Outing of the Heart (23 page)
Read Outing of the Heart Online
Authors: Lisa Ann Harper
She left her and disappeared into the bedroom. Tenille, as quickly, put on her clothes. It didn't take Devon long to deal with the man and put the four containers on the kitchen counter.
âI know you would like to have more, Chickadee. I'll heat this up in the microwave later.' She returned to her side and gave her a kiss.
âNo Devon, I'm fine really.' She didn't want to get into it again. This was not her scene and she didn't like it. As she dressed she had understood, she did want to be with Devon, but not like this. It was obvious it was what Devon liked to do, but she would much prefer just a nice kiss and a cuddle. She didn't want all that other stuff. âDon't let the food chill. We can eat now.'
âIf you're sure?'
âYes.' She jumped up and went over to the galley to wash her hands and begin preparations. Devon joined her, brushing up against her, accidentally on purpose. The heat burst into flame, but she would not respond; she could do without. She loved Devon, but she was no Lesbian.
As they ate in the dining nook, Devon returned to last night. Tenille didn't want to talk about it, deflecting her probing questions by admitting to disappointment in her poor showing.
She shrugged. âDon't let that put you off, we all have our ups and downs.' She was feeling expansive after such satisfying sex and lit a cigarette.
âListen. Sundays, Los Flamencos have their practise. It's a good day because we get buckets of free time at the rehearsal rooms. Would you like to come along with me? You can learn a lot just by watching; being on the scene and soaking up the atmosphere.'
This would be wonderful. âAny decisions yet for the Shriner's show?' she asked.
Devon shook her head. âDon't you worry. I'm sure you're in.' She was truly confident.
Tenille moved, in readiness to leave.
âCan't you stay?' Devon's look was pleading. âLike last time?' There was still hunger in her eyes.
âNo, Mrs. Sandrelli looks out for me, remember?'
âOh pooh to the old biddy,' she declared, her green eyes glittering with impatience in the alcove's spotlight. âShe's not your mother. Stay anyway.'
Her mouth tightened. âDevon, I can't.'
She would not be persuaded. She needed time to herself; time to think. Devon recognized that determined set to her chin.
What had started out as the regular winter snowfall turned into a blizzard. One of those late February storms which had the wind behind it, slanting the snow and driving it into the face. People had thought the worst was over, but there is always that last, unexpected surprise. Negotiating the streets was not easy, with visibility limited to a few meters. Devon was forced to concentrate.
âYou see, you should have stayed. The weather would have made a perfect excuse,' she argued mockingly, still very put out; feeling thwarted. Tenille had to agree, but cocooned in the apartment they hadn't realized what weather awaited them. Now they were in it ⦠well ⦠McPherson wasn't that far.
âWould you like to come in before tackling the journey home?'
âNo thanks, I'll keep going.' Devon's mood had definitely deteriorated. In this frame of mind she was better off with her own company.
âWhat time Sunday?'
âFourish.' She pulled away, leaving her at the roadside.
Tenille settled for sleep, but couldn't drop off. Her ruminations showed her she was terribly disappointed. She had wanted Devon to mean everything to her. They had shared the ultimate intimacy ⦠yet she felt strangely empty ⦠and yes, unloved. How could this be? They had declared their feelings and she had gotten what she wanted. Further reflection led her to the hurtful thought that perhaps this was not what she wanted? Had she been fooling herself? It was evident she was not lesbian. She just happened to feel very much for this one special woman. It was not as though she was like a man and âloved women'. She was womanly, liked feminine things: pretty clothes, sexy perfume, fluffy toys.
More equality between the sexes is beneficial. Perhaps in the light of this consideration, she could say she was moving toward feminism. Yes, she would go that far. Nonetheless, she didn't like sex with men and it was not much better with a woman. A deep sigh escaped.
“Guess I'm one of those statistics classified as frigid,”
she muttered to Monty, as she rolled her head on the pillow. Women's company. Now that was great. She felt much happier; more relaxed than when men were on the scene. She added a corollary to her musings. âI'm not a man-hating Feminist.' She just didn't want them in her life ⦠particularly; felt no need of their company and really, had nothing to say to them.
