by Hazel Yeats
Her voice trailed off as it dawned on her how presumptuous she must sound to someone who had no intention of taking this thing any further. She may very well have just set herself up to be brutally rejected.
“I’m single,” Jude said. She held up her hands—no ring. “Have been for some time now. I’m definitely not going to patch things up with anyone. And I’m definitely gay.” Her foot nudged Cara’s under the table, an innocent way of establishing closeness. “I’ll tell you the story if you like.”
Cara nodded. “Please, do.”
Jude’s posture changed. She put her elbows on the table and leaned over confidentially, as if she were about to reveal a great secret. “I’ve known since I was a kid.” She paused, staring out the window at the traffic in the street, while she doubtlessly remembered the first time she had understood that she wasn’t like the other girls.
“Many gay people say that they always knew there was something different about them, but I didn’t feel different at all, just gay. Or, for lack of a better term, boyish.”
Cara smiled. Jude didn’t seem very boyish now. Not that she would have minded—she wasn’t exactly opposed to a subtle hint of butchness in the women she dated.
“I stunned a gathering of family and friends by coming out at my sweet sixteen party.” Jude produced an evil grin. “It was awesome. All those people, huddled together in the kitchen of our Wisconsin farm, who had somehow managed to hold on to their 1950s values all through the decades—who maintained that masturbation would blind you and that womens’ right to vote would be the country’s undoing—were suddenly faced with the horror of a happily, and openly, gay daughter, granddaughter, and friend. It was the most confusing day in all of their lives.”
“That was very brave of you,” Cara said.
Jude shook her head. “It didn’t feel that way at all. I simply felt that I had a right to live my life as proudly as any of them.”
“So what happened after you came out? Did the sexy farm girls stop churning butter and turn their attention to you?” Cara giggled. “Hot summer nights in the haystack?”
Her mind produced an unexpectedly vivid image of such a scene, a little raunchy but not altogether unpleasant, that she was happy to keep to herself.
“Quite the contrary.” Jude’s voice dropped. She sounded sad and Cara pushed the budding fantasy out of her head.
Jude shrugged. “They didn’t want anything to do with me. And if they did, their parents wouldn’t allow them to. I was very young and I grew up in a traditional community. Kids didn’t really tend to stand up to their parents. There were shared morals and values, nothing much seemed to change from one generation to the next. There was little acceptance of anything new or different.”
Cara nodded sadly. Wasn’t this a story that was familiar to far too many gay people?
“I became quite lonely,” Jude said. “An outcast almost. My family accepted me as long as I didn’t talk about girls, and I gradually came to realize how clueless they actually were. They were truly incapable of understanding that being gay is as real and permanent a sexual orientation as being straight—that it’s not a temporary delusion, or a response to a bad experience, or a way to act out. So, they kept setting me up with the boys from the neighboring farms, convinced that I was bound to fall for one of them eventually, forget all this craziness, as they called it, and get married already. I couldn’t stand it in the end, I was desperate to get away. So, as soon as I was eighteen, I moved to Los Angeles.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say I absolutely made up for lost time.” Responding to Jude’s impish smile, Cara made a mental note to ask her, at a more appropriate time, about details as to how and with whom she’d made up for lost time. She was a sucker for a good bedtime story.
“Are you still seeing your parents?”
“My father died of a massive heart attack, three years ago,” Jude said. “I see my mother maybe three or four times a year. We never did talk about my orientation. They never asked if I was seeing anyone. When I got pregnant they seemed to assume I had chosen to be a single parent. Which happened to be true. I always suspected them of having made up a story to tell their friends—that my husband had left me, or died. But they were happy with my success and proud to be grandparents. I guess that was enough for me.” She shrugged. “As you get older, you learn to choose your battles. Don’t you think? And you tend to reconcile yourself to things that can’t be changed. I miss my dad, but I’m glad I still have my mom, and I like spending time with her. I think she understands me better now, although she never says so. I only took Laurie out to the farm once; introducing her as a friend and as my illustrator, which she was. I’m sure my mom knew what was going on, but she never said anything and neither did I. I guess that over the years we learned to both give a little, meeting somewhere in the middle.”
Cara nodded, realizing it wouldn’t hurt if she were a little more forgiving herself. “Now,” she said, “about your kids.”
“I have one,” Jude said. “Zoe. She’s five.” She shook her head. “But this is beginning to feel like an interview.” She pushed the plate with the leftover lasagna across the table and picked up the bottle of house wine, which was empty. “Let’s have a little more wine, okay?” she said. “And talk about you.”
