by Robin Roseau
By then, we had long finished eating. I washed our dishes, and by the time I returned to the dining room, Portia was waiting with paper, pencils, and a measuring tape. When I looked, I realized she had drawn a floor plan of the house, both upstairs and down.
I’d never been upstairs.
“All right. We’re measuring the rooms. Come on.”
We started downstairs. I took the end of the tape measure and held it where Portia directed. It took about fifteen minutes to measure everything she wanted measured. Then we did the stairway and the upstairs hallway.
There were four bedrooms upstairs and one bath — I would discover shortly there was a second bath in the master suite. We started with the bathroom and a bedroom that Portia called, “The pups’ room.” Then we measured a couple of bedrooms that clearly belonged to teenage girls.
Finally we turned to the master suite. I felt quite strange invading the alphas’ personal space, but Portia walked in like it was nothing. When I hesitated at the doorway, she asked me what’s wrong.
“I don’t want to invade their privacy.”
She cocked her head. “We’re supposed to be here.”
“I know. It just seems… I don’t like people going through my things; I can’t imagine they’re any different.”
“We’re not going through their things. We’re measuring the walls.”
“I just…” I paused. “You’re right. I’m being silly.”
“You’re being respectful of their privacy,” Portia countered. “But you don’t need to worry. Come on.”
* * * *
Fifteen minutes later, we were done. As we stepped out of the house, she asked me, “Are you afraid of heights?”
“No.”
“Ladders?”
“No.”
“Falling off of roofs?”
“Well, I would prefer not to fall off any roofs,” I admitted with a smile. “But if the roof isn’t too steep, I’m not afraid.”
“Perfect. Come on.”
She led me past several houses, and then I realized she was taking me to Angel’s house. Well, Francesca’s house, I guess. “What are we doing here?”
“This is where the things are we need.” We didn’t enter the house. Instead, there was a touch pad for the garage. Portia walked straight to it, entered a code, and the garage door opened. Inside was parked a nondescript sedan in one stall. The other side held a large riding lawn mower and a push mower. Along one wall was every tool known to man, or so it seemed. Portia led the way to the ladders. She eyed them. “The extension ladder, I guess,” she said, pointing. It hung on hooks high above our heads.
“How do we get it down?”
Portia demonstrated by grabbing a stepladder. She positioned it at the center point of the extension ladder, climbed up, and easily pulled the ladder off the hooks.
Two minutes later, with one of us on each end, we were making our way to her house.
“What are we doing?”
“Carrying a ladder,” she said.
“Oh, that was so informative, Miss Obvious.”
“I know,” she replied. “You can thank me later. It sure is a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
At her house, she leaned the ladder into place, extending it until one end was well above the lowest point of the roof. Then she turned to me. “We need to measure my roof. How comfortable are you on a ladder?”
I didn’t wait. I climbed up the ladder. Getting off the ladder and unto the roof took just a little bit of jockeying, but soon enough, I was easily standing, looking down at her. “Comfortable enough?”
“Yes,” she said.
Portia was much faster. Once she joined me, I asked her, “Could you have jumped?”
She eyed the distance. “In fur,” she finally said. She frowned. “I’m not sure it would look graceful.”
“So you have limits?”
She laughed. “Yes. I have limits.”
After that, we measured the roof. I had never walked around on the roof of a house before, but it wasn’t difficult. Once we were done, Portia walked around for a few minutes; I wasn’t sure what she was looking at, but finally she said we were done up here. She moved to the ladder and held the top steady for me, and a moment later we were both on the grass. We proceeded to carry the ladder back to Francesca’s garage, and I watched her put it away.
Five minutes later, we were in her car. She spent the next twenty minutes telling me stories from growing up. She had me in stitches the entire drive.
Our first stop was a paint specialty store. Portia strode straight to the woman behind the counter. She had paint samples and the notes we had taken. I stood by as the two discussed everything.
“It will take some time to mix all this,” the woman said eventually.
“That’s fine. Is an hour sufficient?”
“Perfect.”
“All right. Go ahead and ring that up. I just need a few supplies.” She turned to the painting tools. I shadowed her as she roamed up and down the few aisles, handing drop clothes, paint brushes, rollers, and several other things to me. I took two trips to the counter to set everything down.
Our next stop was the Home Depot.
“Didn’t we get everything already?” I asked.
“We got everything for painting.” Portia led the way to the pro desk. The man there seemed very friendly, and the two of them spoke in what seemed like Greek to me. Then he led us through the store, and I realized we were buying shingles. That was when I realized why we had measured Portia’s roof.
“Portia?”
“Zoe?”
“Don’t you need to hire people to put on a new roof?”
“I did. I hired you.”
“I don’t know the first thing about roofing a house.”
“It’s a good thing I do; and it’s a good thing you’re smart and able to learn.”
I stared at her. Was she crazy? She didn’t look crazy. I couldn’t tell.
