The One That Got Away (2 page)

One of the things I notice about people is their hair. Bridget's hair had weight and mass. It wasn't very long, but there was a lot of it; the colors of autumn. I imagined it cloaking my hands, curling around my fingers, tickling my palms.

“Nancy had a screwed-up childhood,” Bridget explained. “Our mom was always telling her one thing, while our dad was telling her something else, so eventually she just gave up and let whatever happened happen.”

I understood that. After all, I had sat on a fence for years, watching my friends and relatives, gay and straight, date and mate, while I held back from entering the fray myself.

“But what about you?” I asked Bridget.

“I never listened to either of them,” she said.

My feet were starting to hurt. I tried shifting my weight as I sipped my beer.

Bridget was like the sister I sometimes wished for. As an only child, the most adventurous thing I'd dared to do during my time spent under the parental microscope
was to contemplate making a rope from my sheets and climbing out my window. I never did, of course. A sister like Bridget would have provided continual diversions, and I might have been able to slip off and sneak a cigarette or spray some graffiti.

Bridget confided to me that she hadn't worn a dress since she'd left home at seventeen.

“Don't you have to get dressed up to go to work?” I asked. “What do you do?”

“I'm a motivational speaker. I go around to business conferences and make speeches about how you can have more fun at work and be more productive.”

“How did you end up doing that?”

“I know about teamwork, about motivation and self-discipline,” Bridget said. “I'm a jock.” I listened as she talked about the joys of basketball, biathlon, canoeing, ice hockey, parasailing, racquetball, tennis, and wrestling. “I have a conference in Lake Placid this winter, and I think I might be able to try luge.” I envisioned her in one of those shiny skintight bodysuits the Olympic lugers and speed skaters wear.

“Is there any place to sit down in here?” I asked.

Fortunately, there was an empty stool at the bar. Bridget eyed my half-full bottle before ordering another beer for herself. “You're a cheap date,” she remarked.

“I'm easy too,” I replied. Bridget laughed. People never take me seriously when I want them to.

“Eduardo always introduces me as, ‘My assistant, Miss B.D.,'” I said. “Most people hear it as Bea Dee, and call me Bea or Miss Dee.”

“Is Bea short for Beatrice?” Bridget asked.

“Actually, B is just the letter. My initials are B.D.”

“So what does B.D. stand for?”

I sighed. She was going to have to be told at some point. I took a swig of Rolling Rock, squared my
shoulders, looked her straight in the eye, and said, loudly and clearly, “My name is Bambi. Bambi Devine.”

The bartender snickered.

“It's a good thing you're not a butch,” Bridget said.

I leaned forward, bending down slightly, tugging the hem of my skirt to cover the lace from my slip. I wondered if Bridget was watching, and hoped it wasn't too dark in the bar for her to notice my cleavage. When I looked up at her, she was smiling at me. A flush started in my toes and raced up to the roots of my hair.

“How did you get your job?” Bridget asked.

“I met Eduardo at a conference sponsored by the alumnae association of my art school. He was ready to hire an assistant, and I was bored with what I was doing at the time.”

“Where did you go to art school?”

“At the only all-woman art school in the country.”

“That must have been fun.”

“Actually,” I said, “I wasn't out to myself then, so I didn't really benefit from the situation.”

“So when did you come out?”

“About a year ago, I guess.”

“Did you sleep with men?”

I nodded.

“And?”

“At best, it was like making do with McDonald's when what I really wanted was a leisurely dinner at a four-star restaurant.”

“And at its worst?” Bridget asked.

“I'd rather not talk about that,” I said. I could feel the dark waters of the past beginning to swirl.

“Drink up,” Bridget said gently. “I want to see you finish that beer before we leave.”

The next day Eduardo and I discussed the problems presented by Nancy's wedding while taste-testing the creations of an up and coming catering firm.

“Well, we can't put Bridget in a typical maid of honor dress,” I said. “It would be . . . sacrilege.”

“You mean for the dress?”

“No, for her. She has a kind of muscular lushness.”

“You mean she's hot,
dulce
. That's what you're trying to say, right? And I can tell you a hot butch like that has no business in a gown.” Eduardo sighed. “I don't know what I'm going to do with this bridal party. The bride can't make up her mind about anything, and the ring bearer asked me if he could be the flower girl instead.

“In this business, people resist the exotic,” he continued. “No spicy food because grandma can't take it. Most of our clients think that serving quiche instead of those wretched miniature hot dogs is daring.”

I had a fondness for miniature hot dogs. At least you could tell what they were.

“Eduardo,” I said. “What are we eating?”

“Caribbean ratatouille blinis.”

I decided I was going to stop off at Gray's Papaya for a hot dog on my way home.

“I've been thinking we should offer a support group for butch women who have to be bridesmaids and wear dresses,” I said.

Eduardo rolled his eyes. “B.D., I know you'd love to be the only femme in a room with a bunch of butch women, but do you really think they're going to share their feelings about having to wear a dress? Please, honey. A butch support group is when they all get together and rebuild an engine or something.”

I pictured Bridget in a white t-shirt and faded blue jeans, a greasy rag hanging out of her back pocket, bending under the open hood of a car, wrench in hand. Then I tried to visualize her in the maid of honor dress Nancy was considering—a buttercup yellow crepe sheath with a matching bolero jacket swirled
with gold beads. Eduardo hated the dress; he claimed it was proof the designer was a misogynist. Still, it was easier to imagine Eduardo in the dress than Bridget.

