Something True (16 page)

“Oh, Tate.”

“I'm sorry about what Krystal said,” Tate said quickly, because something in Laura's “Oh, Tate” made her want to cry. “She's twenty, but I swear, sometimes, she acts like she's ten. She doesn't have a filter.”

“Whatever she thinks is true,” Laura said.

When Tate turned back to Laura, Laura wore a sad, thoughtful smile.

“Are you really leaving tomorrow?” Tate asked.

“Yes,” Laura said. “Of course.”

It was so unfair, Tate thought, to meet Laura in such a strange, magical way and then to lose her so quickly.

“I'll miss you,” Laura added quietly. “I'll miss all of this. But I have to be in Palm Springs tomorrow.”

Tate looked away and pulled a flower off the honeysuckle that curled up the power pole outside Out Coffee and crushed it between her fingers, releasing the sweet scent.

“Tomorrow,” Tate repeated.

It was still summer. The nights were getting shorter, but they were still suffused with the same watery-blue brightness that had lured Tate from reason the night Laura had first walked into Out Coffee. In that light, a woman newly and foolishly in love could still shave a few minutes off eternity. That was the beauty of a Portland summer. You lived longer on those blue days when the sun lit the sky until ten at night, and the ground never lost its warmth.

“Vita is having a party tonight. You haven't really seen Portland until you've been to one of Vita's parties,” Tate said.

“I don't know.” Laura turned to go. “I've got a lot to do.” But then, in a gesture so fleeting it barely existed, she brushed a soft kiss across Tate's lips. “What time?”

B
ack at the Marriott, Laura plugged in her cell, which had been lying dead at the bottom of her purse. It buzzed immediately, announcing a message. Four messages, actually. All of them from Brenda.

“Craig said he saw you leaving the hotel with one of the women from the City Ridge Commercial Plaza project. Laura, what's going on? You're supposed to be in Palm Springs. Craig and Dayton can handle everything in Portland. We don't need you there.”

The remaining voice mails carried the same message but in curter tones. Laura felt her heart race.
He saw you leaving the hotel with one of the women from the City Ridge Commercial Plaza
project.
She wondered if Craig had guessed the truth. Had he intimated that there was more going on than just business? She had met Tate around midnight. She was dressed up. They had stayed out late. What part of that suggested a real estate transaction?

She called the front desk.

“I'd like to change the credit card on my reservation. Yes, I'd like to put the room on my personal card.”

She would have to send Craig and Dayton to Seattle—anywhere but here, and that was the nearest project. They weren't needed there, but they weren't needed in Portland either. Although she could arguably use them in Palm Springs, the project was definitely something she could handle alone.

Once she hung up with the front desk, she called Craig to tell him the plan.

“Thank God,” he said. “Finally. And where are you off to?”

“Palm Springs.”

“Ah. The little black dress of investing.”

“Exactly.”

That was easy
, Laura thought. But nothing was easy—not Portland, not Tate, not Brenda, not the work she had to do for her father. She sat in front of her open laptop for several minutes before she placed the last call.

“Fidel's Pizza, Palm Springs. Pickup or delivery?” the voice on the other end asked.

She almost hung up.

“Pickup,” she said finally.

She used her Clark-Vester credit card.

There you go, Brenda
, she thought bitterly.
I'm in Palm Springs.

A
little before ten that evening, Laura appeared in Tate's doorway, in a sky-blue dress, her hair loose around her shoulders, and a great confetti of peony blooms in her arms. Together they strolled through the quiet streets to Vita's apartment, known by locals as the Church, since it was, in fact, the sanctuary, Sunday school rooms, and pastoral office of a converted Methodist church. It was also, despite an ever-changing cast of tenants, the best party spot in Portland. Vita and her roommates—a dancer from the Portland ballet and an acupuncture student—preferred theme parties. That night's theme was Gold Lamé Yacht. In honor of the Gold Lamé Yacht, Vita's roommates had spray-painted dozens of toy ships gold. These hung from the rafters of the sanctuary from invisible fishing line. The Beach Boys played softly on a stereo. A buffet table was laden with wine and slabs of blue cheese.

Tate could see Laura's eyes widen as they stepped into the Alice in Wonderland splendor of the church sanctuary converted into a living room converted into the deck of a golden sailboat. Tate considered a quip about Laura's anchor-patterned ascot, but resisted, feeling Laura's hand clasp hers.

Vita greeted Tate and Laura with a hug each.

“Come in. Join the usual suspects,” she sang out, then slipped back into the mix of people.

In the center of the room, Cairo was dancing languidly, scarves whirling around her like a kaleidoscope. Tate recognized several regulars from Out Coffee and many more from the Mirage, including Abigail, whom Tate made a special point to ignore. Even Krystal had been invited. She sat at the kitchen table looking awkward but pleased to be part of the grown-ups' party. Tate did not even stop to worry what Krystal would tell Maggie about her and Laura, their arms around each other, Laura's cheek on her shoulder. There was only tonight.

