Something True (6 page)

Laura followed Tate from shop to shop, silent and incredibly poised. It was a little unnerving in fact; Tate had never seen anyone have such good posture for such a prolonged period of time. Meanwhile, Dayton complained like a boy on a dull field trip, and Craig pointed out a dozen flaws in every café they visited.

Finally, around six p.m., as they sat in Rimsky-Korsakoffee House, Craig said, “I appreciate your effort.” He did not sound like he appreciated it at all. “But we have studied the Portland food and beverage market. That's what we
do.
We wouldn't move forward on a project like this without understanding the city. We know there are 493 independent coffee shops and kiosks, and 615 chain-operated and franchise coffee purveyors. Coffee amounts to 12 percent of the food profits. We also know that there are only 91 dedicated sandwich shops and those bring in an average of $49,000 a year profit, but we know the chains are the leaders by far, pulling the average up by almost 200 percent.”

“Yeah. We know all this already,” Dayton chimed in, looking up from his phone.

Tate glanced at Laura. She said nothing, but her eyes concurred. Tate had wasted their time.

“Okay,” Tate said. “One more stop, and then I'll let you go for tonight.”

Tate was pleased when she paused in front of the Pied Cow, and Craig and Dayton looked confused. Laura looked up at the vine-covered Victorian house.

“In here?” Laura asked.

Tate nodded.

Inside they were greeted by an entryway lined with Elvis busts, baby-doll heads, and glowing religious art from all faiths but particularly those that featured gods with extra extremities. Tate led them through the house and into the garden out back. The ground was covered in damp Persian rugs. Cold fire pits dotted the area, waiting for the fall days when customers would cluster around their warmth. That night, the only smoke came from an ornate hookah smoked, simultaneously, by three old men, each connected to the hookah by a pipe stem on a flexible tube. Craig coughed.

“Here, sit.” Tate smiled at the waitress who was clearing a table. “Could we have four bowls of kava?”

The waitress returned her smile, and, a moment later, came back with a tray balanced on her shoulder. She placed four mismatched bowls before them.

“This looks like dishwater,” Dayton complained. “There's a twig in mine.”

“That's the kava,” the waitress said. “We start by pulping the roots, then we steep them in water until they form the milk. It's a Polynesian tradition. You're supposed to drink it with friends. It relaxes you.”

Again, the waitress smiled at Tate. She was cute, Tate thought, in a fresh, wholesome way that suggested she biked everywhere and ate vegan. Tate recalled all Vita's outrageous encouragement.
You've got that butch magnetism. Do you know who I would kill for your jawline?

Tate flashed a smile at the girl. It felt awkward, but the girl put her hand on Tate's shoulder.

“Some people even say it's an aphrodisiac,” the waitress added.

Tate wasn't sure, but she thought she saw Laura's excellent posture stiffen.

“What's your name?” Tate asked the waitress.

“Leaf.”

Of course it was.

“Do you have any books here, Leaf? A couple of books you could loan us to read while we enjoy our kava?”

“There's a box of books customers left behind.”

“That would be perfect.”

Dayton lifted the kava to his lips, then spat it on the dirt.

“It's warm, and it tastes like sawdust,” he protested. “Is this like some reality TV show? Like where's the fucking camera?”

Craig pushed his away.

Laura took her bowl in both hands and took a deep gulp. Her face said
skim milk and sawdust
, but she said, “It's a cultural experience. Drink it.”

Leaf reappeared with a cardboard box and put it on the table.

“
Collected Works of Hegel
,” she read as she lifted the first book out of the box. “
The Homesteader's Guide to Compost
.
Fight Club.
” She read out a few more titles. “Will these do?”

“Perfect,” Tate said. She passed Jeanette Winterson's
Sexing the Cherry
to Laura. “This is good.” For herself, she took
A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again.
She opened it, took a swig of her kava—it really was disgusting—and pretended to read.

Apparently bored after fifteen seconds of silence, Dayton said, “What are we doing?”

Tate glanced over the top of her book.

“I'm showing you Portland.”

“Where?”