Continuing her cogitation on the evening's events, she was confident Devon had been telling her she would be selected. What a thrill. The extra lessons had paid off.
Her brain waves began to slow down and she could feel herself drifting into sleep; images of performing in her new dress filled her mind's eye; she was floating weightless above the stage, the spotlight following every move.
Friday. Tonight was theatre night. Would Marissa be over her outburst? She chose a dress for this occasion; a dove grey, mohair and cashmere blend. The effect was of a white down covering the surface. An extra large collar, rolling out towards the shoulders, emphasized the grace of her neck. The tie at the waist allowed her to blouse the top, keeping the line soft above, but fitted below. She pinned her little leather trillium brooch to the collar.
The spacious lobby of the O'Keefe Centre, filled with balletomanes' memorabilia, was abuzz with excited voices. Looking about, Tenille saw every imaginable outfit. Some women attired in the traditional manner, full-length dress of rich fabric, their escorts in a tuxedo; others in sweater and jeans. She was interested to see how many children there were; girls and boys of all ages, aspiring dancers she guessed.
Marissa was civil; all seemed to be forgotten. Although the seats Wendy had obtained were high up at the back, they were centrally located, giving an excellent view. Marissa sat on the end, next to Tenille and gradually everything became right between them. Ingrid had opera glasses which she passed along at regular intervals.
The spectacle was pure delight, a feast for both the eyes and ears. A frothy story line gave ample opportunity for a selection of varied and jolly
pas de quatre
and lyrical
pas de deux
. The corps was precision perfect. No need to be apprehensive for them. Enjoyment all the way.
Veronica Tennant was outstanding. The friends had some idea now of the work involved, to dance with what seemed such effortlessness. She captivated them with her grace; her athleticism and above all her perfect line. NAPOLI was a great success.
After the show, before they would go their separate ways and while euphoria still surrounded them, Marissa approached Tenille with a suggestion for Sunday. Her gaze fixed on her with a pathetic, imploring expression. She gave a tremulous smile. If she liked, Tenille could come to her house for dinner; meet her family, an important step she had been wanting to take for some time. Once her parents had met her friends, it was easier for her to see them on a regular basis.
âMarissa ⦠thank you for the invitation, but I'm busy Sunday.' She tried to temper the refusal. âPerhaps another time?'
Her face fell. What was this? Was she being squeezed out; thrown over? With sinking heart, she asked, as casually as possible: âOh, what do you have on?' If she told her it was something involving Devon she would scream.
âDevon has invited me to watch a rehearsal of her dance troupe.' Her voice softened. âI'm sorry.'
She did not scream. She kept her face impassive, her eyes hooded slits and simply replied: âI see.' She knew in her heart there would be no other time. Devon had her hooks out and there would be no letting go.
Inside Marissa burned; the beginnings of a smouldering rage. This time she didn't let her feelings show, but somehow she would make Tenille pay for spurning her like this. She didn't know how yet, but she would find a way; her time would come.
The friends walked together to King Subway. Tenille expected to go south with Marissa, but she chose northbound instead. As each station disappeared behind her, Tenille had the distinct impression that she had really given offence. There had been no outburst like last time, but she was reminded of the saying: Still waters run deep. A shutter had come down between them, Tenille definitely relegated to the other side. Marissa was a strange one, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn't always be available for her and that was that. Why did she keep picking on her anyway? There were others she could go out with.
So lost in thought, she missed Spadina and had to settle for Dupont. âDummy.' Now she was stuck with a longer walk through the deep snow; not good for her boots. As winter wore on, the walking tracks grew narrower, people making only half-hearted attempts at clearing. The young boys made good money shovelling the high drifts, especially from senior citizens.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Raoul looked up as Tenille walked in
. Leche.
She was ravishing. His dark, handsome visage carried eyes that bore through her clothes to the curves beneath. He was smitten by her wide, luminous eyes; the voluptuous body that bespoke an as yet, untapped sensuality.
âHow nice to see you here, Tenille.' His sensuous mouth curled in a sardonic smile. She knew he was remembering their last exchange.
