Getting Back

by Cindy Rizzo

  Dressed in a champagne-colored sleeveless dress with a beaded top and a plain silk skirt below, her hair up in a French twist, Elizabeth circulated among the crowd at the opening cocktail party. She made sure to check in on VIP guests and flagged down the hotel’s event coordinator to make sure that all the logistics were going smoothly. At one point, she noticed Reese standing near a bar talking with Robin Greene and Dr. Patterson. She made her way over.

  “Ms. Morrison.” Robin’s voice betrayed that touch of nervousness she always displayed around Elizabeth. “I’d like you to meet my partner, Tracy.”

  So Dr. Patterson hadn’t said anything about her visit. Elizabeth had wondered about that. She smiled and said a warm hello, allowing Robin to go through the formality of this unnecessary introduction. Then she turned to Reese.

  “Reese, you see that gentleman over there with the camera?” She pointed to a tall, bearded man in a navy-blue suit. “He’s the photographer the company hired for tonight. Can you take Robin over to him, find Joe Donovan and a few of our other high-profile authors, and make sure you get some good pictures? I’d normally ask Phil from Communications, but I can’t find him in this crowd.” She looked at Robin. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of Tracy until you’re finished.”

  “Ms. Morrison, how are you doing?” asked Tracy when they were finally alone. Once again, Elizabeth was struck by this young woman’s natural beauty. Although elegant in an indigo satin sheath dress with her blonde hair in a chignon, it was clear that she really had to do very little to bolster her good looks. One more thing to admire about her.

  “Tracy, why don’t you call me Elizabeth? I see no reason for us to be so formal with one another.”

  Tracy looked directly at her with those penetrating yet soothing eyes. Feeling a bit uneasy, Elizabeth decided it was best to take charge.

  “Would you kindly follow me to the alcove over there, where it’s a little quieter?”

  They walked to a small sitting area that was unoccupied.

  “So just where in the South are you from?” Elizabeth asked as they were seated on a cushioned bench.

  Tracy gave her that same crinkle-eyed look of confusion that she’d shown in her office when Elizabeth had made the appointment using Margaret’s name. “Durham, North Carolina,” she said after hesitating a few seconds.

  “Ah, the Triangle Area, very cosmopolitan.”

  Tracy smiled knowingly. “You mean, for the South, don’t you?”

  “I meant no such thing, I assure you. I find your accent to be quite delightful.”

  “It’s inherited. My parents grew up in Greensboro, a less cosmopolitan city, as you might call it.”

  So she was sensitive about what people thought about the South. Elizabeth had to admit that while she did harbor a few prejudices about the region, she had great respect for a culture that could create such an authentic and varied local cuisine. She’d been meaning for some time to take a class in Southern cooking. She wondered if Tracy Patterson knew anything about it.

  “Did you inherit any interest in the local cuisine? Family recipes and the like? I ask because I have an interest in regional food, a kind of hobby you might call it. I spent some time in Europe many years ago taking classes, and since then I’ve learned quite a bit about the specialties that are unique to Southern France and Northern Italy. I’ve perfected a wonderful bouillabaisse as well as a mouthwatering panna cotta. But I thought it might be a nice change to focus on the regional cuisine of this country.”

  Tracy smiled at her and seemed to relax a bit. She pivoted in her seat so she could face Elizabeth directly. “I do a pretty good job with my mama’s pecan pie. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  “Why yes. That would be a perfect place to begin.”

  “I can send you the recipe.”

  “Oh no, I don’t believe in recipes. I like to watch the process myself. Would you be willing to come to my apartment one evening and make it there? I’ll buy all the ingredients, of course, and you’ll find I have an excellent kitchen as well as a wide selection of quality wines you can sample as you work.”

  They were interrupted by a buzzing sound that seemed to originate from Tracy’s small purse. She looked down, unsnapped the catch, and reached in for her cell phone. “I’m sure that’s Robin, wondering where I’ve gotten to.”

  All this talk of the South had made her accent even more prominent. Elizabeth thought it was charming and hoped it was a sign that Tracy was becoming more comfortable with her. She watched as Tracy rose from her seat and tapped out a response to the text she’d received.

  Elizabeth stood and faced her. “Would Friday night work for you?”

  “This Friday? I think so. Let me check with Robin. Should I bring her? She’s actually quite a good cook in her own right. Her chicken soup is heavenly and it cures anything.”

  “Maybe next time, if that’s all right with you. I thought maybe you and I could get to know one another a bit better. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I find that I’m quite intrigued by you.”

  Tracy, who’d begun walking back toward the cocktail party, stopped abruptly and grasped Elizabeth’s arm to stop her as well. “Is this about more than pecan pie, Elizabeth? Because if it is, I’m not interested.”

  “Tracy, I assure you, I am not propositioning you, if that’s what you think. While you’re quite beautiful, well, the truth is, you’re not my type.” She glanced down at the floor. “Oh, forgive me, that sounded so harsh.” She looked back up at Tracy and put a hand on her shoulder. “But I’m trying to reassure you that I am merely looking for friendship and a lesson in Southern cooking, of course.”