The music turned up. The guests kept arriving. Tate installed herself deep in a papasan chair. Laura sat down beside her, the slope of the papasan sliding their bodies together. They watched as the room filled. Vita's roommate, the acupuncturist, pulled out a set of stilts and tiptoed around the sanctuary. Someone brought in an enormous pumpkin filled with soup. A man in a gold tutu tried to show two women how to tango.

“He's a real dancer,” Krystal said, plopping down on the floor by Tate's feet. “He's in the ballet.”

“I know,” Tate said. “You're not drinking, right?”

“My dad would get me a drink.”

With a roofie and a shot of bad heroin
, Tate thought. But she just ruffled Krystal's hair with one hand and said, “Think of me as your evil stepmom.”

“You're more like my big sister,” Krystal said, pensively. “Because we're so alike.”

Tate shot Laura a look, rolling her eyes.

Krystal swiveled her head around so she could see Laura.

“And I read Tate's horoscope,” Krystal added. “It said, ‘This month a fit of emotional eating will send you crawling back to the stale candy hearts you have left over from last Valentine's Day. Pay attention. They will spell out a different message this time.'”

Laura raised her head from Tate's shoulder.

“That was in the horoscope?”

“In
Willamette Week
. Yes. Probably,” Tate said.

“It means you and Tate would be perfect for each other,” Krystal said, staring across the dance floor at the darkened stained glass window on the other side of the room. “I knew the minute you walked into the coffee shop.”

Tate leaned over Krystal's shoulder.

“Don't talk to Maggie about it, okay?”

“Naw,” Krystal said. “I got your back.
Mom
won't find out.”

Tate blushed, but it was only happiness making its way from her heart to her cheeks.

Then the man in the gold tutu called for a new dance partner, and Krystal stood up, saying, “Me. Me.”

“She is precocious,” Laura said once Krystal was clomping across the floor, her face set in an expression that was probably meant to be a seductive frown but looked something like a blowfish. “Is she really just like you?”

“She's smarter than I was, but she's more troubled,” Tate said.

“I like her,” Laura said, smiling her wry smile. “She's got that stupid kind of hope that gets people killed.”

“Great,” Tate said.

Laura's smile faded. “I never had that kind of hope.”

Tate leaned her cheek on the top of Laura's head, trying to make sense of a world in which Frank Jackson could kill a girl with a wrench and his daughter could dance the tango in a room that looked like the inside of a golden candy wrapper. A world in which Laura could lean against her, stroking her ribs, her fingers just grazing the side of her breast. And a world in which Laura could leave. The next day. Forever.

Two more couples had joined Krystal and the man in the tutu, and they glided, stomped, and slid back and forth across the sanctuary, each pair making a dramatic turn a second before they crashed into the wall. Vita made a theatrical bow and asked Cairo to dance, and then there were eight bodies parting the crowd of guests.

“Vita is a character,” Laura said.

“She has a new girlfriend every week,” Tate said. “Every week it's ‘the one.'”

“That's the one for tonight?” Laura nodded toward Cairo.

“Yeah, although she's been the one for a month. Maybe we can all change.”

“And what about the woman over there? What's her story?” Laura pointed to a tiny woman with a puff of dark, gray hair.

“Barb. She shows dogs. She has a dozen Irish setters at home.”

“And over there…the man in the green dress?”

“Mica. He and his partner got together when they tied for the queen of the Rose Court. That's the drag queen beauty pageant.”

Tate pointed out a few more local characters. Laura snuggled closer to her.

“And what do they say about you?” Laura asked, gesturing toward the crowd.

“Besides the fact that I grow the best heirloom tomatoes in east Portland?” Tate asked.

Laura laughed. “Besides that.”

“They probably say I've spent way too long working at Maggie's coffee shop.”

“I didn't mean what I said the other night,” Laura said.

Tate pulled her closer.

“They say I always fall hard for the wrong woman.” She pressed her lips to Laura's temple to soften her words. Then, speaking into the sweet, citrus-blossom scent of Laura's hair, she added, “They say, ‘This time she is much prettier.' They say, ‘This time, she's leaving even faster than the rest.' They say, ‘Some people just have that kind of luck.'”

Tate closed her eyes. Laura said nothing. Tate heard the sound of music and boots clomping across the floor and girls laughing.

“Now turn,” the diva in the gold tutu called out.

“I'm going to get a drink,” Laura said.

Tate opened her eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Tate said.

Laura smiled. “And then we're going to learn to tango.”

More guests arrived and eventually the room got too crowded for dancing. Laura went in search of another drink, and Tate reclaimed her seat in the papasan chair. She was watching Laura from across the room when Abigail sidled up behind her chair and popped around its circumference like an orange sprite.

“Tate,” she said as though she had not expected to find Tate there.

Tate looked at her.

“Is she your girlfriend?” Abigail asked.

“That's Laura.”

“I heard she was from Kentucky.”

“Alabama.”

On the other side of the room, Laura poured herself a sip of red wine in the bottom of a large wineglass. A moment later, Vita threw her arm around Laura.

“You call that a drink?” Vita grabbed a bottle of wine off the counter and dumped half the bottle into Laura's glass. “Now, that's a drink.”