âDevon invited me ⦠me over. She thought it would be good for me to ⦠to watch,' she stammered, a natural blush outlining her cheeks in a way he found most charming, as he subjected her to his scrutiny. Tendrils of hair escaped the toque and curled in delightful disorder to her shoulders. Really, she was a peach.
âCome in, come in. You are most welcome. Stavros, do you remember Devon's friend, Tenille? She has been to the restaurant on a few occasions,' he declared, a small smile playing about his lips as he made the lengthy introduction.
“This is why I don't like men's company,”
Tenille thought,
“they always make me feel like I'm on show.”
She turned to Stavros Armenis whose eyes had been making a similar appraisal, but he spoke pleasantly enough. At this point Amaia came in from changing. She greeted her by name and made her feel more at ease.
âWe will also have Manuel Canales with us this afternoon,' Raoul stated. âI thought it would be good for you to meet informally.' They had a palmas practise while waiting for Devon, Stavros too. In fact he was the best. While the others kept the basic rhythm, he was able to weave his way through their timing.
âTenille, try this with us. Just follow the foundation with me,' Raoul invited. She was happy to join in. Keeping in time with Raoul worked well. She just concentrated on his beats trying not to let the others distract her. Unfortunately, to do well at palmas one must be able to hear the contrapuntal rhythms and maintain one's place in the overall scheme of things.
Devon and Manuel arrived together, bursting into the studio as one. They had introduced themselves on the stairs. He was short like Diego, but better looking, with the olive skin of people from the south. A shock of thick, black unruly hair, constantly fell into his eyes, which he would shake impatiently away.
He sat with Tenille, content to watch the dancers. Then Stavros suggested they go through Alegrias and he could sing for them. What a thrill. His voice, rich and strong, reminded her of Dieguito. Although the repertoire was still limited, his potential was obvious.
With Devon back after her trip, Raoul planned to start a new dance. It was Segurillas, a slower, more stately dance, part of the Cante Hondo. He explained that another name for Segurillas used to be Playeras, from
planidera,
meaning âhired mourner'. Manuel took up the story.
âCante Hondo, that is, flamenco singing, is the purest expression of the Andalusian art. The Andalusians are a fusion of many different races and cultures,' he clarified: âSo is their music.' She was fascinated, watching and listening intently. âSome of the roots of Flamenco are found in the rhythms and chants of the Moors, who ruled the south of Spain for many centuries.'
Raoul interjected. âThose same chants can also be heard in Jewish liturgical music and especially in the music brought from India, by the Gypsies.'
Manuel resumed. âYou may think of Flamenco solely as a music of fire and temperament. However, it is more than that. It's a complete way of life.' At this point his dark eyes flashed to each of them in turn and Tenille felt a frisson of excitement.
âCante Hondo is an expression of deep feeling, having to do with happiness, sadness, and the struggle for life. I hope to make you hear this in my singing. The words of Segurillas often allude to death, suggesting its origin may have been in the primitive wails for the dead. When you begin this dance there will be nothing frivolous in it.' His smile softened his words. Indeed, he would be a great asset to the group.
Raoul clapped his hands peremptorily. âAll right everybody, let us begin.' He walked over to Tenille and asked if she would like to try the new dance. She didn't have her shoes, but he brushed that to one side. Her boots would do fine while they were getting the first moves.
Time flew. When Raoul decided they'd done enough, everyone felt well satisfied, including Tenille. At the end, Amaia commented that after stage experience with the Shriner's show, if she stuck with it, joining them in the new dance could be a possibility. Lights flashed in her head and triggered a switch. She looked across at Devon. What a wonderful chance. She just had to be chosen for the Shriner's event. She had to get that experience. Her future in dance depended on it.
Deciding to get a bite to eat at Fran's, Manuel and Tenille were invited along. They trudged through the snow as a happy band, pushing each other through the doors to the welcome warmth inside. Fran's was located on the corner of Avenue and St. Clair, not far from Devon's apartment. Being close to Devon was impossible, but she saw a warm smile fill her face whenever enthusiastic comments were passed regarding her participation in the afternoon's session. Conversation ceased when the orders arrived and food was hungrily attacked.