“Here,” Tate said. “Your friend made it very clear you've done your research, so I'm going to show you something you can't get from a spreadsheet.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Laura. A slight smiled pulled at the corner of her eyes. She was curious.

“We are going to sit here until this place closes,” Tate went on. “We're going to sit and listen and read these books and drink this kava and
just be
. Because that's part of Portland. Sure there are people getting ahead and working overtime and going balls to the wall every day, but those guys over there…” Tate pointed to the hookah smokers. “Fifty bucks says they've been here all day, and they'll be here all night. People here know how to live, or at least they know there is a difference between living and working. And you can't see it on a spreadsheet, and you can't see it if you don't slow down.”

Craig sighed.

“Are we really going to do this?” he asked Laura.

Laura took another sip of her kava.

“I am,” Laura said.

Laura opened the book Tate had given her, and Dayton and Craig fell into disgruntled silence. She was the boss. Tate saw it again. The men could not move without her permission—and they weren't happy about it. Dayton flipped through book after book, sighing as though each page personally offended him with its dullness. Craig folded his arms and glared at the bowl of kava.

Then suddenly, Dayton said, “My lips.” He poked his lips. “My lips are numb. I can't feel my lips. My tongue is all fuzzy. Is your tongue fuzzy?”

“Don't,” Laura said without looking up from her book.

“No, I'm serious. Something's wrong. I'm going all numb.”

Tate glanced from Laura to Dayton.

“It's probably an allergic reaction,” Laura said.

“You don't feel it?” Dayton asked. “Aw shit, man, this is messed up!”

Laura shook her head.

“I need a Benadryl. Do my lips look swollen?” He stuck his tongue out. “My tongue?”

“It's still there,” Laura said, deadpan.

“I'm not kidding!” Dayton started tapping his phone. “I've got to get help.”

“Craig,” Laura said with utter indifference. “Why don't you take Dayton back to the hotel? Get him some Benadryl before the inflammation gets into his brain.”

When they were gone, Laura turned to Tate.

“My lips
are
numb,” she said.

“You were messing with him!” Tate did not expect someone with such good posture to be devilish. Tate reached out and touched two fingers to Laura's lips. Her hand trembled.

“Can you feel that?” Tate asked.

She expected Laura to flinch, but she didn't. She just looked scared. Tate withdrew her touch.

“Yes, but it doesn't feel right.” Laura touched her own lips.

“You didn't read the menu, did you?”

“No.”

“You better text Dayton,” Tate said. “It's supposed to do that. It's got a mild anesthetic in it.”

“Milky anesthetic water with twigs in it?” Laura asked.

“It's what's for dinner.” Tate winked.

Laura looked relieved. She wrote Dayton a text.

“They are not going to come back, are they?” Tate asked.

“I don't think I could get them back here if their jobs depended on it.”

Tate sipped her kava. “It really is awful, isn't it?”

Laura nodded.

“They serve a nice port. Can I order you one?” Tate paused. She thought about the flood at Out Coffee and Craig's litany of statistics. “You don't have to stay, if you don't want to. Craig is probably right. I can't show you anything you don't already know. This is your business. I guess people on the ground floor are always doing that. They think they understand the big picture just because they work somewhere.”

“Sometimes,” Laura said. “And sometimes big companies with lots of analysts make mistakes because they don't ask the people they're actually trying to serve or the people who actually do the work. And yes, I'd like a port.”

Leaf took the kava away and brought the port. Another table ordered a hookah and the cherry-scented smoke thickened. The sound of traffic died down and conversation filled the air, lending a cover of privacy to their talk.

“Now that I know your name,” Tate ventured, not sure if she should even reference the night they had spent together, “can I ask about the stuff on your tax return? Where are you from? How did you become a commercial real estate developer?”

Laura sipped her port and surveyed the garden.

“I live in Alabama,” Laura said, then paused. “No, that's not right. My name is on a four-bedroom house in Alabama and on a Prius that I never drive because I'm never home. I've worked for the Clark-Vester Group for four years. My father would like me to work for him, but I can't do it.”