Laura laughed, and the two of them toasted with overfull glasses. Tate thought how much fun it would be to have both of them in her life: her best friend and this strange, beautiful woman who was like a Pegasus that had alighted in Tate's earthbound existence.

Abigail was still talking. Clearly it was important, at least to her, because she kept stepping in front of Tate and blocking her view. Finally, Tate had to tune in.

“You know they all said I was the backbone of the string section,” Abigail was saying. “It's not so much about tone. It's about strength of tonal unity. That's what they missed, and I miss it too, but not in the same way.”

“What?”

“I quit the orchestra.”

“You got tired of Vivaldi?”

“I let it come between
us
. I can see that now. That's why I broke up with Duke.”

“Duke.” Tate tried to piece together what Abigail had just said. She did not want to admit she had not been listening and risk the possibility of Abigail delivering the whole speech again. “Shouldn't you have broken up with Duke because she's crazy and she beats people up?”

“It doesn't matter.” Abigail knelt down. “What matters is that I'm here for you, if you want me.”

“I'm with someone.”

“She won't stay.” Abigail put a hand on Tate's knee. “I'm not saying that to be mean. It's just a fact. But I'm here.”

Across the room, Laura tossed her head and laughed. Her hair swam around her face like a golden storm. Behind her, someone opened a back door. Her dress rippled in the breeze. The breeze carried in the smell of charcoal fire, honeysuckle, a whiff of cigarette, and behind that the distant smell of the river. Tate thought,
She'll never stay.
Then Laura was standing in front of her. Tate rose. She took the drink out of Laura's hand and set it on a table. Then she cupped Laura's slender neck in her hand and kissed her, because tomorrow's sadness belonged to a woman who had not yet been born.

After the party, they returned to Tate's apartment. Since she met Laura, Tate had spent many hours lying awake, imagining how skillfully she would make love to Laura, how she would wait—practically a stone butch—tending to Laura's every need before her own. But it was Laura who took the lead, pushing Tate down on the futon and straddling her. Then slowly she worked her way down Tate's body, kissing and licking and massaging Tate's shoulders, her breasts, her nipples. When Tate tried to reciprocate, Laura chided her gently.

“I want to do this for you. I've been waiting too long already.”

“I know,” Tate said, thinking about the long, dry months at the end of her relationship with Abigail and afterward.

“No.” Laura's kiss came to rest on Tate's stomach, just below her belly button. “You don't know,” she whispered. “When was the last time you had sex with a woman?” Laura asked. “Besides me.”

“Nine months. Maybe a year. The last time I had good sex, besides you, was a lot longer than that.”

“You know you're the only woman I've been with,” Laura said, laying her cheek on Tate's belly and looking up at her.

“You said you came out in your twenties,” Tate said gently.

“I guessed when I was in my teens. I knew for sure I was gay by the time I was twenty, after I met my husband but before we got married.” Laura stroked one finger through Tate's pubic hair, sending a shiver of pleasure down Tate's legs and up her spine.

“And you married him anyway?” Tate tried to follow the conversation as Laura continued stroking her.

“I didn't think he would cure me or anything,” Laura said. “I didn't even think it was bad being gay, but it was my father's first run at senate. The media was obsessed with my marriage. It was in the news more than his campaign. ‘A modern fairy tale,' they called it. ‘The new Kennedys.'”

“And your father won.”

“Yes.”

“And you got divorced.”

“Yes. But it was my ex who asked for the divorce. I thought he was just in it for the press, like me, but he actually wanted a life together. He loved me.” Laura paused. “I didn't understand that.”

“But you didn't meet a girl you liked after that?”

“Not until now.” Laura slid her hand between Tate's legs. Tate drew a quick breath. “Honestly, at first I didn't care. I was busy. I had a career, and I was so good at it.”

Laura moved her finger in and out of Tate's sex, gently, absentmindedly, as though she had forgotten what she was doing. Although Tate had not.

“I thought I could just turn off my sexuality. Priests do. Nuns do. That's what I told myself. But the more I tried, the more I thought about sex. I wanted it. I thought about it all the time.”

Laura circled Tate's clit with a slick finger.

“I don't think that's very strange.” Tate's voice strained.

“Before I left my last project in Chicago, I decided I'd have a one-night stand in a city I knew I'd never come back to. I'd never had a one-night stand before in my life. I didn't know how. But my boss called and said I was going to Portland. We don't do business in Portland. Portland's barely on the map. I thought,
This is my chance
.”

Tate rested her hand on Laura's to stop the delicious circling of her fingers at least long enough for Tate to concentrate on Laura's confession.

“I thought if I could do that once—if I could do
this
once, maybe twice a year—it would be enough. And I knew it was a mistake to pick you of all the women in Portland, but that ex of yours is so awful and you're so beautiful.” Laura sighed. “And I didn't expect you would come to the meeting. I thought if I could just…”

“Just…”

“I thought after I slept with you, I wouldn't want it anymore.”

Tate relaxed back on her pillow and released the gentle hold she had on Laura's hand.

“I don't think that it works that way.”