And yet, that was a lie, in this case at least. Bailing out of the bar hadn’t been driven by her familiar friend Anxiety. She wasn’t running toward the calming familiarity of her keyboard.
She was running away from Diana’s unsettling, disconcerting, magic hands.
Chapter Six
“What was that about?”
Diana was startled out of her deep study of the bar’s closed door. She turned a sunny expression toward Lisa, who set the vanished Paris’s mug of coffee on the table. “I’m not quite sure.”
“I might only see her twice a week, but it’s enough to know she’s not ordinary, that’s for sure. But then everyone in this bar is a bit odd. People show their edges to bartenders.”
Diana had to ask. “Including me?”
“Oh yeah.”
It was intriguing to consider what this observant woman might believe she’d discerned when Diana’s masks were so firmly in place. “What makes me odd?”
“For one thing, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a butch fetish.”
She’d been expecting to be told that her accent was fake or that Lisa had spotted the wig or colored contacts. A butch fetish? What did that even mean? “What makes you think I have one?”
“Femme to femme, honey, I know all the signs. I married one. But…”
Now Lisa’s sharp eyes were studying Diana with far more intensity than Diana had wanted. “But?”
“Paris might not be your type—oh hell!” Lisa left the conversation as abruptly as Paris had, heading toward the sound of breaking dishes and curses emanating from the kitchen.
Diana’s sigh was a mix of relief and vexation. The chance for a casual talk had come and gone, and she hadn’t done well with what talk there had been. She swallowed the last of her beer and left, not wanting to pick up the conversation again. If Lisa thought her interest in Paris was an attraction to female masculinity—was that what Lisa had meant by butch? If so, that was fine. Better than the truth.
As she walked to the T station and then endured the rattling, crowded journey home with her books, she carefully reviewed everything Paris had said and done. The impression Diana had had of her initially, that of a dog kicked one too many times, hadn’t changed. But there was more than that. A rapid rise of nervous tension stretched and thinned Paris’s composure, like a balloon on the verge of popping. The flight out of the bar after Diana had touched her had been edged in panic. Whatever caused that was deep, deep down, possibly hardwired.
If Paris had some kind of anxiety issue it would explain the reluctance to avoid whatever public pressures would result from her success as a writer. Stage fright was real too, after all. Diana didn’t suffer from it, but she had seen it run the gamut from a quick heave before the curtain rose to flat-out paralysis in new and veteran performers alike. Paris’s reluctance might be the product of self-knowledge. When she said she couldn’t do it, she might mean literally that.
Lisa’s description of Paris as “butch” also shed some light on the one and only photo of Anita Topaz. Had it been Paris herself or the publisher that had decided the reading public preferred a fake glamour gal instead of a hoodie-clad lesbian? Sometimes clothes illuminated the person wearing them. Sometimes they were about fitting into a situation. And sometimes they created a convincing cover, as Diana knew only too well. Lisa had seemed to be talking about something else, though, something that wouldn’t be easily covered up by long hair and fake eyelashes.
On the gymnastic circuit there had been overt rules: thou shalt be covered in small, lean muscles, have no body fat and look like a girl. Judges liked cute little dolls who spun like tops. Judges did not like big muscles or plain faces. Gymnastics competitors routinely wore hair ribbons and sparkly clips and makeup, even those who loathed all of it. Playing within the rules was sometimes the only way forward.
Her back was unhappy with the jolting subway ride but the wind had succeeded in pushing the storm clouds inland. When she alighted near her temporary home the day had softened. Bright, cheerful sunlight was visible on the harbor. She picked up a peanut butter and alfalfa sprout sandwich at the corner deli—a bizarre and oddly addictive flavor combination—and took it home for supper later.
Eyeing her small living area she realized she had been looking forward to leaving it as soon as she knew her last acquisition had reached its destination. But she’d made up her mind, it seemed. She’d stay long enough to see if there was any chance of leveraging what she knew about Paris and Anita Topaz into a meeting with Ronald Reynard.
