Wild Things (16 page)

7

Many waters cannot quench love,
neither can the floods drown it.

— Song of Solomon 8:7

"Help me get this thing on," Eric demanded.

I stood back to let him into my room and laughed as he tried to get the inflexible chain mail over his head.

"You'll lose an ear if you do that," I said. "Here, there are clasps on the right side. Then you can put your head through. Now you know what squires were for." I tugged the mail down on his broad shoulders. "I need some help myself. I can't get the wimple quite right."

Eric yelped. "Let me get my shirt into place — this stuff scratches like hell."

"Now imagine getting on a horse and riding for five or six hours to battle."

"That's so comforting." Eric grunted and rotated his arms to settle the chain mail. I stepped back to admire the final picture. He hadn't shaved in almost a week, giving him a close beard and a slightly devilish look. He looked like a medieval lord with hose and a fine silk shirt under the chain mail.

"You look good in hose," I said, teasingly.

He looked at himself in the full-length mirror and wiggled his toes. "I left the shoes and the tunic, but I can manage them alone."

"Then help me," I said. I had managed to get into the heavy, white damask dress. It was a simple design that fit snugly to my breasts and fell without waist to the floor. I had also managed to get the dozens of bracelets on. The heavy cabochon emerald earrings were rapidly stretching my earlobes. I hadn't realized paste would be so heavy. The real thing would have killed me.

I was thankful for my hair being both short and thick. The bobby pins holding the crimson kerchief on top of my head would stay in place. "I need the kerchief attached to the small snap on the back of the dress. Then wind it around and fasten it again — here."

Between us we finally managed to get the long piece of silk attached to my hair, draped over one shoulder with the corner ending at my wrist where it belonged, then caught through a series of loops to be attached to itself on the other side of my head. This final catch could be undone to show my face. When
it was in place, the kerchief veiled my face from the point of my nose down.

"Very regal," Eric said. "And modest."

"Eleanor was never accused of being modest," I said, jangling the bracelets. "Did you know that when Richard Lion-Heart became king, Eleanor really ruled England? She was fifty-four at the time." When I wasn't thinking about Sydney, I was thinking about Eleanor.

"I can't wait to read your book, sweetheart. I know it'll be great."

We made quite a picture, standing side by side. It could have been so perfect, except that the eyes that stared back at me were eyes I'd never looked deeply into. I didn't know myself anymore, but I knew enough to know the picture was a lie.

I didn't know what I was going to do about it.

* * * * *

Carrie had told me that twelve hundred people were attending the party, which was the limit of the ballroom. To each side of the main ballroom were large rooms with buffet tables; I hadn't really understood the expression "groaning with food" until then. The ticket price to the fundraiser had been five thousand per person, and no one seemed to begrudge a penny. Carrie hoped the Children's Defense Fund would get at least four million in proceeds.

I had never been to an event like it. Eric and I were announced as Henry the Second and Eleanor, king and queen of England. We met Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn almost immediately, and then Louis the Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette. Both
Anne and Marie had garish stitches in their throats indicating that their heads had been sewn back on. There were two George and Martha Washingtons and dozens of flappers and Gatsbys. There were Frankenstein monsters and Draculas, several stunning black cats, witches of all varieties, and at least two Vincent van Goghs — one with his ear and one without. I kept my veil up in keeping with the masks almost everyone was wearing.

The orchestra varied the music among waltzes, swing, and hit parade ballads. Eric complained that chain mail wasn't made for dancing to "Take the A Train," but he made an effort, and I danced with several of his friends. All the while I wondered what Sydney was wearing and if I would recognize her.

I ran into her finally, well after midnight, while I was raiding the buffet for cold water and several of the puff pastries with spinach and fontina. She was dressed as John Adams, the tight-fitting vest and breeches setting off her trim figure perfectly. Her long, full muslin sleeves and powdered wig made her the picture of Colonial romance. Though the outfit was masculine, there was no doubt that she was a woman, and I felt a clenching deep inside me far too pleasurable to be indigestion. She made me a deep, respectful bow, her sleeves billowing as she gestured.

"My queen," she said, without a hint of mockery.

"Oh stop that," I said. "You don't believe in monarchy."

"True," she said, straightening up. "I believe in revolution," she said passionately. "Independence from the tyranny of England."

"Piffle," I said. "You just want to get out from under the taxes."

"You wound me, lady!"

I feinted a stabbing motion with a toothpick, and she staggered back into the arms of one of the George Washingtons then faked a splendidly drawn-out death.

Eric appeared at my elbow and laughed. "Somehow I don't think we'd have won our independence from Eleanor."

I brandished the toothpick. "Not when I'm properly armed."

Sydney sat up. "Revolution!" she declared. She got to her feet, slapped George on the back and said, "Come on, fellow, I've got big plans for a vacation at Valley Forge." They disappeared into the crowd.

I started after her, then stopped, realizing she had left me as soon as she could do so. She didn't want to see me. And I couldn't see her.

Eric proffered a plate of chocolates. "I found these in the conservatory. There's an entire dessert buffet in there."

It was after two when I saw Sydney again, her wig slightly askew as she talked earnestly to a small group of men around her. I recognized some of the faces but couldn't come up with names. I drifted toward them, hating myself for wanting to be closer to her.

The group laughed, and one of the men took over talking. They were having a political debate about municipal bonds for affordable housing — in the middle of a very swank party. I smiled behind my veil.

Apparently Sydney was one of those people who are always working.

"I'll convince you yet," Sydney was saying when an ethereally thin woman dressed as Veronica Lake cut in and took Sydney by the arm.

"Syd, dear, I haven't seen you in ages," she said from behind long, blonde hair covering one eye.

