by Gail Bridges
Maybe he just wanted to know.
Or maybe it turned him on.
“Zora helped us,” said Nikki, gnawing on a fingernail, stealing a glance at Zora.
Logan’s head bobbed up and down. “We liked her a lot too. But wow—that Magnifier! I hardly know what to say. Just, wow.”
What was this Magnifier?
I wanted one. Josh and I had one in our Toolbox, surely? Or maybe we didn’t. Mr. Abiba might stock the four Toolboxes with different Tools. That seemed like something he would do. Although it was hard to believe that anything could be better than our Invisa-Lover.
But Mr. Abiba wasn’t done asking questions. “Who used the Magnifier first?”
Logan put up his hand. “I did, sir.”
“An apex worth remembering, I assume?”
Logan blinked. “Sir?”
Mr. Abiba blew air through his lips, looking like a teacher with a slow student. “An apex, Logan Millhouse. A pinnacle. A summit.” He stared at Logan. “Think about it. An apex. The summation of an erotic episode. The culmination of the correct amount and type of sexual stimulation.”
“An orgasm, honey,” said Zora, “we call them ‘apexes’ around here.”
“Oh! I get it.” Logan said, “Um…yes, it was great. They all were.”
“How magnificent for you, Mr. Millhouse!” Mr. Abiba tapped his arched fingers together, glowing with happiness. “I am delighted for you! I truly am! My poor dear, there is no need to be bashful. Please don’t be embarrassed.” He sat up straight, seeming to grow in bulk and presence. He spread his arms, included everyone at the table in his sweeping gesture, a very regal move. “I beg you! All eight of you! My inn is a safe place. We’re all friends here! Please do not be afraid to share your sexuality!”
I stared at him, holding my breath.
“Will you do that? Each of you? For me? Yes?”
We all nodded, wanting to do it, for him—he’d asked so nicely—but relieved just the same that we weren’t the one currently “sharing our sexuality among friends”.
Mr. Abiba smiled, a benevolent host again. “It is wonderful, isn’t it, my Magnifier? One of my proudest achievements, a marvel of sensual sophistication!” Satisfied, he let poor Logan off the hook and began scanning the table for a new victim. He found one. “Tim Maddox!”
Tim Maddox, sitting across the table from Josh, jumped. “Yes sir?”
“Share with us, if you will!”
Tim looked as if he’d rather walk on hot coals. “We…” He cleared his throat. “Rhonda-Lynne and I, we…”
Zenith rose from her seat and stood behind Tim and Rhonda-Lynne, put reassuring hands on their shoulders. “They did very well, Mr. Abiba. They took the first step! They were nervous at first—having a third person in the room and all, who could blame them? But they were willing. They tried. They tried so hard!”
“Good for you!” Mr. Abiba said. “‘A’ for effort!”
What was this? Third grade?
Rhonda-Lynne leaned her head on Zenith’s hand, looking proud of herself. Embarrassed but proud. I suppose receiving an “A” for effort will do that to you.
“We used the Golden Ticket,” said Zenith. “They loved it. They went to places they never knew existed!”
“That’s true,” whispered Rhonda-Lynne. “I didn’t know.”
“Next time they’ll work harder. Next time they’ll have multiple apexes.”
Tim Maddox twisted in his seat so he could better see Zenith, adoration written all over his round face. Zenith pulled the couple close and leaned in to them, whispering, her Burnt Sienna hair falling over Tim and his wife, hiding the kisses she gave them. Rhonda-Lynne’s hand found one of Zenith’s pert little breasts and stayed there.
I frowned, swallowing.
I wanted to feel up Zenith’s pert little breasts! Not to mention that I was dying to run my fingers through her amazing hair, to kiss her. Yes, to kiss her! Well. Perhaps I more than just a tiny bit lesbian after all.
They were still kissing, the three of them. The rest of us watched.
