The Last Place She'd Look (25 page)

“I trust you. But you're an attractive woman. I don't trust men.”

“Your jealousy can get bigger than a house.”

“Good we have sleepovers rather than a mortgage,” she snapped.

We carried the groceries and went home in silence. Once we started unbagging our purchases, a heat came over both of us. We turned, touched, kissed, caressed, and ended up making love on the kitchen floor.

After a few months of going back and forth between our apartments with overnight bags, we each decided to give the other a drawer and some closet space. So now it felt like we lived together—at her place during the week, and mine on weekends.

One Friday night, I was standing in my kitchen, at the cutting board, slicing red and green peppers for a stir-fry. Early Joni Mitchell songs were wafting through the air.

I felt a gentle hand encircle my waist as warm lips kissed my neck. It was Jessica, offering me a glass of red wine. We each sipped from our goblet, locked eyes, and nodded to one another, a pleased expression. After many months together, we had learned each other so well; we needed few words to say, “Yes, this wine is good.”

She stirred the onions in the wok, and then extended her arm to me, indicating I should bring the peppers. I marched my red and green slivers to the stove. She tossed and stirred them. The peppers seemed to dance in the wok, sizzling.

Jessica put down her wooden spoon and reached for me. As we kissed, I felt my open heart pressing against hers. A deliciously warm feeling cascaded from my head to my toes. The feeling was not from a hot flash or the hot kitchen. It was from the wonderfulness of being loved and accepted and loving back.

My life was so much fuller and more joyous once Jessica became a part of it. I finally appreciated and savored the intimacy we shared. We moved together in the kitchen or working on story ideas, or on vacations like a fine Swiss watch: caring, helping, and ticking forward; getting things done and delighting in the journey. Dinner at home, bare-footed, was never so delicious.

Midlife was smarter. I knew how happy I was because I measured it against decades of disappointment, despair, and aloneness. This moment may not have looked like the life, or love, or partner I thought I'd have at this point in my life. I was glad I was able to be open and accepting to embrace a happiness I never thought was possible.

After about nine months and 20 articles themed about real estate for women, Beth suggested turning them into chapters for a self-help real estate book.
Women Can Own Foreclosures
practically wrote itself. The book was an easy sell too. Using public relations ingenuity we were able to get mortgage companies to offer it to prospective clients. Jessica and I appeared on
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
. We teased Ellen that she'd owned more than a dozen homes, but none were foreclosures. Our book took off!

We were able to parlay the success of our first book into a second:
Women Owning Real Estate, the Workbook
This featured tables and worksheets that helped women prepare for mortgage meetings. It also included encouraging quotes and motivational exercises with space for journaling.

We did a book tour, with question-and-answer seminars. This was thrilling because after months of being huddled over our computer, we were out in the world visiting bookstores in large cities where smart women lined up to buy our books, hear what we had to say and share success stories. It was exhilarating to hear their experiences of feeling empowered, negotiating with lenders, doing things they never thought they'd do, and the freedom and confidence of owning their own homes. We were creating value while building credibility for ourselves.

Then one day, in the bookstore in my neighborhood, the most gratifying thing happened. We were setting up for a Q&A presentation at the
Barnes & Noble
& Noble at the Grove, just off Fairfax. It was a huge store with about a dozen little cluster points where you could spend an entire day reading and exploring. The entire store was pretty crowded. Fifteen minutes before the event was supposed to begin, people were filling the event area.

As Jessica was carrying an extra box of books to the signing area, she walked past the biographies section. A man stopped her, eyed her up and down, and began flirting with her. Jessica smiled and appeared interested. Putting the books down, she began talking to him, like she had time to spare.

Frantically I searched the floor for her, eager to set up the books, anxious about the day's presentation. Seeing her and recognizing him, all fit, fine, and white-haired, my adrenaline was pumping at double speed. With the confidence of a superhero, I approached him. “Hi, remember me?”

Ack said, “No.”

