. She was radiant. She fell into Harper’s waiting arms, the sun’s heat clinging to her skin and clothes. They clutched one another tightly, their mouths coming anxiously together.
They kissed with unrestrained desire. Finally, Harper pulled away and took Chelsea’s hand, leading her into the bedroom. They sat on the bed and resumed kissing. Neither of them had uttered a word since Chelsea’s arrival. They had been talking for months. There was nothing to say now except through touch.
Chelsea pulled off her shirt and slipped out of her bra, tossing it on the floor. There was a faint tan line slung low across her chest. Her firm breasts were as round as peaches and looked just as luscious, their relaxed nipples the color of bubble gum. Harper touched them softly, feeling silk. As her thumb passed over a smooth aureole, it clenched into prominence—an invitation. They removed the rest of their clothes rapidly.
There was something in her that had been waiting all her life for this moment, thought Harper, holding this woman in her arms. It had been lying semi-dormant, not peacefully as in a dreaming sleep, but fitful and impatient, goading her. And it had taken her all this time to understand what it was that she had been heading toward.
Chelsea lowered Harper to the bed, lying on top of her. Taking hold of Harper’s mouth with hers, she kissed her so deeply that Harper could feel desire sweeping across her entire body.
Chelsea’s hands moved over Harper’s curves, caressing her with exquisite, lingering touches. Her mouth rhapsodized Harper, softly, sweetly. Her fingers touched every part of Harper’s body as if she were a blind woman reading the libretto of her soul.
Harper touched Chelsea too, marveling at how soft and sleek she was, how like satin her skin felt against fingertips and lips. With sensitive abandon, she let her mouth follow its own course— along Chelsea’s shoulder, then down between her breasts, along the side of her waist to the bone protruding at her hip, and then into the tender spot at the top of her thigh where honey-colored hair tickled her nose. Facing toward the footboard now, Harper kissed the pale skin below Chelsea’s navel, letting her tongue glide along the tan line low on her stomach.
Chelsea turned on her side, pulling Harper’s hips close to her face, then stroked her, gently and lightly at first, with her fingers, but gradually more insistently, deepening the sensation, and Harper’s body found and matched the rising tempo. She gripped Chelsea’s body more tightly as the heat grew between them and her desire swelled. She felt Chelsea’s hot breath between her legs and then felt her warm, wet mouth nuzzling into her. As her tongue slid up and back down like a bow on a violin, Harper buried her face in Chelsea’s soft inner thigh and let herself be overwhelmed.
Chapter 17
SUMMER, TWO YEARS AGO (JULY)
The summer of Chelsea, with its long, languid nights of lovemaking, proceeded happily through June and into J
uly. When the time came in late July to travel east, Harper went reluctantly. She and Chelsea hadn’t been apart for more than a day up until then, and she was still drowning in the ecstasy of this woman’s company.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” Chelsea told her, urging her to go. “I’ll just want you more.”
“I’ll only stay nine days,” Harper promised.
Those nine days passed by rapidly with frequent phone calls from Massachusetts to California and from California to Massachusetts. Harper, thoroughly preoccupied with her newfound joy, told her brother all about Chelsea on the day of her arrival. She was relieved to have a confidante. Danny, she knew, wouldn’t be alarmed or judgmental. He was momentarily surprised, but that soon gave way to the anticipated interest and support. Harper wasn’t able to hide her overwhelming happiness from the rest of her family, although she tried, making her phone calls away from the house or late at night when everyone was asleep. Since Chelsea was three hours behind, this was ideal. But her mother was watching her, it seemed, growing more and more suspicious, because mothers can sense the moods of their cubs without being told. And it probably didn’t look all that nonchalant the times Harper’s cell phone rang and she bolted from the room like a spaceship going into hyper drive.
Alice waited until the third day to ask, “Who is it that you’re so preoccupied with, Harper?”
“A friend,” she said evasively.
Her mother eyed her in a way that made Harper feel small and vulnerable, as if she were five and being asked, “Who spilled milk all over the dog?”
“Girl friend,” Harper said shyly. Although she had correctly predicted Danny’s response to her love for a woman, she wasn’t sure how her parents would take it, despite their political support for gay rights.
“I see,” Alice replied, looking steadily at Harper. “Someone special?”