  But Tracy’s face was still serious. Her eyes hooded, her mouth a straight line. Elizabeth took her hand away from Tracy’s shoulder.

  “And this isn’t about your visit to my office a few weeks ago?”

  “No, I have completely given up on the entire idea of psychotherapy. Let’s just say your referrals didn’t pan out and I have lowered myself to the level of every stressed out Manhattanite. I’m taking Ambien to sleep. It’s quite effective, actually. It even blocks out dreams.”

  Now Tracy looked concerned, similar to the expression back in her office when Elizabeth had peeked at the pictures on the desk. “Yes, I’m familiar with the wonders of Ambien. I’m glad it’s helping you, but don’t become too reliant on it. And, as long as Robin is comfortable with the idea, I’d be happy to teach you how to make an incredible pecan pie. But I have to warn you ahead of time, I’m not that intriguing.”

  She smiled and walked ahead of Elizabeth, making her way to Robin who stood back at that same spot by the bar.

  Elizabeth could see that Tracy was impressed as she walked around the kitchen. Well, who wouldn’t be? The architect had designed it to her specifications—industrial stainless steel appliances and slate-blue granite countertops with the walls covered in small, rectangular slate-blue subway tiles. The cabinets were mostly glass fronted with a bluish-white wood trim. The glass gave a sense of openness to the room and showed off her top-line dishes and glassware.

  “I assume Robin felt comfortable with you coming here unescorted?”

  Tracy gave her a small smile in response. “Yes, though a bit perplexed. It was actually kind of funny because after I told her about our conversation at the gala, her first reaction was, ‘She let you call her Elizabeth?’ That surprised her much more than your interest in Southern cooking.”

  “Always good to keep the authors on their toes,” said Elizabeth as she tore open the bag of pecans. “You do know I’m joking, I hope. You’ll get used to my sense of humor soon enough.”

  “How often do you get to use all this?” asked Tracy as she gestured to the large Viking stove with the double oven.

  “Not as often as I’d like, but I try to entertain f
riends a few times a year when I have the time to roll up my sleeves and refrain from calling a caterer. There’s a group of us who went to Fowler together and we’ve remained good friends even though we’re scattered all over now. Where did you attend college?”

  “Adams in Massachusetts.”

  “Oh, of course, I knew that. Joe Donovan teaches there.”

  “Yes, he taught Robin.”

  “As Joe tells it, it isn’t clear who taught who. He said he learned quite a lot from Robin.”

  “Well, I was there and I can tell you that Robin has always idolized him. He’s been a major influence on her development as a writer.”

  Elizabeth handed Tracy a white apron and tied her own around her waist.

  “So the two of you met at Adams? Was it one of those love-at-first-sight things you read about in romance novels?”

  Tracy chuckled as she tied her apron. “Hardly. More like hate at first sight. I knew I was gay but wasn’t out to anyone at the time. I was even trying to make everyone think I liked boys. Robin was the angry lesbian rebel. At first she thought I was an empty-headed Southern belle until she realized I was actually a closet case who spent all my time seducing older women to avoid taking a good look at myself. It was a lot of approach and withdraw until we were both too miserable not to be together.”

  Elizabeth breathed out a laugh. “Mine was a bit different than that, though it was also a case of opposites attract.”

  “Yours? You were out to yourself when you were in college?”

  Elizabeth reached up into a cabinet and pulled down her set of nested ceramic mixing bowls.

  “My dear, even back in the Stone Age of the 1970s, some of us knew about ourselves. You may recall that this was the era when both women’s liberation and gay liberation were first hitting college campuses. And I was at an all-women’s college.”

  “Like a kid in a candy store, I bet.” Tracy grinned and began to measure out the dry ingredients for the pie dough. Elizabeth stood and looked over her shoulder.

  “It wasn’t quite like that, at least not for me. There was only one girl, and in some ways there has always been one girl.”

  Tracy turned her head, a look of surprise on her face. “Really? Who was she?”

  Chapter 4

  Fall Semester 1974

  Fowler College was the only place I ever wanted to go. My mother and my grandmother had both attended and brought me to campus for their milestone reunions. I accompanied my mother to her tenth and my grandmother to her fortieth. Even when I was a child, the campus cast a spell on me. Those expansive lawns and the grove of trees behind the student union. It was an extraordinary place, filled with the right combination of majestic fantasy and seriousness of purpose.

  Our family was from right outside Philadelphia, near Bryn Mawr, an area known as the Mainline. But my mother had been raised in the Back Bay of Boston, near the Public Garden, the park with the famous Swan Boats. For an intelligent girl from that area and social class, especially at the time she came of age, Fowler was one of only a few colleges viewed as acceptable. Plus, she had the legacy status from Grandmother. When my time came, it was more or less automatic. I applied and was accepted early.

  A few of the girls in my class at prep school and some I knew from summer camp were also admitted, so I began freshman year already feeling oriented, both to the setting as well as to a small circle of students familiar to me. But I didn’t know the roommate with whom they’d paired me. Ruth Abramson, a girl from Brooklyn, was all my room assignment sheet disclosed. Well, I reasoned, roommates could be ignored if necessary.