“What does your father do?”

Laura hesitated. “He's in policy making.”

“And you are the boss of Craig and Dayton?” Tate asked.

“And I am the boss of Craig and Dayton, which they both hate. Craig because he's older than me and thinks he knows more than me, which he probably does.”

“And Dayton?”

“He hates me because he's younger than me and doesn't understand why he doesn't have my job yet.”

Laura had a clipped, matter-of-fact way of speaking and everything she said seemed to be tinged with a bit of wry humor.
Look what I've gotten myself into
, she seemed to be saying.

Somewhere, someone plugged in an extension cord and a string of white lights sparkled from the hedge surrounding the garden. A band had arrived and was setting up their equipment. The guitarist struck a single chord.

“They're going to be loud,” Tate said. “Would you like to take a walk?”

They walked on Southeast Belmont Street for a few blocks, then Tate gestured toward a side street lined with mossy bungalows.

“What about you?” Laura asked. “How long did you say you've worked at Out in Portland?”

“Nine years.”

“Nine years! I don't know anyone who has worked anywhere for nine years.”

Laura was right. It was too long.

“What about your parents? What do they do?” Laura asked.

“My stepfather sold insurance,” Tate said.

Around them, the street was quiet and dark, like a Thomas Kinkade painting that had gone to sleep for the night.

“Nine years,” Laura said again. “That's a long time.”

“I get to work with my friends. The hours are good. I can sleep in or garden in the mornings, close the shop at night, and still get to the Mirage.” Tate's hand brushed against Laura's. “I don't go to bed at night and worry about work. Not until recently.”

“I'm just doing my job,” Laura spat out. Then she said, “I'm sorry. I promised myself I wouldn't say things like that. That's not an excuse. Just because it's your job doesn't mean it's right. But I believe in the Clark-Vester Group. I really do. At least, I've been impressed with their developments…”

Tate touched Laura's wrist. She thought she could feel Laura's pulse.

“Shh,” Tate whispered. “It's okay.”

Then she leaned forward and kissed Laura.

Down the block, a motion-sensitive streetlight turned off. The moonlight grew bluer and brighter. From somewhere far away, a saxophone played. Then Laura's hands were on Tate's neck and running through her cropped hair. And she was pulling Laura's hips to hers. Their lips pressed together in a hard, deep kiss that Tate felt all the way through her body. Her very bones longed for Laura's weight on top of her. Laura sighed and clung to her. And Tate felt each star in the sky spin on its axis.

Then a car turned down the lane. The streetlight flicked on.

“Whoo-hoo! You go, girls!” someone in the car yelled.

Laura stepped back.

“I have to go. I'm sorry. I can't do this,” she said.

“Yes you can.” Tate caught her hand. Her body ached for Laura's touch. Between her legs she felt a wet heat, so much more intense than the tedious longing of the months before, sharper than any frustration she had ever felt with Abigail. As she gazed at Laura, she was certain Laura felt the same desire.

“No. I can't.” Laura pulled away reluctantly. “I misled you. I'm just sorry. Please don't. Don't try. Don't ask me again.” She stared at Tate as if she expected Tate to pounce on her.

“Did I do something?” Tate asked.

“No. Yes. You're…wonderful, but I can't.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.” Laura's voice trembled, but her stance was certain.

Tate clasped the diamond that she had worn beneath her T-shirt and pulled on the delicate chain. It resisted for a second, then broke without a sound.

“You better take this.” She held the jewel out to Laura. “My friend says it's a real diamond.”

“It is.”

“She said if it didn't work out, I should hock it. But I think you should probably just take it back.”

“I like your friend,” Laura said, sadly. There was that wry smile again. “She's probably right. You should hock it. But I'd like you to keep it.” Suddenly Laura was right in front of her, her hands clasping Tate's arms, her face tilted toward Tate. “Because you're right. I do want to. I want you. And that night that I spent with you, that was wonderful in a way that nothing in my life is wonderful. And I want to think that a little piece of something I owned, I touched, stayed with you, like I could leave a little tiny piece of myself in that night forever.”