Before we left, she bought me a set of coveralls. “You’re going to look so cute,” she said.
“I’m sure.”
* * * *
After that, we retraced our steps. We picked up the waiting paint and returned to the compound, parking not at Portia’s home but in front of the alphas’ house.
“All right. Carry everything in. I’m going to get us a couple of ladders.” She disappeared in one direction, leaving me behind.
Everything was in the back of her car. The bags of drop clothes and tools weren’t bad, and some of the paint came in one-gallon buckets, but there were two five-gallon buckets, and I couldn’t lift them. I did what I could and then waited for Portia.
She arrived lugging two ladders, one in both hands. I stood on the porch, watching her.
“I couldn’t pick up the heavy buckets,” I admitted.
“No worries.”
So I held the door, and Portia brought in both ladders then made two trips for the remaining paint. We collected together in the living room.
“So, have you ever painted a house before?”
“I’ve painted apartments. Is it different?”
“Not at all. We’ll start with the pups’ bedroom.”
* * * *
So far, Portia had been all business, and she remained that way for a while. Together we moved all the furniture out into the hallway. We laid down drop clothes and masked around all the woodwork. Then she helped get me set up with a brush and a roller.
“What are you going to do while I’m painting?”
“Paint.”
“You’re helping?”
She grinned and nodded.
“Really?” I asked. “This is supposed to be my punishment, not yours.”
“Which is why we’re doing something I enjoy, Zoe,” she said. “You’re short. I’m tall. So you do the bottom half. I’ll do the top half. It’s not a race; take your time and be neat.”
Soon, we were both painting. We started at opposite sides, Zoe on a ladder, me sitt
ing on the floor, working my way around the bottom with the brush, doing the edges near the trim. We had masked off, but I didn’t want to count on the masking tape if I tried using a roller right to the edge.
We worked quietly for perhaps twenty minutes before Portia asked me, “What’s your favorite color?”
“Hunter green,” I said. “Yours?”
“You’d look good in green,” she replied. “I don’t really have a favorite. I’m not fond of orange, and I used to think I didn’t like pink, but that has changed.”
“Oh?” I continued to paint carefully.
“Pink is, well… It’s considered a girly color.”
“And you don’t like girly colors?”
“Can you envision me wearing pink?”
“I didn’t know we were talking about our favorite colors to wear,” I replied.
“We’re not. I’m making a point.”
I turned to look at her. “No. You look best in earth tones, I think, and maybe some of the deeper gem tones.”
“How about black?”
“Oh, in black, you’d be a real lady killer.” She laughed. “I’m serious.”
“Well, I hate how pink has become the color for ladies. Did you know they market pink handguns to women?”
“Seriously? Do you have one?”
“No, but the enforcers all got together for Karen’s birthday last year and got her one.”
I laughed. “Did she like it?”
“She immediately set up a target and fired a box of ammo with it, then she made each of us fire off a clip. Even Michaela fired a few rounds, but she declared the gun too big for her and didn’t fire any more.”
“I think I would have liked to have been there,” I admitted. Then I added, “I’ve never even touched a gun.”
“Really?” She paused. “Did you want to?”
“It’s not something on my bucket list,” I said. “You understand that ‘vegan’ isn’t necessarily a synonym for ‘pacifist’, but there is a correlation.”
“You seemed willing to fight yesterday.”
“Have you seen me try to hurt anyone?”
“I suppose not. Do you look good wearing pink?”
“I haven’t worn pink in years.”
“Elisabeth makes Michaela wear pink. Lara really likes it.”
“I know about that wager,” I said. “Are you asking me to wear pink?”
I heard her shift on the ladder, and when I turned to look, she was watching me. “No, but if you and Elisabeth had gotten more serious, she would have.”
“I think there’s something you’re not telling me, Portia.”
She returned to her painting, and after a moment, so did I. “Would you say Elisabeth is feminine?”
“I’d say she has an amazing body with all the right curves. So do you.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Are we feminine?”
“I don’t know if I can use labels on any of you.”
“I know lesbians talk about being femme or butch. What are you?”
“I switch,” I said. “I bet I don’t look very femme right now.”
“I don’t know. I think you look really cute.”
I laughed.
“I’m serious,” she said.
“When I’m doing stuff like this, I’m not sure I’m really butch, but I’m not really femme, either. But on a date? Totally femme.”
“And Elisabeth? Is she butch?”
“Yeah, but not in the stereotype sort of way. She’s an Amazon.” I paused. “You know, my life isn’t centered around being a lesbian. It’s centered around being an environmentalist. I’d call myself a tom boy, but I won’t call myself a butch.” I paused again. “I hate labels. They pigeonhole people.”
“All right. Well, we’re all products of modern, American marketing, and it’s hard to understand what comes to us naturally and what we’ve grown to expect due to marketing.”
“Sure.”