âI know you would like to have more, Chickadee. I'll heat this up in the microwave later.' She returned to her side and gave her a kiss.
âNo Devon, I'm fine really.' She didn't want to get into it again. This was not her scene and she didn't like it. As she dressed she had understood, she did want to be with Devon, but not like this. It was obvious it was what Devon liked to do, but she would much prefer just a nice kiss and a cuddle. She didn't want all that other stuff. âDon't let the food chill. We can eat now.'
âIf you're sure?'
âYes.' She jumped up and went over to the galley to wash her hands and begin preparations. Devon joined her, brushing up against her, accidentally on purpose. The heat burst into flame, but she would not respond; she could do without. She loved Devon, but she was no Lesbian.
As they ate in the dining nook, Devon returned to last night. Tenille didn't want to talk about it, deflecting her probing questions by admitting to disappointment in her poor showing.
She shrugged. âDon't let that put you off, we all have our ups and downs.' She was feeling expansive after such satisfying sex and lit a cigarette.
âListen. Sundays, Los Flamencos have their practise. It's a good day because we get buckets of free time at the rehearsal rooms. Would you like to come along with me? You can learn a lot just by watching; being on the scene and soaking up the atmosphere.'
This would be wonderful. âAny decisions yet for the Shriner's show?' she asked.
Devon shook her head. âDon't you worry. I'm sure you're in.' She was truly confident.
Tenille moved, in readiness to leave.
âCan't you stay?' Devon's look was pleading. âLike last time?' There was still hunger in her eyes.
âNo, Mrs. Sandrelli looks out for me, remember?'
âOh pooh to the old biddy,' she declared, her green eyes glittering with impatience in the alcove's spotlight. âShe's not your mother. Stay anyway.'
Her mouth tightened. âDevon, I can't.'
She would not be persuaded. She needed time to herself; time to think. Devon recognized that determined set to her chin.
What had started out as the regular winter snowfall turned into a blizzard. One of those late February storms which had the wind behind it, slanting the snow and driving it into the face. People had thought the worst was over, but there is always that last, unexpected surprise. Negotiating the streets was not easy, with visibility limited to a few meters. Devon was forced to concentrate.
âYou see, you should have stayed. The weather would have made a perfect excuse,' she argued mockingly, still very put out; feeling thwarted. Tenille had to agree, but cocooned in the apartment they hadn't realized what weather awaited them. Now they were in it ⦠well ⦠McPherson wasn't that far.
âWould you like to come in before tackling the journey home?'
âNo thanks, I'll keep going.' Devon's mood had definitely deteriorated. In this frame of mind she was better off with her own company.
âWhat time Sunday?'
âFourish.' She pulled away, leaving her at the roadside.
Tenille settled for sleep, but couldn't drop off. Her ruminations showed her she was terribly disappointed. She had wanted Devon to mean everything to her. They had shared the ultimate intimacy ⦠yet she felt strangely empty ⦠and yes, unloved. How could this be? They had declared their feelings and she had gotten what she wanted. Further reflection led her to the hurtful thought that perhaps this was not what she wanted? Had she been fooling herself? It was evident she was not lesbian. She just happened to feel very much for this one special woman. It was not as though she was like a man and âloved women'. She was womanly, liked feminine things: pretty clothes, sexy perfume, fluffy toys.
More equality between the sexes is beneficial. Perhaps in the light of this consideration, she could say she was moving toward feminism. Yes, she would go that far. Nonetheless, she didn't like sex with men and it was not much better with a woman. A deep sigh escaped.
“Guess I'm one of those statistics classified as frigid,”
she muttered to Monty, as she rolled her head on the pillow. Women's company. Now that was great. She felt much happier; more relaxed than when men were on the scene. She added a corollary to her musings. âI'm not a man-hating Feminist.' She just didn't want them in her life ⦠particularly; felt no need of their company and really, had nothing to say to them.
Continuing her cogitation on the evening's events, she was confident Devon had been telling her she would be selected. What a thrill. The extra lessons had paid off.
