Another Kind of Love (26 page)

“That's putting things on a rather primitive level, isn't it?”

“Just honest. I don't want just cow eyes and mush notes. I want someone real, someone I can talk to, laugh with, and enjoy physically. I'm not one of these anxious-poodle lesbians waiting to get thrown a few small bones of attention.”

“Neither am I . . .”

“Goddamn it, Dee! I've not felt this way about anyone in almost ten years. I'm scared of it.”

“I don't know why,” Dee said carefully, “but you're making me feel terribly guilty and responsible.”

Martie sighed. She took her own and Dee's glasses and placed them on the table. Then she turned, placed her hands on Dee's arms, and with unexpected strength pulled her against her. “I'm a fool . . . a fool,” she whispered into Dee's hair.

“Never . . .” Dee managed to say, but already she could feel the blood beginning to pound in her head. It had been safest just to forget what it was like to make love . . . not to think about it. But now...

“And if I should tell you I love you, don't pay any attention to me,” Martie breathed against Dee's closed eyes. She let her mouth linger a moment, then slowly kissed her way down to meet Dee's lips.

It was so good—so damn good! Dee let her mind go blank and give in to the feel of Martie's body against hers. No awkward sensations because of too great a difference in height, no fumbling or sloppiness. They fit in each other's arms securely, their mouths molded into each other like lovers of long standing who knew just how the other wants to be kissed.

“Oh, Dee, Jesus! Dee . . .”

“Shh,” she whispered back and pulled away just enough to lead Martie, with pauses and gentle kisses, into the bedroom.

It was sweet and tender, urgent yet savoring . . . It was too many things to waste her time interpreting, rationalizing. And it was so apparent that Martie really wanted her that Dee almost cried from gratitude—wanted to love her, to feel her, to touch her.

It was an emotional restoration for Dee.

She didn't dare think what it might be to Martie.

And just before she completely lost all other thought she wondered why Karen hadn't written....

D
ee was aware of the fact that she was dreaming but couldn't wake up. All she knew was that Karen lay humped up on the floor at her feet, crying—crying until the sobs themselves could no longer be heard over the torrential roar of the tears that were flooding the room. She began to feel herself pulled under as if she were being sucked down into a whirlpool. And she knew, somehow, that it was all her fault.

Then, suddenly it seemed as if the heap on the floor were not Karen at all but someone else. Someone she knew, not a stranger. She forgot about being drowned, because she had to find out who this someone was. Maybe Karen knew. Of course. Karen would know. Karen would save her.

“Karen!” she screamed. Her own voice awakened her.

She was trembling, beads of perspiration all over her body. She opened her eyes in bewilderment, disturbingly aware of the strangeness of her surroundings. Then she heard the shower in the bathroom being turned off, and memory flooded back.

A door opened nearby, and Martie's voice boomed at her. “Did you call me, baby?”

Dee closed her eyes quickly.

Firm footsteps came to the side of the bed when Dee did not answer immediately. “Hey,” she said, gently touching Dee's shoulder. “Wake up in there.”

Dee knew she would have to acknowledge consciousness. She didn't want to. “Okay, okay,” she mumbled.

“You were yelling in your sleep,” Martie laughed. “I've called for coffee and toast to be sent up,” she added after a moment. “That all right by you?”

Dee nodded, still groggy from the dream. “Light me a cigarette, will you, please?”

“Sure.” The mattress only slightly rose when she stood up and crossed the room to the dresser. “Have a nightmare?”

Dee lifted herself up on her elbows and propped herself against the headboard.

“Sorta,” she said finally. “I was drowning . . .”

Martie laughed. “Sex dream, huh?”

Dee opened her eyes into the sun-filled room. She smiled slowly at Martie. “If there's anything I can't stand first thing in the morning, it's an amateur psychoanalyst.”

“Hah,” began Martie, gathering herself for one of her usual spitball retorts. But a light rap on the outside door interrupted her. She threw a disdainful look at Dee and pulled her robe about her, knotting the cord with exaggerated flourish.

“Saved by the bell,” she chuckled, turning away. “Be right back. I'll tend to you later.”

Martie had pulled the bedroom door shut behind her, leaving Dee free to stretch leisurely in the huge bed. She turned over and sprawled across the bed sideways with her arms hanging over the side. Except for the fading sensations from her dream, Dee felt wonderful—better than she had in too long a time.

She heard the outer door close and the cart clanking across the carpet. She sat up as Martie opened the door, then pulled the cart to the side of the bed. “Breakfast,” Martie proclaimed happily.