I was enraged, “You don't remember me? I'll show you something you'll never forget!”

I kissed Jessica deeply and passionately, dipping her back in a long, swooning romantic moment. In front of everyone, I felt all of our mutual jealousies melting away and gloriously happy with my choice of partner. To Ack I blurted, “The next time you kick someone out of bed without fucking them, remember that.” To Jessica I said, “Come on, doll. We've got books to sign.”

I took her hand and we sauntered up to the table where a long line of eager book holders awaited our signatures. Before picking up our pens, we grabbed each other's asses affectionately and smiled at one another.

When the second book was published, we received a big advance. This coupled with Jessica's relationships with all of the listings services and mortgage brokers enabled us to live the dream we'd encouraged others to do. We bought a house together— a little pink cottage in Toluca Lake. We got a great price because it was part of an estate sale. It had a big back yard and a pool.

So without obsessing about the lack in my life I was able to move from magazine writing to books, increase my income, and find love with a delightful life partner. Packing and moving seemed easier. The things I'd been collecting, saving, and hoarding when I lived alone had finally lost their luster. There were more boxes for the trash than the moving van. With less baggage of all kinds, my new life was leaner and smarter.

Our first night in the house, I luxuriated in the tub. Now I was a home owner, with Jacuzzi bubbles. Another dream had come true! While soaking, I reflected on who I was, and who I'd be now, living in this house.

I realized, love and sex are ideally a package deal. In my life I hoped sex would bring love. But the outcome was usually life-threatening, disastrous, or just plain loveless. Growing loving feelings and building intimacy seemed like a greater challenge and a more necessary goal as I got older.

I'd finally relinquished my quest for men. I gave the pursuit one last attempt and found it disappointing and painfully trying. Was I a lesbian by birth or sexual orientation? Not quite. But I preferred the company and intimacy of women at this point in my life because women over 50 are better companions than men. They know how to do things well, in and out of sexual situations. They know what they like and aren't afraid to express themselves (in and out of bed). They have hair on their heads, hope in their hearts, and a timely pedicure.

I believe that many women and most of my friends who never married (straight or gay) evolved into the husbands they were raised to marry—unclogging sinks, refinancing mortgages, and earning incomes that provide for a small family. They developed into full human beings rather than Barbie dolls waiting for their Ken doll to complete them. (I don't think married women are Barbie dolls, but many of my generation were raised to think they were deficient without a partner.) Where are those versatile, dynamic women this very minute? They're home re-wallpapering their kitchen or attending a book club with friends.

Attention must be paid to my invisible demographic! I want
Playboy
magazine to have a monthly feature, “boomer babes”, rather than a steady diet of bleached blond mammary Amazons, fresh from their cheerleading days, devoid of facial expressions, pubic hair, or library cards. I feel validated and encouraged that mid-life women anchor the evening news, telling America what's happening in the world. America's favorite talk show hosts were mid-life women: Oprah was unmarried, rumored to be in the company of women, yet she vehemently denied it. She earned millions more than any man and wielded greater power and influence than most successful corporate giants. Then there's our new pal, daytime's darling, Ellen DeGeneres, a publicly acknowledged lesbian, with the approval of habitual audience member, her own mother Betty. If everyone's world could be so loving and accepting, life would be a lot easier.

My late mother wanted me to be happy with someone who loved me. I may not be the woman she raised me to be, but the world had changed rapidly since her youth, and with even greater velocity since my own girlhood.

If I had less than a half century left, it was my experience that the men I met were elusive, inadequate, and rejecting. Climbing the penis tree became a pointless hike of disappointment on a crumbing branch of dead wood. After much reflection and deliberation, my smart choices were to be alone or with a woman.

I'd unlocked my heart to someone who opened their arms to me, eager to build and share a life filled with affection and mutual respect. It just happened to be a woman. As a young bride, was I a lesbian in training? Growing and changing is a giant part of leading a healthy life. Repeating the same mistakes (with men, yeah, them again) was self-defeating and tiresome. I had to remind myself of that quite often.