After the waiter had brought them both a glass of Chardonnay, Cara was wondering what she might reveal about herself that would make her seem even remotely as interesting as Jude. The impressive coming-out story, the brave move to such a different world, the child, the career, the fame—it was all a little intimidating. Was she really going to tell Jude the truth about herself? About how she had lost the badge? And how she’d become a pizza delivery girl instead? The story of how things had gone bad with Kelly, not to mention the string of girlfriends before her? How could she be honest about the lack of direction in her life now that she knew that Jude was a mother, that she had gone through the ordeal of losing a parent, that she had carefully planned her life and career, that she was wise and forgiving? Did she have any flaws at all? It was all so fucking serious! At the same time, the coming-out story had brought confusing new emotions—a tinge of pity, oddly arousing, and something that was, probably, plain old insecurity. She wasn’t sure how she’d react if Jude decided to join the ranks of the people who tended to give her unsolicited advice, half-condescending, half-concerned, about how to get her act together.
“There’s not that much to tell,” she said. “I was actually interested in how you became a writer.”
“I’ll tell you some other time, okay? I’m sure there’s plenty to say about you.”
This annoyed Cara no end. Was it Jude’s fame that made her think she knew Cara better than she knew herself? If she said there wasn’t much to tell, then surely there wasn’t. How could Jude deny that without knowing anything about her?
“I do believe I know myself a little better than you do,” she scoffed.
Her angry voice seemed to startle Jude. She sat up and straightened her back, resting her hands in her lap.
“I’m sorry,” Cara said. “I didn’t mean to blow up like that.” She was struggling to keep them on track here—to stop the whole night from turning sour.
“I’m obviously striking a sensitive chord,” Jude said. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like talking about yourself?”
“Sure I do.” Cara nodded. “It’s just that my story seems a little embarrassing compared to yours. I’m not a great fan of planning or structure in my life. I don’t like to be tied down or to commit to anything long term, apart from college, which was an incredibly inspirational time for me. After that, I watched people settle. Not just settle down, but settle. Personally, I’ve always been more interested in temporary projects than in building a career in one field. It’s important to me to keep my options open. Not everybody understands or accepts that.”
She to
ok a deep breath, as it dawned on her how lame it all sounded. Was that even true? Was she really keeping her options open? Was she really interested in short term projects? Or was she trying to present herself as a nonconformist to impress Jude? She pushed a sudden sense of self-loathing away. This was hardly the time for soul searching.
“And since your resume is a little overwhelming…” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t need to finish her sentence to make her point.
Jude took a sip of wine and leaned forward again, trying to bridge the gap between them. “I assure you, I won’t think any less of you for not having a career. I wasn’t expecting you to be just like me, or to meet some kind of requirement. Hell, I was just asking about your life. About you.”
“Okay,” Cara said, realizing she’d have to come clean eventually anyway. “The thing is, I deliver pizzas for Cara Mia.”
Jude produced a wide grin. “So, at the bookstore, you were there in a professional capacity?”
“Not really,” Cara said. “But anyway, I know you’ll wonder what kind of job delivering pizzas is for a grown woman—”
“Hey!” Jude frowned. “Stop jumping to conclusions here, okay? I wasn’t wondering that at all. Isn’t being a grown woman all about deciding for yourself how you want to pay the bills?”
“It’s not something I’m necessarily proud of,” Cara said.
“But it’s not something you’re necessarily ashamed of either, right?”
Cara shook her head. “I guess not.” She considered telling Jude that delivering pizza’s was actually a study of the human condition; but she realized, in time, how hopelessly pedantic that would sound. Being pedantic was bad enough when there was a reason to be—it was an absolute turnoff when it was used to distract people from one’s incompetence.
“It’s great to see people find something they’re passionate about,” said Jude. “Doesn’t really matter what it is—it can be anything from politics to stamp collecting. There’s nothing as wonderful as doing something that makes your heart sing.”
Cara chuckled. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say that delivering pizza’s makes my heart sing. But I guess I do okay. Being an artist is a different ball game, though. It must be awesome being a writer.”
Jude nodded. “In all honesty, I’m struggling a little right now; but it’s always been the most rewarding and utterly satisfying thing in the world to me.”
“I feel a little intimidated,” Cara confessed.
Jude shrugged. “Believe me, there’s no need to be. Why would you?”
“Why would I…” Cara said, “…let’s see. Could it be because I’m sitting here with Jude Donovan—gorgeous, famous, big shot writer? And could it be that I’m a little insecure because I have twenty dollars in the bank, a crappy job, a complete lack of ambition, and a secret addiction to romance novels while everybody thinks I spend my evenings studying the classics? I have no goals, no prospects, and I’m not going anywhere.” She put her finger in the air, smirking. “Mind you, this is what my family says about me.”
Jude picked up her napkin and held it in front of her face. Cara thought for a moment that she had burst into tears, but when Jude removed the napkin she realized that she was actually laughing.
Cara looked at her, her eyes cold. “Does my plight amuse you?”
“A little,” Jude said. “Want to hear my plight? I’m being sued by some illiterate scumbag who says I stole his rabbit idea. I’m suffering from acute writer’s block. My ex-wife is stalking me. I have PMS that’s so impressive it’s up for an award, and my kid is the first one to hit puberty at the tender age of five. All she does is scream at me and embarrass me in front of strangers.” She smiled sweetly. “Plight schmight.” she said. “But on a different note, did I just…hear you say…that I’m a gorgeous, famous, big shot writer?”