Her brain waves began to slow down and she could feel herself drifting into sleep; images of performing in her new dress filled her mind's eye; she was floating weightless above the stage, the spotlight following every move.
Friday. Tonight was theatre night. Would Marissa be over her outburst? She chose a dress for this occasion; a dove grey, mohair and cashmere blend. The effect was of a white down covering the surface. An extra large collar, rolling out towards the shoulders, emphasized the grace of her neck. The tie at the waist allowed her to blouse the top, keeping the line soft above, but fitted below. She pinned her little leather trillium brooch to the collar.
The spacious lobby of the O'Keefe Centre, filled with balletomanes' memorabilia, was abuzz with excited voices. Looking about, Tenille saw every imaginable outfit. Some women attired in the traditional manner, full-length dress of rich fabric, their escorts in a tuxedo; others in sweater and jeans. She was interested to see how many children there were; girls and boys of all ages, aspiring dancers she guessed.
Marissa was civil; all seemed to be forgotten. Although the seats Wendy had obtained were high up at the back, they were centrally located, giving an excellent view. Marissa sat on the end, next to Tenille and gradually everything became right between them. Ingrid had opera glasses which she passed along at regular intervals.
The spectacle was pure delight, a feast for both the eyes and ears. A frothy story line gave ample opportunity for a selection of varied and jolly
pas de quatre
and lyrical
pas de deux
. The corps was precision perfect. No need to be apprehensive for them. Enjoyment all the way.
Veronica Tennant was outstanding. The friends had some idea now of the work involved, to dance with what seemed such effortlessness. She captivated them with her grace; her athleticism and above all her perfect line. NAPOLI was a great success.
After the show, before they would go their separate ways and while euphoria still surrounded them, Marissa approached Tenille with a suggestion for Sunday. Her gaze fixed on her with a pathetic, imploring expression. She gave a tremulous smile. If she liked, Tenille could come to her house for dinner; meet her family, an important step she had been wanting to take for some time. Once her parents had met her friends, it was easier for her to see them on a regular basis.
âMarissa ⦠thank you for the invitation, but I'm busy Sunday.' She tried to temper the refusal. âPerhaps another time?'
Her face fell. What was this? Was she being squeezed out; thrown over? With sinking heart, she asked, as casually as possible: âOh, what do you have on?' If she told her it was something involving Devon she would scream.
âDevon has invited me to watch a rehearsal of her dance troupe.' Her voice softened. âI'm sorry.'
She did not scream. She kept her face impassive, her eyes hooded slits and simply replied: âI see.' She knew in her heart there would be no other time. Devon had her hooks out and there would be no letting go.
Inside Marissa burned; the beginnings of a smouldering rage. This time she didn't let her feelings show, but somehow she would make Tenille pay for spurning her like this. She didn't know how yet, but she would find a way; her time would come.
The friends walked together to King Subway. Tenille expected to go south with Marissa, but she chose northbound instead. As each station disappeared behind her, Tenille had the distinct impression that she had really given offence. There had been no outburst like last time, but she was reminded of the saying: Still waters run deep. A shutter had come down between them, Tenille definitely relegated to the other side. Marissa was a strange one, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn't always be available for her and that was that. Why did she keep picking on her anyway? There were others she could go out with.
So lost in thought, she missed Spadina and had to settle for Dupont. âDummy.' Now she was stuck with a longer walk through the deep snow; not good for her boots. As winter wore on, the walking tracks grew narrower, people making only half-hearted attempts at clearing. The young boys made good money shovelling the high drifts, especially from senior citizens.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Raoul looked up as Tenille walked in
. Leche.
She was ravishing. His dark, handsome visage carried eyes that bore through her clothes to the curves beneath. He was smitten by her wide, luminous eyes; the voluptuous body that bespoke an as yet, untapped sensuality.
âHow nice to see you here, Tenille.' His sensuous mouth curled in a sardonic smile. She knew he was remembering their last exchange.