Wasn’t it Rhonda-Lynne who had freaked out that very morning during breakfast about Zenith playing footsie with her? Hadn’t Rhonda-Lynne shrieked and hollered and made a commotion? Hadn’t Mr. Abiba been forced to speak to her, to talk her down? It seemed so long ago, hazy in my memory, but yes, I was pretty sure he had made her see reason. I tried to remember the Rhonda-Lynne incident, even though the effort gave me a dull headache. I stared at my pack of calling cards, unsettled. Rhonda-Lynne hadn’t been the first person Mr. Abiba had had to speak to. No. There had been others. I frowned. A wisp of a memory tickled at the edge of my mind. Had Mr. Abiba spoken to me in a rather sharp tone, and Josh too? Not all that long ago? Why?
Now my head really hurt.
I sipped at Zettia’s home-roasted coffee, ate two of her poppy-seed butter cookies and gave up on thinking. Why waste time and energy on trying to figure things out when there were more amusing things to do? I went back to watching the big kiss. Tim and Rhonda-Lynne might not have achieved “multiple apexes” during their Lesson, but they were coming pretty darn close to giving the restof us orgasms. I mean, apexes. Right there in the dining room. Especially the lesbians among us.
A sharp clap from Mr. Abiba brought it to an end. Zenith sat down, wiping her mouth, smiling.
“Very well!” said Mr. Abiba, “We’ve heard from two couples. That’s quite enough for now. Let us move on to the next item on the agenda, shall we? Zenith? If you will, grace us with a short performance. Our Zenith is an award-winning dancer—she used to be with the Chicago Ballet.” He stood up. “Valerian, will you move my chair to the side?”
Zenith went to the front of the room, to the space vacated by Mr. Abiba. She was wearing a wide skirt and a close-fitting knit tube top, and I realized with a start that she looked exactly like a dancer, all willowy and graceful and long-limbed. How had I missed it? I’d never noticed until that moment. The sound system crackled. Music started up, swelling, violins and flutes and who knows what else, filling the room with the sweet sounds of the overture of Swan Lake. Zenith kicked off her shoes, then struck a pose.
I stared at her. We all did.
Then she sprang into motion. She twirled and swayed and dipped and spun in the small area, her movements complementing the music, her dance a beautiful thing to behold. She held us captive until the last strains of Swan Lake died away. Her audience sat in stunned silence for a moment, then broke into thunderous applause. We rose to our feet, a standing ovation.
“Thank you,” she said, breathing hard, causing those little breasts to go up, down, up, down, up, down.
All right. I admit it. Maybe I’m a lot lesbian. Because I wanted her, badly.
She returned to her seat, smiling, clutching her shoes.
Mr. Abiba glowed with pleasure. “A fine performance! Transcendent! You’ve done yourself proud, my dear.” He waited for a moment, his gaze still on her, pride making his face seem even younger than before. Eighty-nine years old, perhaps. Not ninety-nine.
“Thank you,” she said again.
He sighed. “Ah. A great pleasure, to be sure, but now let us get back to business.” Mr. Abiba allowed his gaze to encompass the entire table again. “As you have no doubt gleaned, I surround myself with talented people. It is my joy in life, to bear witness to and encourage the creativity of others.”
I nodded. I had gleaned that. It was Mr. Abiba’s saving grace. Along with the Invisa-Lover.
“My Guides are not the only talent in the room. Oh no! We shall have a private showing of jewelry in the Fine Arts Room, by our very own metals expert. Jonathan has already set up his work for your perusal. My Guides will show you the way.” Mr. Abiba stood. “Don’t forget your calling cards, my dears. Tomorrow you’ll put them to good use, I promise.” He started to turn away but stopped himself. He put his hand on the back of his chair. “Joshua Taylor! A word, if you please.”
“Yes sir?”
Josh never called anyone “sir”. Not even the minister who’d married us.
“You will play for us tomorrow after breakfast? On an instrument of your choosing from my collection?”
Josh blinked, looked completely taken aback. “Um, sure. Of course.” He stretched his long fingers, glanced at his fingernails. As soon as we returned to our room, I knew he’d take a file and buffer to them.
“Wonderful!” said Mr. Abiba, clasping his hands in front of his chest. Amazing how a smile can take years off a person. “How very exciting! I do love classical guitar music. I look forward to your recital already. Now for your lovely wife. Angela Taylor.”
I gulped. “Yes? What can I do for you?”
“Paint! Draw! Sketch! All of the above!”