Piecing together what she knew, Diana predicted that the next time Paris would go to Mona Lisa’s was Monday. She would keep to her own routines until then.
Wig off, contacts out, she swapped out Irish Lass’s blouse for a Cambridge T-shirt. It was scarcely two o’clock. The sun would be out for a few hours more, maybe. With a Red Sox hat pulled snugly over her wig-matted hair, she buttoned her peacoat and headed back down the stairs.
A half hour later she was just another Bostonian enjoying the chilly sunshine on Long Pier. The tang of salt water in the air made her think of boating with her stepfather and brother. Summer seemed a long way off, but maybe this year she’d stay home at Mote Hall for the season. Well, it was easy to think she could, though it never worked out that way.
She quelled the unusual pang of homesickness with sizzling salty fries served up in a cone of newspaper and liberally doused with malt vinegar. They were too skinny for proper chips, but close enough.
She found a corner of a bench in the sun and out of the wind, and watched the tour boats and ferries come and go. Finally she opened her new paperback, acquired from the chemist’s shop near the underground. She was going to get to know Anita Topaz better.
Chapter Seven
She hadn’t shied away from Diana’s touch.
The memory of the gentle touch and her atypical reaction haunted Paris for the rest of the day. Had it been loneliness? When she’d moved here she’d welcomed solitude with all her broken heart and aching spirit. Was she finally easing out of the grief and paralyzing memories?
The usual calm of her desk didn’t help her focus and her word count goal for the day was toast. She’d baked herself out of ingredients and had meant to stop at the grocery on the way home, but in her haste to escape Diana and the questions she stirred, she’d forgotten.
The situation had only improved slightly by the following afternoon when two knocks on the door at the top of the stairs broke her out of pointless churning. One knock from her landladies meant they had extra dinner or tea if Paris was interested. She was free to ignore it. Or she could carry up a plate, fill it and go back to her own space. Two knocks meant they needed help with something, or had plans more social than the neighborly, communal sharing of extra food.
Whatever it was they needed, it was a welcome relief to have something useful to do. Not writing was exhausting.
Miss Grace Lambeth and Miss Adya Richards were both looking back on seventy if they were a day. Paris liked them both, and had felt safe with them from the first moments of meeting them. They had asked no prying questions and taken Paris at face value with a genuine acceptance that had been exactly what she’d needed. She had slowly realized they’d spent decades of their lives avoiding questions from the world and so they asked few questions about other people. Paris had thought their reticence ideal. Now she saw that it was the sad legacy of a lifetime spent hiding their relationship.
“Come in, come in, dear.” Grace Lambeth was presiding over her beloved teapot, carried with them from Ireland decades ago. Paris had never been much for fancy tableware, but the porcelain’s simple decoration of trailing stems and soft green shamrocks had immediately charmed her. She happily slid into the chair Grace waved at. The scrubbed oak table was solid and grounding, the heart of the house. Grace shared food on it alongside whatever protest poster or flyer project Adya was masterminding. At the moment the surface held only the tea service, which meant Adya was resting between caus
es.
Grace beamed at her from soft blue eyes. “One or two, dear?”
“One, please. Did you need me to lift something for you?”
“No, we’re celebrating. There’s even some of that delicious trifle left if you would like a treat.”
“I couldn’t.” At the moment, the thought of sweet and boozy trifle made Paris a little nauseated. Hot, fragrant tea would be very comforting.
Adya Richards banged in through the kitchen door, her faded black hair, liberally streaked with white and gray, standing on end as if she’d been out in a nor’easter. Paris had never seen her looking any different. Grace often said that Adya ran through life as if the Devil himself was after her. To which Adya always responded, “Of course he is.”
“Did you find it?” Grace filled the third cup of the three on the tray, used the delicate silver tongs to drop in a single cube of sugar and handed it to Paris.