But what about sex—with a woman? When my eyes were closed and I was in the dark and someone was pleasuring me—in that moment did it really matter if they were a stranger or familiar, a man or a woman? Feeling good was downright pleasurable and rare. Many graduates of the “free love” generation spent lots of time not putting love and sex together, sort of fucking a la carte, and then marrying whomever they woke up with the moment they realized they should be married. My ex-husband did that. Very little was personalized in my marriage, other than the monogrammed towels.

I was eager for this new chapter in my life. Susan Sontag said, "Do stuff. Be clenched, curious. Not waiting for inspiration's shove or society's kiss on your forehead. It's all about paying attention. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager."

Toweling off, still exhilarated by my new environs, I realized that the house, the book, and my birthday all happened around the same time. I'd dreaded birthdays in the past, but somehow this year it wasn't about getting older, but instead about new beginnings, brighter opportunities, and better days.

Jessica said she planned a housewarming/ book party. Maybe a birthday cake would be thrown in for good measure. I trusted that whatever she'd arrange, it would be better than being hijacked to an intervention. She knew how to soothe my anxieties.

Chapter 34

Little Pink House

Scrubbing up my best party face and attitude, I slipped on a silky black and white floral cocktail dress, backless and hemmed just below the knee. As I lined my eyes and lips, I realized I was having a good hair day. How wonderful to celebrate my birthday at a time when my faith in love had been revitalized—with hope.

By the time I was out of the bathroom, Diana had arrived, eager to greet everyone. “All hail your loveliness,” I said, kissing her cheek.

“Get yourself a champagne,” she said. “And get another for me. Hostessing is thirsty work. You know I'm not a fan of women together, but I could see you two will last forever,” Diana said, as we clinked glasses.

The doorbell rang. I moved to the front door and opened it.

“Julia!” My eyes brightened as we kissed each other's cheek. “How are you?”

“Full of news! You won't believe what's been happening” she gushed.

“I haven't seen you in weeks. With you it could be anything.”

“Oh, it's something really great. Your head will explode with surprise.”

“Hit me with surprise,” I offered.

“I was trolling through
Craigslist
for end tables, and then found myself searching in my usual places.”

“You mean people finding?”

“You know me. The next thing I knew, I met Harv and Cleo. Harv was in the music business. Cleo is a retired flight attendant. They listed as a couple in search of a companion. And they found one—me.”

“That's very nice,” I said, “Sounds like you had a good weekend.”

“That weekend became a life-changing experience.” Julia put her arm around me, laughing. I don't have to pick a team. I've been selected—by a couple— with a big house in Sonoma. I'll have my own room and a run of their vineyard. You'll have to visit sometime.”

“What?” I asked, incredulous.

“I'm moving to Sonoma the end of the month!”

“To service Cleo and Harv? Together, separately, or while stomping grapes?”

“I see your brain exploding,” she said, giggling. “I'll be overseeing the print marketing for their vineyard and tasting rooms. Sometimes I'll be with Harv, other times Cleo, or the three of us together. I'll have a job, feel wanted, and not be alone.”

While I visualized the physical logistics of all this, I found myself saying, “So you'll be in a trio and have a job?”

Julia high-fived me. “And I'll have health insurance. The perfect trifecta.”

As Julia moved to the bar to get a drink, Beth tapped my shoulder. We hugged.

“How are you? Is Jeff parking the car?”

“I'm sorry to spring this on you. I couldn't bring myself to call and tell you. He's home, packing, moving out,” she said, looking down sadly. “Our boys will both be in college in the fall. It's a good time to move on.”

I was sorry to see my friend so blue. I touched her shoulder.

“Change and moving on lead to good things.” Looking me in the eye, her tone changed. “So I 'm here stag today,” she said, eyes darting around the room.

“Speaking of moving, I'll tell you something to spin your mind in another direction. Julia's leaving town. She'll be living with a couple!”