Chapter 2

If you're going to come out later in life, New York City is a good place to do it. It has an LGBT bookstore, Ozmosis, and an LGBT community center. Not to mention Greenwich Village.

My time with Bridget at Naked Promise had been an interesting experience, but I needed a different kind of knowledge. So the following Saturday I went in search of the one source of information I could always count on—books.

Yet standing outside of Ozmosis, I was reluctant to enter. I was thinking about how sometimes a group of animals can sense a stranger, and refuse to accept one of their breed because it doesn't smell right. I took a couple of deep breaths. I was a lesbian. Ozmosis was an LGBT bookstore—it said so right on the door. And, in all probability, the customers and staff were LGBT. So what was my problem? Maybe I was too old.

I pushed the door and entered, dropping my shoulders, relaxing my jaw, trying to look and act as if I'd been in the store hundreds of times.

“Check your bag, please.”

At least that felt familiar.

I handed over my sturdy canvas tote, worn and smudged by city soot. The clerk handled it a little gingerly. Maybe I should look for a new tote bag in the store I thought.

Standing by New Releases, I could see a section labeled Lesbian Erotica. There was a woman standing in front of the rack, reading. I took up a position at the Humor section directly across the aisle and studied her while pretending to look at a book on the history of lesbian hairstyles. She was wearing a black leather jacket and button-fly jeans. Her bright red hair was shaved close to her head. There was a small silver hoop through her left eyebrow, and two large rings on her right hand. She was reading Fisting with Finesse.

She looked up and over at me. “Did you squeak?”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Not speak, squeak.” Her voice seemed very loud. “I heard a squeak.”

“Must have been the floor.” I twisted the soles of my Easy Spirit pumps back and forth on the wooden boards. “Excuse me,” I said, moving over to Mystery.

There I found another woman in a leather jacket, looking down at a small open notebook in her left hand. She was a bit shorter and much thinner than me, and her dark hair was boyishly cut. A man in the Travel section seemed to be watching her. He took a few steps toward her, squinted, then turned away.

I pulled a book off the rack and began reading the description on the back cover.

“That one's good, but her most recent one's even better,” the woman said.

“I like to read mystery series in order,” I told her. “Do you know what the first book in this series is?”

“I don't remember, but I can check it for you. I just have to go into a different file. This is the list of books I want to read. I have another list of books I've read. And
I also have a list of mystery series in chronological order. My name's Ellen.”

“B.D..”

While Ellen was opening the file, I looked at her some more. I liked what I saw. She was obviously well organized, and we both liked to read mysteries. I wondered if it was too soon to suggest having a cup of coffee. I'd noticed several tables and a pastry case in front near the display window.

“I have to hand it to Sue Grafton,” Ellen said. “You can figure out the order of her series by the titles alone.” She meant the author whose titles create a crime-themed primer:
A is for Alibi, B is for Burglar, C is for Corpse,
and so on.

“The covers of the Brother Cadfael series usually give a number,” I said.

“I've never read any of those,” Ellen said. “Who's the author?”

“Ellis Peters. The detective is a medieval monk.”

“I'm not religious.”

“Neither am I, but sometimes I think I was a nun in a former life,” I said.

Just then a woman came up behind Ellen and put her arms around Ellen's waist—and an end to my idea of coffee.

“Honey, you can't buy any more books until you get rid of some of the ones you already have. It's in our contract.”

“Just one, please?”

The new arrival turned to me. “I can't say no to my honey.” She held out her hand. “I'm Annalise.”

“B.D. I don't suppose you could recommend a couple of books for—a friend of mine who's new to all this?”

“For a baby dyke?” Annalise asked.

I felt the unmistakable heat of a blush.

“You're embarrassing B.D.,” Ellen said.

“Why? You know I'm a magnet for baby dykes—you were one, once. Isn't that what the B.D. stands for?” Annalise giggled, and winked at me. “Should we tell her about the damn book?”

“
The Dam Book
?” I had heard of dental dams. Could there possibly be an entire book about them?

Ellen laughed. “We call it ‘the damn book' because it's caused a lot of arguments among our friends. The real title is
The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader
.”

I followed them over to the Anthology section. Ellen frowned. “It's not here.”

“Maybe it's in Sexuality,” Annalise said.

“But it's an anthology,” Ellen protested.

“Oh, please. Not everyone is as organized as you are, Pumpkin Toes.” She looked at her watch. “Hey, we'd better get going if we're going to be at my mother's on time.”

“B.D., give me your phone number,” Ellen said. “Maybe we can all meet for coffee or something.”

I watched as she entered my number into a device she was holding in her hand.

“This is an iPhone,” Ellen said. “One day everyone will have one.”

“My honey loves her toys,” Annalise said.

“Lisey!”

“What? I'm talking about that thing in your hand, not the stuff in the box at home.”

I saw that no one was in the Lesbian Erotica section, so I went over there. I stood in front of the shelf and decided to take just a quick peek at
Fisting with Finesse
. I jumped when Annalise, who had come up behind me said, “No, B.D., that's Lesbian Sex 102. You need Lesbian Sex 101. Try this.” She pulled a book off the shelf and handed it to me—
What Lesbians Do in Bed (and Other Places): Step-by-Step Techniques Anyone Can Emulate
.

In the time-honored tradition of hiding the one thing you are really embarrassed about buying, I began piling up other books as I moved methodically along the shelves, selecting something from every section except Gay Male Erotica and Addiction/Recovery.