“Last place I looked. I put it all on top of the dryer,” Adya answered breathlessly as she took a proffered cup for herself. “Thanks, love.”
“Isn’t everything the last place you look?” Grace’s lined face was free of sarcasm, but there was a hint of mischief in her voice.
“Smarty.” Adya shook her head at Paris. “Now that I’ve found the good silver, don’t you know she’ll be talking about how it needs polishing.”
“You know that it will.” Grace deeply inhaled steam from her cup. “Irish blend today, imported.” She nodded at Paris. “We wouldn’t be able to afford the real thing if it weren’t for you, dear.”
Paris watched the two elderly ladies sip their tea almost in unison and marveled at the tangible silent communication between them. Clearly, they had something to tell her. The last time they’d had such a sit-down over tea it had been the sad news that her rent would have to go up seventeen dollars and thirty-four cents due to utilities. Back then a minute flicker of Grace’s eyelashes had cued Adya to broach the subject. Today it was Adya’s playful wink at Grace that had Grace returning her teacup to the saucer while taking a deep breath.
Sensing that Grace was searching for words, Paris warmed her hands around the sturdy china of her cup. The exterior was a basketweave pattern, and tracing the fine lines with her fingertip was calming while she waited.
“Go on,” Adya urged.
“Well, it might seem a bit silly, given that we’re so far on in years,” Grace began. “But rights are rights and—”
“We’re getting married!” Adya burst out.
“No way!” Paris clapped her hands in both surprise and happiness. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?” Adya grinned as she eyed Grace speculatively. “After all these years, I guess I’m stuck with her.”
“Have you told folks at church?” The weekly trek to St. Anthony’s was rarely missed and Thursday mornings were devoted to a women’s group Adya said was full of “cheerful troublemakers.”
“We’re going to, after, and show them the certificate.”
Paris heard hesitation in Grace’s voice. “Do you think people will be surprised?”
Adya lined up her teaspoon with the edge of her napkin. Then said, “I think they will.”
“Maybe not as much as you think,” Paris speculated. “I mean, I knew the moment you opened the door, when I came about the ad for the rental.”
“People see what they expect to see. It’s comfortable,” Grace said.
Paris remembered Diana saying much the same thing. “It’s true. When I see two women together I assume they are a couple, and it makes me feel happy. It’s a compliment.”
Adya nodded. “I didn’t use to think that way. I thought I shouldn’t assume unless the person said so officially, like I was shaming them by thinking they might be like us. Then I was reading one of Grace’s paperbacks—”
“You didn’t dog-ear the pages, did you?”
Paris sipped her cooling tea as they quibbled over who treated the books better. Most people would find their happiness contagious, and it usually lifted Paris’s dark moods. But happiness was something Paris had little fundamental faith in, not anymore. The same tide that lifted them up had sucked Paris under and rolled her over in the deep. She’d spent the last five years gasping for air.
“Don’t you think dear?”
Paris wasn’t sure what she’d missed, so she punted. “Is it for me to say?”
Adya spread her hands in a plea. “You’re the tiebreaker. Chocolate with raspberry or vanilla with lemon?”
“Chocolate.” Adya immediately looked pleased while Grace seemed crestfallen, so Paris hedged by amending, “Both?”
“Now there’s a thought,” Adya said in a placating tone. “Instead of one big one we could order a smaller one of each.”
Grace lifted the teapot to top up her own cup. “Father Christopher—we had to talk to him about it, of course. We decided to talk to him because he mentioned, just in passing, that he’s pleased with the direction of blessed Pope Francis’s recent statements on the matter, don’t you know? Father Christopher is a Jesuit, after all. He went all over the world after seminary, and even on one of those Greenpeace boats.” She patted her wispy white hair with a blue-veined hand even though the bun was as tidy as always. “So we talked to him about what we wanted to do. Father Christopher of course said he can’t conduct the ceremony, but there are no rules about who can bring food to share after Sunday service, and no reason he can’t read a verse aloud if he feels moved to do so, you know, because he can read verse any time he wants. Perhaps Song of Songs 8-7.”
