The One That Got Away (13 page)

Then I saw the stockings. I moved toward them as one might approach a holy vision—in wonder, and some disbelief.

They were thick, black stockings—opaque and sturdy. They made me think of Toulouse Lautrec's paintings of the Moulin Rouge dancers and nineteenth-century
erotic photographs. But someone from Hollywood had jazzed up the stockings by topping them with long, thin feathers that arced downward like willow branches.

“That's our last pair,” the salesperson said. It was kismet.

On Sunday I proudly showed Bridget the receipt.

“Stockings? You went into Black Widows Web and all you bought was a pair of stockings? B.D., I'm disappointed in you.” Bridget wasn't in costume, but seemed unfazed by my nun outfit.

“The stockings have feathers,” I said.

Bridget seemed intrigued. “I dated a woman who had a sheer nightie thing with fluff around the top and bottom.”

“Marabou feathers,” I said. “I think the feathers on my stockings are ostrich feathers.”

“Can I see them?”

“No. I bought them to wear in my boudoir.”

“So?”

“Didn't you tell me you're monogamous?”

“Oh. Yes, I guess I did.”

As we entered Ozmosis, someone announced that the film would be starting in fifteen minutes. A woman standing in the Fiction section turned to her companion. “Oh! They're going to be showing
The Sound of Music
here tonight.”

“No. Not even for you,” her companion replied.

I walked down the stairs, being careful to lift my skirts. A blond man in lederhosen stared at me.

“Bambi?”

“Harvey!”

We hugged. I explained to Bridget that Harvey and I had been at camp together. “He played Rolfe.”

“Oh, look,” someone said, “it's the Baroness.” And there she was, blonde, tastefully bejeweled, swathed in lamé, and somehow familiar. As she swept by me I said, “Valentine, why didn't you tell me you were going to be here?”

“
Pero querida,
B.D., you make a terrifyingly authentic nun.”

Harvey bowed, clicked his heels, and kissed Valentine's hand.

Bridget sang every word of every song. At the end of the film, a man sitting in front of her turned and said, “You should save it for the shower, honey.”

“Who do you think you are,” I asked. “Placido Domingo?”

In reply he handed me a card announcing the appearance of “The Swizzle Sticks, New York City's queer cabaret ensemble” at the Over the Rainbow Room.

Chapter 14

The wine and cheese segment of the meeting of the Third Thursday Networking, Social and Support Group for Professional Lesbians was well under way when I walked into the Lavender Lounge at the Triangle Inn. I had been advised that TTNSSGPL was a major cruise scene. The highlight of the evening was always Stand and Tell, during which a microphone was passed from table to table, and each woman would stand and introduce herself. When the mike arrived at my table I spilled the contents of my purse onto the floor so that I was busy putting everything back in place as the mike made its way from woman to woman.

It wasn't that I didn't want the professional lesbians to see me; I just didn't want them to know that I was a bridal consultant.

Stand and Tell was followed by another social period. I stood sipping my wine, trying to look approachable. The real estate agent, rushing towards the law firm partner in search of a country home, careened into me, splashing red wine onto my ecru silk blouse, which I had ransomed from the dry cleaner the previous weekend. A woman chose that moment to hand me her card.

“Angel Merse, Dyke Investigator.”

“So you—ah—investigate women to find out if they're dykes? There have been times when I would have paid a lot of money for that kind of information.” It was the best verbal response I could come up with. I was having trouble with coherence, with remaining upright when my hormones were demanding that I lie down. With her Fra Angelico blue eyes and curly, new-penny red-blonde hair that was guaranteed to drive the most congenial cherub into unheavenly envy, Angel Merse was absolutely adorable, certifiably hot. She was also petite. I felt huge. I had torpedoes for breasts and thighs the diameter of redwood trunks that were buckling like willows in the wind. To save Angel's life, I would have to be the bottom. Lucky for both of us, that's the kind of girl I am.

Of course, it took a while for Angel and me to get to that point. It didn't happen the way it usually did in all those erotic stories I was always reading. Images of rushing off with her to the nearest bathroom, booking a room at the Triangle Inn, or getting naked in her car in the parking lot flickered on my mental screen, but a more urgent matter demanded my attention. “I have to get some seltzer for this wine stain,” I said.

Grabbing the nearest bottle from the refreshments table, I twisted the cap off. Seltzer splattered my hair, face and chest. I patted my face with a napkin while Angel gently dabbed at the damned spot on my left breast, just above my bra cup. As my nipples began flaunting their presence beneath the business-like blouse, the red that was slowly disappearing from the silk seeped into Angel's cheeks. It was embarrassing, yet I wished I was showing a little more cleavage.

“I think that should do it,” Angel said, dropping her hands and stepping back.

“Thanks.”

“My home, office, and cell numbers are on my card, in case you need help with anything else.”

