One Degree of Separation (2 page)

Marian knew her cue. She said heartily, “You look tasty, as always. Femme on a Triscuit, positively edible.” They’d been best friends for more than half their lives, and such reassurance was second nature to Marian. Ellie had the looks and figure that were universally described as attractive by men and women alike. She had a flashy style and brash confidence about her looks that had always eluded Marian. Regardless, she needed to be reminded of her assets, just as Marian occasionally needed to be told she had a brain.

Maybe, Marian thought, I could just have chocolate cake for dinner. And another slice for dessert.

“Sorry. Sharing the house with Sandy is starting to get to me. Celibacy is starting to get to me. I’ve even been thinking about Sandy again, and that would
so
give her the wrong idea.”

“Well, I’m not sleeping with you.” Damn, with her period so close it was actually tempting. Useless hormones.

“All the more reason for you and me to find out who this new woman is and get busy. You know Carrie will sniff her out in less than three days with that voodoo thing she does.” 

“It’s not voodoo, it’s Wicca, and you can’t use Wicca that way.”

“How would you know?”

“I’m a librarian. Besides, Carrie doesn’t go after just anybody. It’s just that when she does she usually succeeds. “Marian closed the menu. “Chicken medallions sound good. Light.”

“One of these days I am not going to let you win an argument with that chintzy librarian credential.”

Marian allowed herself a small smile. “Hey, you can disdain my master’s in history all you like, but I must inform you that you’re talking to a future Master of Library and Information Science.”

“Since when?”

“Since when I sign the check and fill out the paperwork. And get a reference from Mary Jane.”

“Girlfriend!” Ellie lifted her drink and clinked it to Marian’s water glass. “Congrats.”

Grinning, Marian thought it wise to admonish Ellie further. “So you’ll have to be careful when you call my bluff. If I’m right, you’ll never hear the end—”

“Shut up.” Ellie frowned at the menu. “I love this place but I can’t afford it. Neither of my careers is paying well enough right now. I’m behind in billing insurance companies for the physical therapy work. So I took on Jenny’s guest bathroom plumbing for the cash. End result is I have no time to bill insurance. Would you be willing to split dinner?”

“Can we get a salad, too?”

“Spinach?”

“I will not share my cake.”

“I’m not sharing my drink, so we’re even.” Ellie studied her manicure for a moment, frowning. “Frankly, sleeping with both women in a couple is damned appealing right now. Preferably at the same time, on a great big bed with every imaginable assistive device, thank you.”

“Don’t dangle images like that in front of me today.” Inner Slut pouted at Marian’s refusal to consider the fantasy. Not here, she soothed. You know we can’t have that particular fantasy here. 

The restaurant door opened, letting in a brief whiff of early evening humidity. Marian blinked. “Amy and Hemma just walked in.”

Ellie turned around to wave. “Speaking of couples I’d sleep with, as if that would ever happen. Monogamy is such a bore. At least Amy can tell me about the new babe. You’re no help.” Inadequate yet again, Marian thought. While Ellie was twisted around to wave at Amy, Marian snagged Ellie’s cocktail and managed several swallows before she returned it to its place atop the petite napkin.

Hemma was wearing an aqua linen blouse Marian hadn’t seen before. “That’s a great color on you,” Marian told her after their hello.

“You are so good for my ego, thank you. Tell me they have chocolate cake tonight.” Hemma’s deep black eyes sparkled in the low light.

Horrified, Marian said, “I haven’t asked. You don’t suppose—”

“They have cake, I can see a slice on the tray.” Amy slipped a bracing arm around Hemma’s waist. “Cake is essential tonight.” Ellie grinned. “Tell me about it. Marian’s got PMS so bad she can’t even scam with me about that new woman.” Marian felt a blush start under her hairline. She prayed it didn’t show in the low light. “I’m not in the mood to scam.” Hemma smiled in her understanding way. “You’re coming to dinner Thursday as usual?”

“I’m there unless you’ve finally decided to change the locks after all these years.”

Hemma patted Marian’s shoulder. “You could get in anyway. You know which windows don’t latch.”

After searching her friends’ faces for any sign that she wasn’t welcome, Marian made her hypersensitive PMS self relax. Their almost weekly ritual of Thursday night dinner was of such long standing that it had survived Robyn Vaughn’s arrival in Marian’s life and Robyn Vaughn’s departure. But there was always a chance that they had tired of her company, or that they’d figured out how much the ritual meant to Marian.