“You sound chipper this morning,” Dee smiled.

“Why not?” Martie replied. “I've had a marvelous stay in Paris, enjoyed the company of a fascinating woman—you—and am leaving for Munich tonight with nothing but pleasant memories. . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment, belying the airy dismissal in her tone. “I hope,” she said more seriously, “that there are no, well, shall we say, regrets.”

Dee lifted the coffee to her lips and took a slow sip. “About last night, you mean . . .”

Martie nodded.

“I should be the one to ask
you
—you didn't stand much of a chance, you know.”

Martie stared at her a moment. “No. No regrets,” she laughed suddenly. “It's pretty damn hard to tell who's seducing whom when two women are involved, isn't it?”

Dee smiled. She didn't like the timbre of Martie's joviality; it sounded forced and theatrical. She put her cup on the tray carefully. “Do you remember,” she began softly, “what you said last night . . . before we came in here?”

Martie nodded again. There was a quality about her that reminded Dee of the little boy who's been told he can't go to summer camp this year and is trying to be brave about it. Dee knew she would have to tread very carefully—if she behaved as if she expected Martie to be in love with her, she risked sounding like the worst kind of egotist. On the other hand, if she acted on the assumption that their relationship was completely casual, then she might hurt her terribly.

“Martie . . . come here. Closer.” She opened her arms out to her and, when Martie had edged right next to her, enfolded Martie against her breasts. “Last night was something pretty special for me. I don't mean that it was the culmination of any grand passion or forever-and-ever love . . . but it wasn't curiosity or just the old biological urge, either. I like you, Martie . . . very much. If you had turned me down, I don't know what would have happened. I needed you, you as a person, not just a one-night-stand affair. I needed someone I could trust, someone gentle and sweet.” She stroked Martie's hair and kissed the top of her head. “I just needed you . . . and you were there for me. I know it sounds cold and calculating, but thank you.”

“I could fall in love with you—you know damn well I could!” Martie's voice was choked and muffled.

Dee could feel warm tears on her breasts and held Martie even closer to her. “Don't let yourself, Martie. I would only make your life a hell,” Dee almost whispered now. “I'm in no shape to return your love, or even accept it, with the tenderness it deserves. You saw that last night. . . .” Dee paused. “Do you still see it this morning?”

Martie pressed her face closer and kissed the soft roundness of Dee's body. “I know, I know. . . .”

“You don't think I'm awful . . .”

Martie hugged her firmly. “No, baby. I only wish I did.” She gave a short laugh.

They stayed like that, in each other's arms, for a few moments without saying a word—each privately guarding her own thoughts. Then Martie pulled away slowly and sat up, kissing Dee lightly on her lips. “C'mon, this breakfast is getting cold and it set me back four hundred and fifty francs plus tip.”

“Just like a man!” Dee teased, and they both laughed. They finished their coffee and Dee showered quickly. The mood now was one of good-natured kidding, and they did not come near enough to each other to touch. Martie called the airline office while Dee finished dressing.

Martie came back into the bedroom with an expression of something settled, irrevocable. “Lufthansa at five-fifteen this afternoon. Doesn't give me much time to pack.”

Dee turned around, indicating that Martie should zip her dress. “I'll be out of your way in fifteen minutes; don't worry.”

“Guess I won't see you again today . . .”

“Not likely,” Dee answered deliberately. “Will you be in Munich long?” She turned and faced Martie. Her expression was carefully blank.

Martie stepped back a pace, looking intently at her. A slow, almost wistful smile crossed her face. “It's a one-week engagement.... I could make it longer—or shorter. Depends how well they like me.”

“Of course they'll like you,” Dee assured her. “You're terrific.”

Martie gave her a quick, grateful grin and walked over to the luggage rack at the foot of the bed and opened her suitcase. She kept her back to Dee and said, “It's going to seem strange not to see you every day . . . to be way the hell the other side of the ocean from you . . . once you return.”

“Yes,” Dee sighed suddenly. “Most of the work is done here. I hate to think about going back so soon.”

“You might take a leave of absence and take a short vacation . . . in Munich, for instance.”

The suggestion was both frightening and gratifying. Dee felt like putting her arms around Martie then, but was afraid of how Martie would take the gesture—she didn't want to encourage her any more than she already had.