  Instead, she fascinated me from the moment I first saw her. A beauty with long dark hair and these arresting black eyes that drew me in so deeply that it was difficult to look away. She was quiet, tidy, and polite, making sure I had my fair share of space in the room and offering me tea when she made it in the little kitchenette on our floor. She studied and read all the time, usually in the room, rarely in the library. She seemed not to have made any friends.

  It took a while for us to get to know one another that first month. She didn’t initiate much conversation beyond the usual small talk about classes and I was often tongue-tied in her presence, aware that I felt this unsettling attraction. Frankly, she intimidated me. When I looked at her, the muscles in my stomach would tighten.

  So during those first few weeks I followed my plan of ignoring her, spending little time in the dorm and cavorting about campus with my posse of old and new friends, including a girl named Margaret Halperin. She’d come all the way from Southern California, had a scathing sense of humor, and was devilishly mischievous, teaching us all these handy tricks, like how to make long-distance calls for free.

  “You simply call collect to a pay phone. Works every time and it won’t cost you a cent.”

  We were all fascinated by her hometown, so different from ours on the East Coast. She’d actually seen Dustin Hoffman eating in a restaurant and Goldie Hawn from Laugh-In walking her dog.

  “What about Ali MacGraw or Barbara Hershey? Have you ever met either of them?” I asked, the eagerness in my voice quite likely betraying my outsized interest.

  I was entranced by each of these young actresses. I’d seen and cried through the sappy Love Story six times. There was this one scene where Ali MacGraw was lying in Ryan O’Neal’s arms, each of them reading a book. Her dark hair, deep brown eyes, and intense look of concentration made my heart race and my face flush. I wanted to know what her soft body would feel like against mine, how the rise and fall of her breathing would take me someplace I’d never been and where I longed to go. I’d also snuck into an art house theater in Philadelphia twice to see the film, Last Summer. And even though Barbara Hershey played a hateful character, her beauty left me breathless. The same ebony hair as Ali MacGraw, with perfect tanned skin, and a smile that made my knees weak. As I sat in the theater, I closed my eyes and wished myself into that movie, lying in the sand with her, dancing in the discotheque, and slipping around the kitchen floor, our bodies covered in soapsuds.

  If I’d needed any confirmation of my burgeoning sexuality, these outings to the movies provided it. And my inability to contain the excitement in my voice when I asked Margaret about the two actresses who’d captured my interest apparently revealed something to her as well.

  “I’ve never seen Ali MacGraw and I’ve never heard of Barbara Hershey,” she said. “Who is she? Some crush of yours?”

  I froze and felt a lump forming in my throat. We’d been studying in a lounge in the student union with two other girls, sitting at a round table. I worried that any response I’d offer to Margaret would expose me. Then I remembered that the best defense was offense.

  “I think she’s more your type, Margaret,” I replied, swatting her with my British History textbook.

  Margaret grinned and rubbed the area of her arm where the book had landed a direct hit. “Oh, by the way,” she said, “how are you getting along with your roommate, the famous Ruth Abramson?”

  I squinted at her. “What do you mean by famous?”

  “Well, you know, because of her father.”

  “Who is her father?”

  Margaret and our two companions stared at me with their mouths open. “You really don’t know? I can’t believe it,” she said.

  “How am I supposed to know who her father is? She hardly says a word. All she does is study.”

  “Well, maybe she’s still learning English. Her father is Leon Abramov, the Russian dissident who was smuggled into the US a few years ago. It was all over the news.”

  I had a vague recollection of this story. My father was a die-hard fan of Walter Cronkite, the TV news anchor, whose voice filled our family room every night at six thirty. No one was permitted to utter a word while “Uncle Walter,” as my dad referred to him, was speaking. />
  But Ruth’s last name was Abramson, not Abramov. Margaret must be mistaken.

  “How do you know he’s her father? They have different last names.”

  Margaret sighed dramatically to underscore her impatience with me. “Because he changed their name when they got here. My God, Elizabeth, don’t you ever read a newspaper?”

  I was surprised into momentary silence. The mysterious beauty whose face was always in a book was the daughter of the man who’d made the daring escape through the Iron Curtain? It hardly seemed possible. Ruth had never mentioned anything that could have given me a clue that this was the case. What a life she must have led. Fowler probably seemed like a total bore after all that. Or maybe it was a refuge?

  “Her English is fine, by the way,” was all I could think to say.

  Right before midterms that semester, I was laid up with some kind of flu that left me feverish, achy, and miserable. And wouldn’t you know, my period came the same week. The nurse at the infirmary gave me aspirin to bring down the fever and alleviate the aches and pains, and I had Motrin for the cramps. She didn’t think I needed to be quarantined away from the dorm, so I stayed in my room feeling wretched and looking even worse. It wasn’t until many years later that I discovered mixing aspirin with Motrin made each one less effective, so it was no wonder that I felt terrible.

  Of course Ruth was there and, as always, was kind. She brought me food and made me an unusual hot drink combining juice from a lemon and an orange plus honey with hot water. She served it to me in a glass and wrapped a sock around it so I could lift it to drink. It warmed me and took away the chills.