âDevon invited me ⦠me over. She thought it would be good for me to ⦠to watch,' she stammered, a natural blush outlining her cheeks in a way he found most charming, as he subjected her to his scrutiny. Tendrils of hair escaped the toque and curled in delightful disorder to her shoulders. Really, she was a peach.
âCome in, come in. You are most welcome. Stavros, do you remember Devon's friend, Tenille? She has been to the restaurant on a few occasions,' he declared, a small smile playing about his lips as he made the lengthy introduction.
“This is why I don't like men's company,”
Tenille thought,
“they always make me feel like I'm on show.”
She turned to Stavros Armenis whose eyes had been making a similar appraisal, but he spoke pleasantly enough. At this point Amaia came in from changing. She greeted her by name and made her feel more at ease.
âWe will also have Manuel Canales with us this afternoon,' Raoul stated. âI thought it would be good for you to meet informally.' They had a palmas practise while waiting for Devon, Stavros too. In fact he was the best. While the others kept the basic rhythm, he was able to weave his way through their timing.
âTenille, try this with us. Just follow the foundation with me,' Raoul invited. She was happy to join in. Keeping in time with Raoul worked well. She just concentrated on his beats trying not to let the others distract her. Unfortunately, to do well at palmas one must be able to hear the contrapuntal rhythms and maintain one's place in the overall scheme of things.
Devon and Manuel arrived together, bursting into the studio as one. They had introduced themselves on the stairs. He was short like Diego, but better looking, with the olive skin of people from the south. A shock of thick, black unruly hair, constantly fell into his eyes, which he would shake impatiently away.
He sat with Tenille, content to watch the dancers. Then Stavros suggested they go through Alegrias and he could sing for them. What a thrill. His voice, rich and strong, reminded her of Dieguito. Although the repertoire was still limited, his potential was obvious.
With Devon back after her trip, Raoul planned to start a new dance. It was Segurillas, a slower, more stately dance, part of the Cante Hondo. He explained that another name for Segurillas used to be Playeras, from
planidera,
meaning âhired mourner'. Manuel took up the story.
âCante Hondo, that is, flamenco singing, is the purest expression of the Andalusian art. The Andalusians are a fusion of many different races and cultures,' he clarified: âSo is their music.' She was fascinated, watching and listening intently. âSome of the roots of Flamenco are found in the rhythms and chants of the Moors, who ruled the south of Spain for many centuries.'
Raoul interjected. âThose same chants can also be heard in Jewish liturgical music and especially in the music brought from India, by the Gypsies.'
Manuel resumed. âYou may think of Flamenco solely as a music of fire and temperament. However, it is more than that. It's a complete way of life.' At this point his dark eyes flashed to each of them in turn and Tenille felt a frisson of excitement.
âCante Hondo is an expression of deep feeling, having to do with happiness, sadness, and the struggle for life. I hope to make you hear this in my singing. The words of Segurillas often allude to death, suggesting its origin may have been in the primitive wails for the dead. When you begin this dance there will be nothing frivolous in it.' His smile softened his words. Indeed, he would be a great asset to the group.
Raoul clapped his hands peremptorily. âAll right everybody, let us begin.' He walked over to Tenille and asked if she would like to try the new dance. She didn't have her shoes, but he brushed that to one side. Her boots would do fine while they were getting the first moves.
Time flew. When Raoul decided they'd done enough, everyone felt well satisfied, including Tenille. At the end, Amaia commented that after stage experience with the Shriner's show, if she stuck with it, joining them in the new dance could be a possibility. Lights flashed in her head and triggered a switch. She looked across at Devon. What a wonderful chance. She just had to be chosen for the Shriner's event. She had to get that experience. Her future in dance depended on it.
Deciding to get a bite to eat at Fran's, Manuel and Tenille were invited along. They trudged through the snow as a happy band, pushing each other through the doors to the welcome warmth inside. Fran's was located on the corner of Avenue and St. Clair, not far from Devon's apartment. Being close to Devon was impossible, but she saw a warm smile fill her face whenever enthusiastic comments were passed regarding her participation in the afternoon's session. Conversation ceased when the orders arrived and food was hungrily attacked.
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