“I'd like to, Martie . . . I really would. But it's out of the question. There'll be so much work to do back in New York . . . work that only I can cover. And then,” Dee paused pensively, “there's a personal matter I have to take up with Karen. It's going to be difficult . . .” she said almost to herself.

“She's in love with you, isn't she,” Martie said simply.

Dee was startled. “No. Of course not! In fact, until just recently, she didn't even know I was gay. It's a long and complicated situation.. . .”

“But you'd like it if she were in love with you?”

“Don't be childish!” Dee snapped. Then, contritely she walked up to Martie and placed her hand on her arm “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bark at you like that. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't very fond of Karen. But if I'm in love with her . . . oh no. It would be impossible. Really quite impossible.”

Martie's voice was low and controlled. “But you would like it if she loved you, wouldn't you?”

“None of that, now, Martie! I don't know and I don't want to think about it. Sometimes it's better not to let your conscious know what your subconscious is doing. All this damn psychological probing—like playing war with live ammunition . . . you could get killed that way!” It was an old joke punch line that she knew Martie would recognize and hoped would take the edge out of her own voice.

Martie shook her head patiently. “All right, all right. Don't get your dandruff up again. Let's drop it. Let's discuss something that isn't impossible.”

Dee leaned across the bed to the tray and picked up her cup, finishing the now cold coffee. She tried not to let her hand shake. She didn't want to show how much Martie's question had affected her.

“Let's talk about us and when we'll meet again. Now that your friend Chloe—”

“Rita,” Dee corrected with a smile.

“Now that
she
has departed, may I call you at home when I get back?”

“Certainly,” Dee answered quickly. “I'll even cook you a TV dinner.”

“Reluctantly accepted. What's your home phone?” Martie grabbed a pencil and in a boyish scrawl wrote down the number Dee gave her on the inside of her passport. “If you don't hear from me right away,” she advised Dee, “don't think I've forgotten. It would only be because I'm still on this side of the world.”

Dee smiled. “I trust your motives. . . .”

“Well,” Martie gave a wry chuckle, “at least I fooled you that much.” The tone was joking, but the swift shadow of pain that crossed her face did not escape Dee.

She stood a moment without comment. She wished she could reassure Martie, tell her that perhaps her present feelings would turn into love with time . . . but what for? Even if she did fall in love with Martie, what would the future hold for them? She considered the advantages of living with someone who adored her but whom she was only fond of. There were many advantages, she knew. But she just wasn't ready to accept life on those terms yet. Somewhere there was someone who was exactly what she wanted.

“Well,” Dee began finally, “guess I'll be off. Have a good trip.”

“Sure, sure. And I'll give you a call as soon as I get back.”

They walked side by side to the front door, carefully formal. Martie opened the door for her and stood, uneasily twisting the handle up and down.

“Martie . . .” Dee was suddenly reminded of the telephone conversation she had had with Martie so long ago in New York—of that terrible feeling of losing something, of needing to say more and not knowing how or what.

“Go on,” Martie laughed nervously. “Don't prolong the agony. Never saw such a ham in all my life, always milking your scene.”

Dee smiled slowly, then leaned forward and despite the open door quickly kissed Martie on the lips. “Please do call . . . I mean that,” she whispered.

Martie only nodded, and Dee left swiftly when she saw the tears coming into Martie's eyes. She couldn't stand the thought of having made Martie cry. Even though she knew it wasn't really her fault or her responsibility, she felt guilty.

She hailed a cab in front of the hotel and gave the driver Bizot's address. The last few days began to seem incredible to her—that all of this was happening in Paris, that she had run into Martie. And last night seemed the most unreal of it all.

She felt a sudden need to see Karen, just to know she was around. If Karen was still talking to her. Dee wouldn't blame Karen at all if she had pulled up stakes and gone back to the hotel—even if she'd quit her job rather than look at Dee again. It had been stupid of her to place the girl in a situation that could expose her to Rita. And then not having the courage to answer Karen's letter after what Rita had put her through . . . simply trusting that Karen would come out of it unscathed, without jeopardizing their friendship. What a gutless, shallow, and selfish thing to do!

Dee tried to visualize Karen in the apartment, using her things, sleeping in her bed....

Stop it now, Dee warned herself. Some friend I've been, she thought ruefully. Just leaving her there to sweat it out while I've been having a wild time myself.

She did not know then that she had already made up her mind to leave. It never formed actual words in Dee's mind—it simply went from intuitive recognition into purposeful decision. She would call the airline when she got back to the Bizots' and try to set up the date for her departure. As soon as possible. Preferably tomorrow.