Amy was finishing her detailed description of the woman she’d seen getting a stack pass. “Not quite your height. Closer to Marian’s than yours.”

“That short?” Ellie glanced at Marian as if she’d never considered Marian’s height before.

“I am not short,” Marian protested. “I am exactly average and I’ve got the link—”

“To the research study that proves it, I know.” She shot Marian a suspicious look as she peered into her nearly empty cocktail glass.

Marian gave Amy her full attention. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening. Is this new woman going to upset the entire dating pool?”

“Well, I noticed her and I generally don’t,” Amy admitted.

“Better not,” Hemma warned.

“Nobody compares to you, my love.” Amy’s hand slipped downward to cup Hemma’s hip. “Let’s go get our table, because I’m starved.”

With a throaty laugh Hemma pressed her hip into Amy’s hand.

Her hand lovingly covered Amy’s. “I know.” Marian blushed furiously. Ellie gave her a startled look.

Anything was better than the truth, Marian thought desperately.

“Okay, I swiped some of your drink.”

Ellie’s indignation was sufficient to divert to safe topics, even if it was a recitation of the many burdens Ellie suffered being Marian’s best friend. Marian let the various accustomed criticisms wash over her. Ellie had been her friend too long for it to have any sting, even when PMS made Marian certain the world could read her mind and every last secret. When dessert finally arrived, she lost herself in the chocolate cake. It was, after all, cheaper than therapy.

Tuesday evening, June 3:

Bleeding, no. Cat vomit, yes. The vet says Trombone’s got nerves. I’d
like to puke on everyone who gives me nerves.

When I am reincarnated I want to come back as a lesbian’s cat.

Had Amani’s with Ellie who is dead set to land a new dyke in town.

HER looked great tonight. Dinner Thursday. I-CARE on Saturday.

Jumping up and down has not made my period start. Tomorrow I am
going to wear my new white shorts and not have a tampon on hand. It could
work.

“So what’s the deal, Trombone?” Marian scraped the last of the cat upchuck out of the heel of her favorite clogs. “Is it something I said?”

The tip of Trombone’s tail moved just enough to agree.

“You smell Amani’s on me, and I didn’t bring you any, and then I ignored you to write in my journal, is that it? Hill, breathe someplace else.” Marian pushed Professor Hill’s snout the other direction.

“Between your breath and Trombone’s puke, it’s aromatic enough in here.”

Hill good-naturedly rolled over, covering the remainder of the small kitchen floor with his body and long collie tail.

“You’re jealous of Hill’s tail, aren’t you, Trombone?” Sighing, Marian finished mucking out her shoe and poured her last glass of water for the day. She ought to have exercised.

Looking out the kitchen window into the backyard, she saw the sweep of headlights as Hemma and Amy pulled into the alley access behind their house.

“Make you a deal, body. You start bleeding and I’ll start exercis-ing.” She snapped off the kitchen light on her way through to the tiny dining room she rarely used. Hill scurried out to the screened porch while Marian checked that the outer door was locked.

Satisfied there were no intruders, Hill scampered past her knees to chase Trombone upstairs.

“Hill, you’re just going to end up with a scratched nose!” Hill had yet to learn the politics of living with a cat. Marian locked the front door behind her and successfully avoided confronting the clutter in the living room by turning out the light. She’d clean next year, maybe.

Trombone, perched on the highest shelf of the tall bookcase at the top of the stairs, watched Marian thump her way up and ignored Hill’s antic attempts to reach her. “You brought that creature into my house,” the Russian Blue seemed to say, her tail wrapped tightly around her.

Marian paused as she did every night to touch her mother’s quilt, which hung on the high wall of the stairwell. “When you pay the mortgage, my dear Trombone, you can decide who lives here. Hill won’t be a puppy forever. He’s only two. Another couple of years.” Trombone looked at the wall.

“Someday, Hill, you’re going to bring that bookcase down on your head. Sit! Stay!” Marian held her finger inches from Hill’s nose until he settled. “Oh, good boy! Good boy!” Trombone’s sigh was audible.

Marian paused a moment to regard the empty shelves. Their barren state was something she’d ignored successfully for some time.

Well, it would be a place to put her textbooks. It felt weird to think of herself as a student again.