Cara pretended to think long and hard. “Nah,” she said finally. “I really don’t recall that I did. You must have heard wrong.”
Jude was laughing out loud now. “You are a horrible woman,” she said. “Hot. But horrible.”
Cara raised her glass. “Right back at you.”
The magic was back.
CHAPTER 6
“So where is she now?” Cara said as they were leaving the restaurant. “Zoe, I mean.”
“She’s at a friend’s house. My friend, not hers.” Jude checked her watch. “She’ll be sound asleep by now.”
“Does that mean you have some sort of curfew?”
“No. Not really.”
“What does that mean, not really? Either you do or you don’t.”
“It means,” said Jude, buttoning up her elegant, long winter coat, “that I’m free as a bird. But that saying so seemed a little presumptuous.”
“Ha!” Cara said. “Not at all.” She wasn’t about to let Jude get coy. “Let’s get some fresh air, okay? Let’s see what’s going on at Dam Square. And then maybe we can catch the metro and have a little nightcap at my place.”
Jude nodded. “A nightcap is fine. As long as it’s not a euphemism for something else.”
“O…kay.” Cara wondered if that particular invitation was ever not a euphemism for something else.
“I mean, we can’t have sex or anything,” Jude said, out of the blue. She followed Cara down the street. “This is only our second date. And I’m not sure the first one even counts.”
Cara was almost amused that Jude would bring this up quite so unceremoniously. It was unromantic, but strangely endearing. Cara felt more connected to Jude than she had the entire evening.
She shoved Jude with her elbow. “Who says you can’t have sex on a second date? The Wisconsin moralists who corrupted you?”
Jude shook her head. “Anybody respectable.”
“Well,” said Cara. “They’re wrong. Or maybe they’re not, but who wants to be respectable anyway?”
“I do,” Jude said. “And so do you. You’re so not the stud you like to think you are.”
“Who told you something so horrible about me?” Cara stared at her, eyes wide, pretending to be outraged. “Well? Did you Google me?”
Jude laughed. “No. I simply observed you trying to hide your pristine side. Unsuccessfully, I might add.” She paused to wait until a party of loudly debating men in pinstriped suits had passed them. “You Googled me though.”
“Who told you that?” Cara kicked an empty soda can along the cobblestones—the sound of late night hopes and doubts. It clanged against a streetlight, then lay still.
“You did.”
“Right,” Cara admitted. “I did. But you’re a public figure. You have your own website.”
“Which gives you an unfair advantage.”
“Not at all.” Cara shook her head. “It didn’t tell me any of the things I wanted to know.”
“Really?” Jude said. “Like what?”
Cara chose not to answer that. For now.
When they arrived at Dam Square, it was just after ten p.m., but it was still jam-packed with people. Not to mention pigeons.
“Ah,” Jude said, staring at the beautifully illuminated façade of De Bijenkorf, “that’s where it all started.”
Cara thought back to all the times she’d made a fool of herself trying to find Jude. She’d never told her, and she wasn’t about to do so now.
“Who knew,” she said, “that we’d be standing here, only months later, voluntarily. And in peace.” She smiled. “With actual fond memories of that day.”
“Actually, I knew,” Jude said. “Call me crazy, but I was always convinced we’d meet again some day.”
Cara couldn’t tell whether she meant it or not. They hadn’t talked much about life and destiny. Maybe Jude was one of those people who thought that everything is connected, that everything happens for a reason.
“When I first came out here,” Jude said, “I was al
l about the tourist attractions.” She pointed to the back of the square, where the red-light district was. “I went there. And then I realized when I was there that it depressed me.”
“It can be a little much to take in, this city,” Cara said. “Sometimes, it’s better to have a local as your guide.”
Jude nodded. “I never went back. But this is a great spot. I want to read to the kids in this very square some time, in the open air—just like the other street artists. Wouldn’t that be great? There’s so much history here—the Royal Palace, the New Church, the National Monument.” She pointed to the obelisk-shaped concrete pillar. “Even if it is a little phallic for my taste.”
“Phallicism is in the eye of the beholder,” Cara said. “Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”
Jude did what she’d done earlier, after their kiss on the bridge—she put her arm around Cara and pulled her close. It made Cara feel wonderful when she did that. It was intimate and yet innocent, it forged a bond between them. It made her want to tell her everything, to be herself without reservation.
“I couldn’t believe how small everything is here,” Jude said. “All these tiny streets and tiny passages and tiny houses—a tiny country inhabited by freakishly tall people.”
“I’m not surprised you feel that way,” Cara said, “coming from a country where the food comes in buckets and the drinks in drums.”
Jude pulled her arm back and bumped her hip against Cara’s. “O my God!” she said. “I’ve offended you.” She laughed. “You’re a closeted patriot.”
“Don’t call me that.” Cara pretended to pout. “That’s an insult to people like me.”
Jude leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
For some reason, Cara felt a sudden surge of happiness course through her. It was so strong that it made her dizzy.