Sydney went rigid and said in a markedly unwelcoming tone, "Patrice, what a surprise."

"It's been at least ten years. You don't come to the Club anymore." Patrice managed to make it sound like an accusation. She dropped her gaze to Sydney's empty glass. "I've run out of Scotch, and so have you. I think we should go find more."

The men shifted uncomfortably, and Sydney said coolly, "I don't drink anymore Patrice. You'll have to find it on your own."

"I don't believe you," Patrice said coyly. I realized then that she was very drunk but hiding it well. "Any more than I'd believe you stopped doing all the ... other things you used to do."

Sydney lifted her chin. "You'll have to find someone else to have your fun with, Patrice. I don't believe in living in the past."

"Who's talking about the past? I'm talking about Scotch tonight and breakfast tomorrow. It'll be like old times."

"No, Patrice," Sydney said patiently. "There's no turning back the clock."

Patrice pushed Sydney away with a sudden, ill-tempered pout. "You're no fun anymore, Syd. You're boring. And rude. You never called." Patrice looked
around as if she'd forgotten what she was saying. "I'll get a Scotch, okay?" She walked carefully in the direction of one of the bars.

There was a strained silence among the men with Sydney, then one, much older than the others, said, "Aren't ex-girlfriends a pain?"

They all laughed, and Sydney smiled ruefully but said nothing. I noticed then that she had gone pale while talking to Patrice because some color was coming back into her cheeks.

I headed for fresh air, ashamed at myself for eavesdropping. Obviously, Patrice had been someone from Sydney's drinking days and Sydney had broken those associations. I stepped outside the ballroom onto a flagstone patio. It was chilly, but the sky was clear and I looked up at the stars. They were far more visible here than in the city.

I shivered, not from the cold, but from the sudden image I had of Sydney in bed with Patrice. What I felt wasn't jealousy, but it was a strong pang. Oh, great. Envy, another deadly sin. Envy, lust, lying to thy mother, and coveting thy boyfriend's sister. I was racking up quite a list for my next confession. If I ever had a next confession. I left the patio for the cool, damp grass, torn between laughter and tears and afraid, truly afraid, of the future.

I walked to a nearby black oak, thinking the exercise would clear my head. My pace quickened, and I wanted to run. If I ran fast enough perhaps when I stopped my life would make sense to me. But my dress was not made for vigorous exercise, and I stopped when I gained the shadow of the tree. I
turned to look back at the party and saw that someone was following me. The white wig gleamed in the moonlight like my dress.

She didn't say anything until she was standing next to me. Then she said, too casually, "Did you enjoy the little scene with Patrice?"

I blushed to the roots of my hair and was glad of the tree's shadow. "No," I said in a whisper.

"You can't do this to me," she said intensely.

Stung, I snapped, "Do what?"

"Be near me."

"I won't bother you again," I said, trying to act dignified. I had behaved like a love-struck schoolgirl, and dignity was hard coming.

"Please don't," she said coldly, looking toward the party. "I don't want anyone to think that there's anything between us."

"There's nothing," I said, trying to match her coldness. "Your political career is safe."

She whipped around to stare at me and moved closer. The velvet of her vest brushed my arm. Her voice lashed at my shaky dignity. "This is not about my career. It's about Eric. Remember him? The guy who keeps telling me how glad he is I like you? How happy he is that Mom and Dad seem to like you? Remember him?"

I gulped and managed to say, "He never leaves my mind. Never." I fought back tears.

"Good," she said, drawing herself up. "I hope you keep it that way."

"I'm not sure I want to." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"For every thought of him, I think of you a hundred times," I whispered.

"Faith, don't."

"I'll never have this chance again," I said. "I didn't want to be a ... a. .. lesbian. I've been fighting it longer than you've been fighting alcohol. I've lost this battle."

She turned her head so her face was in shadow. "What about the war?"

I undid my veil and uncoiled the kerchief, tugging it free of the bobby pins. I held out the crimson silk. It fluttered between us. "My flag," I said. "I surrender."

Raising her hand slowly, she caught a fluttering edge, then all in a rush reeled in the fabric and reeled me into her arms. Her lips were cool as the night, but when she opened her mouth to me, her passion ignited mine.

We tumbled to the grass, a fevered tangle of arms and legs, rolling into the bundle of my kerchief and the yards of muslin in Sydney's sleeves. It billowed around me, and like in the field, we seemed to fall out of time.

This will be my only chance, I thought, over and over. I drew her hands to my hips and helped her pull my dress up. Her vest was off. My greedy fingers unsnapped her collar, then swept inside her shirt to discover she wore no bra.

She moaned when my fingertips found her nipples. She yanked my pantyhose down and I squirmed to help her, not caring that our haste ruined them,
spreading my legs for her, aching and arching toward her, my mouth finding her breasts as her fingers came to my wetness.

She moaned again, then gasped as I guided her fingers into me. I was beyond stopping now. In ragged whispers I told her and told myself that I had forgotten how good this felt. Forgotten how right it felt, forgotten about the heat and speed of it. I had no words for the pressure and ache of it, and then I was consumed by the spiraling moments when the rapture peaked and joined with terror — I thought I would shatter from the drumming waves of pleasure.

The pounding in my ears finally subsided and the cool of the night prickled my damp skin.

"Faith," Sydney was murmuring into my ear. "Good God, Faith," she said over and over.

"It's okay," I said, shakily. "I'm okay." More okay than I had been in a long time.

She kissed me, at first tender, then demanding. I felt a fire in my mouth and knew that only the taste of her would put it out, I slipped my hands down her breeches, and she shuddered when she realized I wanted them off of her.