“As wolves, we’re driven to certain ideals. Strength.”
“Sure.”
“But as women, we’re driven to ideals, too. The guys — they have it easy. They’re the embodiment of what modern culture thinks a guy should be.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I saw Eric and Rory at the gym. I bet the girls swoon.”
“They do. Most male wolves have very little trouble getting dates.”
“Eric said he doesn’t date much.”
“Eric is conflicted,” she said. “He’s a wolf and wants a strong mate. But he’s a man and wants a pretty wife with an hourglass shape.”
“More marketing.”
“Yeah. To make it worse for Eric, he has to be careful whom he dates. He can date human women casually, but if he wants to get serious, then he eventually has to tell her what we are.”
“And she might react poorly.”
“Yes. I know he’s gone out with a few of the women living on the compound, but there aren’t a lot of choices unless he dates some of Michaela’s students.”
“They’re kids!”
“Wolves are adults at sixteen, but yeah. They’re kids. And he can’t date Karen or me; his ego couldn’t take it. Angel is taken. And he and Gia don’t get along very well.”
“What about the rest of the pack?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t really see them in social settings that much. The pack has gotten too big. You see?”
“Sure.”
“So, we were talking about pink. And image. The guys have it easy when it comes to image. Be themselves, right?”
“Right.”
“But American society tells women to be cute.”
“Portia, you’re insanely attractive. You know that, don’t you?”
The sound of her roller stopped. When I glanced over she had frozen.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “But do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“You can’t wear pink.”
“Right. And so I have a love hate relationship with it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I hate it out of jealousy. I wish I could wear pink. Well, a part of me does. The logical part of me knows that’s stupid. The emotional side wishes I could wear pink. And frilly dresses. Do you understand?”
“Would you give up being a wolf for it?”
“Never. Absolutely never. And that’s part of the conflict, isn’t it? I adore being a wolf. I am proud of my body, both my bodies.”
“You should be,” I said.
“So you see?”
“I think I do.” I paused. “So you would prefer not to see me in pink?”
“Actually, no. I am somewhat jealous of your femininity. I shouldn’t be. I want it all.” She barked a short laugh. “It’s greedy, I know.” She paused. “I am not sure I should tell you this next part, but I am going to.”
“Oh, this sounds good.”
“Wolves are very possessive.”
I laughed. “I think I understood that already.”
“Last night, you asked about my hand on your back.”
“Elisabeth used to do that.”
“It is a symbol of possession. Does it bother you now?”
I thought about it. “No. But are you hinting more than that?”
“No. Well, maybe, but not what you’re thinking. You’re pack, Zoe. And right now, you sort of belong to me.”
“Michaela gave me to you.” The thought amused me. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but it did.
“I guess she did. I will have to thank her.” She paused. “Wolves are possessive, and we seek to control that which we possess. And… how should I put this? We wish to leave our mark on the things we possess. A wolf living alone will mark his territory. I think you can understand how.”
“I imagine much like a dog does.”
“Yes.”
“So… you want to mark me somehow?”
“There is a part of me that does.”
She stopped painting again, and when I turned to look, she was wat
ching me. “I think you have more to say.”
“If we were dating, I would want to pick your clothes.”
“Another way of marking me?”
She nodded.
“Would I wear pink?”
“And ribbons in your hair.”
“I’m too old for ribbons.”
“Then maybe hats. I don’t know.”
I thought about it. “Is that what Elisabeth wanted?”
“Yes.”
I thought some more. “I’d have let her,” I said, turning back to my work. “I’d let you, too. It might be nice.” I smiled at her. “How else would you mark me?” I looked over to judge her reaction.
“With my scent, of course,” she replied.
“Would you bite me?” I asked. “Mark my skin?”
“Actually,” she said, “no. That would look like abuse.” I thought about it for a moment and nodded.
We painted quietly for a few minutes, then I asked, “Where did you grow up?”
“All over,” she replied. “I was an army brat.”
“So your dad was in the army?”
“My mom, actually.”
I laughed. “Wow. I just got caught by my own stereotype. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Everyone does it. Mom was a sergeant in the Corps of Engineers.”
“Was?”
“She’s retired and lives in Texas. I don’t see her much.”
“Why not?”
“The Texas alpha doesn’t care for my presence. Mom has to beg permission for me to visit.”
“Why doesn’t she come up here?”
“Maybe she will, now that I’m settled down.” From her tone, I didn’t think Portia believed it. I wondered why, but I didn’t ask.
“What about your dad?”
“I never knew him,” she said. “I was what they call an accident. But Mom did okay by me, and in a way I had a lot of dads at every base.”
“Was it hard being a teenage wolf on a military base?”
“You know, not really. I couldn’t go for a run every day, but Mom made sure we got away from the base as often as we could.”
The morning flew past. I lost complete track of time, but we finally finished the pups’ bedroom. Together we stood in the center of the room, admiring the look.