She brushed her teeth to the accompaniment of Hill’s happy, going-to-bed panting. She knew that when she was nearly asleep Trombone would join them, taking, as usual, the center of the bed. It was genetically impossible for a cat to sleep anywhere else, especially if other beings wanted the bed as well.

Ordinary pajamas, she told herself. Some boxer shorts and a cotton tank—that’s all that was called for on a warm summer night.

It wasn’t as if there was anyone to impress. No one had seen her in pajamas since Robyn, and Robyn hadn’t liked her in pajamas. Robyn had preferred her—no, stop right there, she scolded herself. Robyn was a lying, cheating bitch of a destructive thief.

Cotton boxers and an equally soft tank was what the night called for, and that was all. Inner Slut pouted and whispered outrageous fantasies. I’m in control here, Marian thought weakly. I won’t give in.

But her hand passed over the comfortable cotton in the drawer, and reached instead for the sensuous silk of the nightshirt and boxer set that had never been designed for sleep.

She smoothed the thin black silk over her hips and couldn’t quite look at herself in the mirror as she washed her face. She ignored the tingle down her spine that the cool fabric always triggered. With the lights out, moonlight spilled dimly through the open blinds of the spare room.

Close the blinds, she told herself. Close them, go to your room and get over it.

She sat down in the chair at the window. Count to twenty. If it’s still dark in twenty, leave. Get over it.

The night was warm and heavy. Her body ached to be touched.

Hormones, she told herself. You were even thinking about Ellie at dinner. It’s just those stupid hormones making you this way.

She counted to a hundred twice, then soft light blossomed in the bedroom opposite where she sat.

Amy came to the window and pushed it half closed, then lowered the shade to match. There was a flash of aqua behind her, then the shade pressed against the glass. Two bodies, backlit by the bank of candles on their dresser, merged into one.

Don’t do this, Marian told herself, even as she peered through the night. This is pathetic.

The aqua shirt floated to the floor. Two bare midriffs were visible as slacks were unzipped. It was easy to tell the slightly darker tone of Hemma’s Middle Eastern skin from Amy’s Irish paleness. Amy’s hands on Hemma’s waist.

Not Marian, but Amy lowering Hemma to the bed. Amy, stroking Hemma’s back. Amy easing Hemma’s bra from her shoulders. It was Amy’s fingertips gently rousing Hemma’s nipples to hard points of dusty rose and Amy’s tongue teasing them further.

Amy and Hemma had a rhythm, a natural pace that spoke of ease and long practice, but it was never the same way twice. Some nights they were hurried, others languid. It could take minutes, or it could take hours.

Hemma had her hands in Amy’s hair, pushing her down toward her hips. Amy resisted for a moment, said something. Hemma responded by opening her legs farther and tipping her hips up. Then it was Amy tasting Hemma. Marian swallowed hard and ached to feel the hot silk of Hemma’s desire on her tongue. Hemma was frantic tonight, arching against Amy, exposing every inch of herself to Amy’s seeking mouth.

Pathetic. Marian dashed away tears. How much of her life had she wasted wanting what she couldn’t have?

Across the distance separating the two houses Marian could hear Hemma’s moan. She had to close her eyes as she imagined that sound being one she had wrought. Her hands swept to her breasts, teasing her nipples through the thin fabric. Hormones ... God, she wanted to be touched tonight. She imagined Hemma caressing her, whispering in her ear whatever magic she whispered to Amy, whatever promises that made Amy gasp for breath.

Hemma’s sharp, low cry made her look again. Hemma wrapped her legs around Amy’s hips, rising to meet her. Her face swam into Marian’s feverish view. Beautiful with abandon, Hemma bit her lower lip, then her mouth curved with pleasure. Amy kissed her and they thrust together, inching their way across the bed. Amy was whispering in Hemma’s ear and Hemma’s moans sharpened to short cries of climax.

Marian gripped the sill, dizzied. She hated this feeling, and loved it. She told herself she wouldn’t watch ever again but always did.

Hemma’s head hung off the bed, showing the elegant line of her throat, her lush breasts, her spread legs where Amy knelt. Bending over her, Amy said something low and urgent, then Hemma’s rising wail flowed across the night, wrapping itself into the private places of Marian’s heart.

Loving HER. Wanting HER. Days, weeks, years of wishing for something she would never have. Before Robyn, during Robyn, after Robyn, the ache never eased. Robyn had left two years ago after destroying everything that had mattered—except for Marian’s heart.