I stared at him, biting my lip. “Here? How?”
“Come now, my darling! Be creative. Character sketches. Line drawings. Studies. Did you not do their like in art school? Of course you did. Make portraits of the people around you during breakfast tomorrow. Ask someone to sit for you. Or look out of a window and paint a landscape.” Already turning away, he patted me on the shoulder as if I’d already agreed—which I had, I just hadn’t said it out loud. In my mind I was busy working out the particulars, such as what paint tubes, brushes and pencils to take with me to the table, and which would be best, paper or canvas?
I stood there watching our enigmatic host engage in animated conversation with Rhonda-Lynne. I would make art for him. I would make him proud.
Josh took my hand and squeezed it. “It just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
We followed Zora from the dining room, through a small side parlor filled with books, and down a dark hallway. The Fine Arts Room was at the back of the inn, and windowless. I found that peculiar. This ocean-front room would have been perfect for sunset-viewing. But the Fine Arts Room wasn’t meant for looking out. It was meant for looking in. For gazing at precious, small things, things to be studied and admired. Things that took time to appreciate, like Jonathan’s three tables of sparkling handmade jewelry.
The room came as a complete surprise. I stood alone by the door, long after everyone else was leaning over Jonathan’s jewelry. It was so still in here. Even with Jonathan’s hushed voice as he talked about his artwork, the room was muted and quiet. There wasn’t much furniture, only two rows of chairs lining a wall, ready to be pulled close for Josh’s recital. Even I, Angie of the Tin Ears, could tell this room would have excellent acoustics, that walls would reflect sound instead of absorbing it.
The walls were bare. Empty and waiting.
A gallery!
The room was a gallery. For fine arts, just as the name said. For our fine arts.
Perhaps Mr. Abiba would display my artwork here!
I sucked in my breath and stole a look at Mr. Abiba as he swept into the room—his room—holding court with his guests. His pet artists. How extraordinary! How charming! What a fascinating man! Who ever heard of an inn with a gallery?
I finally left the doorway and went to study Jonathan’s work, but I had a hard time concentrating. My stomach was saturated with Zettia’s delicious dinner, my body simmering with the smoldering heat of Invisa-Lovers and Magnifiers and Golden Tickets and who knew what else, but my mind… My mind was spinning with the artworks I would make. This beach-scape and that interior, maybe a still life or two, and a delightful series of quick portraits of my new friends. All of it infused with the aura of this place.
All of it to be displayed here, in the Fine Arts Room.
And I was content.
Chapter Twelve
Mr. Abiba clapped his hands. “I have changed my mind!”
The Fine Arts Room fell into an instant hush as we turned to him, curious, surprised. I forgot my enthrallment with this room, forgot about paintings and drawings and portraits. Mr. Abiba, changing his mind? Who knew such a thing was possible?
“I cannot bear to end the evening! Therefore, we shall play tomorrow’s game tonight!” His voice boomed in the enclosed space, seeming even more regal than before. He took two giant strides to the tables where Jonathan’s artwork was displayed. “Vane! Zenith! Move these tables to the side, if you please. We need abundant space for what I intend to do. Zora! Set up the floor mats and pillows. Valerian! Bring my chair. Jonathan Roberts! Where are you?”
Jonathan came forward.
Mr. Abiba bowed slightly to him, the front of his robes sweeping the floor. “Jonathan. I salute you. My dear, your work is outstanding. Sublime in every way. As I knew it would be. Now put it away.”
Without waiting to see how Jonathan reacted to his words—hands fluttering at his sides, his face a study of disappointed bewilderment—Mr. Abiba swept out of the room amid a rustling of billowing robes.
“He’ll be back in a minute,” Zora said. She was already hoisting an armload of mats from a closet beside the door.