“We haven’t decided,” Adya said quickly.
“I know, love.” Grace winked at Paris, which Paris took to mean that Grace had decided. “So we thought we’d have cakes brought in and show people what we’d done. The Sunday following the big day.”
“We’ll find out who our friends are,” Adya muttered.
“Did you tell the Kerns?” Paris had met the twice-a-week bridge partners several times, and she knew Grace and Adya regarded the other couple as their family.
“Bill and Marva are fine with it.” Grace favored Paris with a sunny smile. “They weren’t the least surprised. Marva said they’d figured out a long time ago only one of the bedrooms was slept in and were waiting on us to say something. They didn’t want to pry.”
Adya’s worried expression had cleared. “They’re going to pick us up and whisk us to City Hall and be our witnesses. We think a couple of Tuesdays from now. On the anniversary of the day we met.”
“That was at a peace rally, wasn’t it?” Paris asked. Both ladies nodded, all smiles at the shared memory. “I’m so pleased for you both.”
“We were going to ask you to be a witness too, dear. But we decided it wouldn’t be kind of us to put you in that position, given how you might find it stressful. We don’t want to cause you a panic attack.”
The genuine concern in Grace’s voice brought a prickle of tears to Paris’s eyes. “Thank you, but really, the Kerns have known you ever so much longer than I have. And—and thank you for wanting to protect me.” The very thought of interacting with an authority that would reproduce her identification in a publicly recorded document set off a trill of worry in her ears. They’d been kind not to ask. Yet she was sorry to miss out. It wouldn’t have been nearly as stress-inducing as the letter from Reynard House had proved to be.
“I do have one question for you. It’s a big one. Are you ready?” She cheerfully ignored the flare of suspicion in Adya’s dark eyes. “Will it be Lambeth-Richards or Richards-Lambeth?”
Both ladies clapped their hands to their cheeks and stared at the other, aghast. Paris smiled into her tea, certain the ensuing debate would be lively.
* * *
The persistent flutter of worry was still there as she sat at her keyboard later, full of tea and half a chicken salad sandwich Adya had insisted they share. Because, according to Adya, she was “looking peaked.”
For an hour she’d been trying and failing to pick up the th
reads of her story. How would she answer the letter? Tell them no and stop asking, or find some kind of compromise that kept Paris Ellison off their radar and Anita Topaz on it?
Was it too much to ask to be left alone to write? Her wildly adventurous stories of travel and fame, torrid sex and passionate love flowed out of her like healing, sustaining magic. All the art she’d seen, music she’d heard, stories she’d read, and dreams out of her head were in a crucible that she heated until precious ideas floated to the top.
Ideas that unfolded like maps to new possibilities. Safe in her own mind she could be anyone in the story. She used words to make the bridges between the world she lived in and ones she longed to exist, filled with people who were flawed and brave. Where there was some justice and a lot of love. Was being left alone to create these possibilities too much to ask?
The light from the desk lamp cast her silhouette onto her screen. She filled in the indistinct spaces with her flat top hair and long lean face, and the thin lips that Kerry had inexplicably said were her best feature. Kerry had seen what she expected to see. She’d thought that when the going got tough, a butch like Paris got tougher.
Paris had thought it was true too. Until it wasn’t.
After all, she’d learned early on to live with her anxiety. She’d been incredibly fortunate that her mother had recognized that Paris was wired differently than other children. While she’d insisted that Paris do what she could to cope with her symptoms without disrupting others, it was more important for Paris to learn the difference between can’t and won’t. The right medication and consistent practice with behavioral conditioning had transformed her from the freaked out kid who lost her cool over every exam to “you know, the odd girl with the weird ideas.”
She had thrived in the world of video game architecture, where appreciation for the whimsy and heart in her story arcs had given her security and confidence. She had been accepted and admired for exactly who she was.
My Lady Lipstick Page 5