Most nights I fantasized about Bridget before falling asleep. But that night I pretended my hands were resting on Angel's curls while her mouth moved across my body like a planchette on a Ouija board, channeling my desire.

Chapter 15

I had decided to spend the day at the beach with Erica. It's a lot of work to go to the beach. First I have to shave my legs, which is always a bit of a production number—I check the backs with a mirror to make sure I haven't missed any spots. Then I have to coat myself with an SPF 30 sun block before I even leave the house. But it gives me an excuse to wear a wide-brimmed blue straw hat with a flowered scarf tied around the base of the crown, the ends falling down to blow in the breeze, if there is one.

We took a train and a taxi to the ferry. As we made our way across the water, I thought about my first trip to Cherry Grove the previous summer. I'd been amazed by how small everything seemed—one-person-wide boardwalk paths; tiny houses squeezed side by side like pieces on a Monopoly board.

We finally arrived at the beach, and settled on the sand, spreading towels and sheets.

“Do you know how long Bridget and Natalie have been together?” Erica asked.

“They celebrated their third anniversary this past February.”

“From what I've observed, the time between the third
and fourth years is usually critical in a relationship. If the couple makes it through that—the seventh year is another big one for break-ups. And if they start to think about buying a house together—watch out. There's something about a mortgage that makes people run.”

I rolled onto my back and used my hat to cover my eyes.

“Have you ever gone fishing for bass?” Erica asked.

I knew the non sequitur was also a rhetorical question.

“It takes a really long time,” Erica said. “You can spend the whole day just waiting. You have to let the bass come up to your bait a couple of times, swim around it, and smell it. You have to be really patient because if you try to reel the bass in too soon you'll lose it.”

I saw myself in a rowboat on a lake, wearing a drab jacket and hat, dangling a line down into the water where Bridget, a big, beautiful mermaid with a gleaming bass tail, was swimming. I didn't think about the bait. I don't do worms.

But while I was waiting for Bridget to fall in love with me, there were, so to speak, plenty of other fish in the sea. I sat up and put my hat back on my head.

A few feet away from us a group of young women shared a blanket. Their breasts were bared and they wore boxer shorts. I liked the look, and wondered if I could get away with it.

“How do you think I'd look in boxer shorts?”

“The effect wouldn't be quite the same, B.D.,” Erica said. “Your breasts aren't as perky.”

I thought of how some of my clients would set their hearts on an unflattering gown, or choose a bridesmaid's dress that looked great on one woman and dreadful on another.

My attention was drawn to someone walking along the water's edge with what looked like a miniature horse.
As they came closer, I saw that it was Angel Merse with a Harlequin Great Dane. The dog's head was level with her shoulders. They came over to where Erica and I were sitting. I looked up at Angel. The combination of the sun and her lustrous curls challenged the efficacy of my sunglasses.

“This is Betty Boop,” Angel said.

I let Betty sniff my hand.

Angel shrugged. “The staff at the shelter named her.”

Betty grinned and gave up a woof.

“Would you like to join us?” I asked.

“Actually, I'm here on surveillance,” Angel said. “Some woman thinks her girlfriend is two-timing her; asked me to check it out.”

It occurred to me that in the process of trying to spot one allegedly unfaithful girlfriend, Angel would get to survey a beach full of women. It seemed like a pretty good deal to me.

“I've got to go,” Angel said. “We should do dinner or something. I'll call you.”

I watched her as she threaded her way through towels and blankets. Then she paused, ostensibly to examine something in the sand.

“Hey,” I said to Erica, “I think I see Natalie and Maxine.”

“Here, use my binoculars.”

“You brought binoculars to the beach?”

“I'm a bird-watcher, B.D.”

“Well, there aren't any birds around here right now. If people see me looking through binoculars, they'll think I'm perverted or something.”

“Lots of the people in this country already think that. Go for it.” Erica handed me a pair of binoculars about the size of a paperback book. I took them, looked around me, then raised them to my eyes and focused on the couple in question.

“It's them,” I said. “Maxine is topless.” I knew how the archeologist Howard Carter must have felt when he first looked upon the splendor of King Tut's tomb. I also knew that Maxine would be furious if she somehow caught sight of the binoculars. Fortunately, she was engaged in applying sun tan lotion to Natalie's thighs with the painstaking deliberation of an illuminator for whom an entire world can be contained within the outline of a letter. For the sake of Natalie's skin, I hoped that this was just a touch-up job, for at the rate Maxine was going, Natalie's calves would burn into chili peppers before Maxine made her way down to them.

Chapter 16

“No flowers.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Fuchsberg, I'm not quite sure I understand.”

“I prefer ‘Adele,' Eduardo. I'm telling you that I don't want any flowers at Miriam's wedding. Flowers die. It depresses me when things die.”

“But they won't die until after the wedding, Adele.”