The rest of us arranged ourselves into a loose semicircle on Zora’s floor mats as Jonathan scurried from table to table, wrapping necklaces and bracelets and sliding earrings into felt-lined pouches, his shoulders hunched. Geoffrey caught him in a comforting hug, kissed him, smoothed his hair with a large square hand. “I’ll help you pack, honey,” he said quietly. I watched them from the corner of my eye, responding to the tenderness of Geoffrey’s voice. I hadn’t realized how much taller he was than Jonathan, how much bigger and stronger—my mother would have called him “beefy”, but I didn’t think that was quite right. He wasn’t fat. Just…big. I would call him “cuddly”. I’d heard people described as being teddy-bear-ish and thought it was a ridiculous description—but here he was, in person, the most teddy-bear-ish person I’d ever met. And handsome. Jonathan almost looked frail enveloped in his partner’s arms. I wondered what it would feel like to have those big arms around me.
What was this? Now I was interested in a gay man?
Shaking my head at my own folly, I settled cross-legged on a soft mat next to Josh and watched everyone, guests and Guides alike, prepare for our evening of games. This inn seemed to revolve around games. Sex games. Food games. Word games. “What do you think it’ll be?” said Josh, his eyebrow raised.
“In this place? Who knows?”
“Probably something dirty. Spin the bottle?”
“Yeah.” I leaned back on my elbows. “I know. A warped X-rated version of a children’s game. Simon Says, maybe.”
He laughed. “Or Hide ’n’ Seek. A special version. If you’re found you’ve got to do something nasty with the person who finds you.”
“Sounds about right.” I thought for a second. “Twister. Naked Twister!”
Geoffrey and Jonathan, having finished with the jewelry, settled themselves on the mats to my left. Geoffrey turned toward us. “Naked Twister. I actually played that once. Thought I’d never walk again!”
“I bet,” said Josh.
Where was Zenith? I craned my neck, searching. She was lounging on the far side of Jonathan, leaning back on her elbows. Good. She wasn’t that far away. Maybe I’d get to talk with her. Touch her, even.
Josh saw me looking. He poked me in the ribs. “You like her?”
“Sure.”
“I mean, do you like like her?”
I felt suddenly too warm. I fanned my face with an ineffectual hand. “Do you?”
“Yeah.” He tilted his head and looked at me, then at Zenith. A smile teased at his lips. He leaned into me, so close his breath tickled my cheek. “Angie. Tell me. Would you? Make love with her? If it came to that?”
I half choked, half laughed. “Josh!”
“Well you can,” he said, “if the opportunity presents itself. Just so you know.”
“Um…thanks?” I was blushing now. “Um. So can you.”
His fingers rattled a restless tap-tap-tap on the floor. “Better yet.” He kissed me lightly, his lips barely brushing my own. “How about we both make love to her? At the same time? Like we did with Vane?”
>
“Mmm-hmm,” I murmured, thinking how much I’d like that. Surprise, surprise!
We shared a delicious moment of perfect understanding, knowing some small but important line had already been crossed. Then, hearing her laughter, we turned as one to gaze at the object of our affection. Zenith was talking with Jonathan. She changed position on the mat, her slender legs stretched out, her arms gesticulating, her small graceful hands pointing and waving and tapping Jonathan on the shoulder. I swallowed, hoping that the opportunity might present itself. And then hoping just as fervently that it wouldn’t.
I was a mess.
A horny, maybe-lesbian, newlywed wreck.
Mr. Abiba returned. Zettia followed him in, carrying a tray of tiny teacups. They stood in front of our semicircle, a matched pair. They both were tall, so very tall. And angular. They had the same narrow, beaked nose. Except for the obvious differences—Zettia had luscious long hair and Mr. Abiba was bald, or nearly so, and he was obviously many years older—they could have been brother and sister. I wondered again if they were father and daughter? Husband and wife? Teacher and student? Whatever the relationship, they weren’t telling.
Zettia passed out the tea.
I blew on it, trying not to think of opportunities or of lines being crossed. I sipped at my tea, tasting mint, and tasting something else too—something I didn’t recognize, something that made my tongue tingle. I stared into the swirling liquid, wondering if it would cause other, more private parts of me to tingle too. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least, not here.
Mr. Abiba drank his tea and set the cup on Zettia’s tray. “Ah! Delectable. The taste of home. Thank you, my dear.” He kissed her rather demurely on the cheek. Then he clapped his hands. “Drink up, everyone! We have games to play!”
As soon as every teacup was back on the tray, Mr. Abiba motioned for us to stand again.
We all clambered to our feet.