“That’s preposterous.” Abby had stopped a few steps behind them and rested her hands on her hips. “In this day and age? Do you remember the name of that safehouse, Tina? Or what town it was in?”
“Uh-oh, we set Abby off.” Jo nudged Mac companionably. “Cleo’s the same way. She gets all upset for us when she hears stuff like this. Cleo’s pretty cool.”
“I think she is too,” Mac said.
“Perhaps I’m being naïve, but I have a hard time understanding how shelters still get away with this kind of thing.” Abby was frowning as she trotted to catch up. “Diversity training is mandated by every federal grant in existence. Surely programs can’t claim they haven’t heard of domestic violence in the lesbian community these days.”
“The lesbian community claimed not to know about it, for a long time.” Mac studied the tree line, remembering heated debates in advocate meetings several years in the past. “It was pretty threatening, admitting our relationships could be abusive. We were trying to convince mainstream America that our lifestyle is normal, just like theirs.”
“And turns out it is, damn it,” Jo sighed, and Tina laughed with her.
Abby watched Mac’s pensive profile, outlined against the pewter sky, and thought of her ex-lover, Hattie. A shiver of revulsion moved through her when she remembered the pain Mac had endured. The depth of Abby’s anger when she pictured Hattie surprised her.
She knew that Cleo hated, without apology, every person who had ever raised a hand against any of the residents. Her contempt for abusers, male or female, was pure and absolute. Abby understood now that Cleo saw, in every battered woman, the bruised face of Lily Sherrill.
But Abby believed that such sweeping dismissal was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Often, the women they worked with still loved the partners they had been forced to escape from. They needed to be able to talk to staff about that love. Abby struggled, successfully for the most part, to remember that violent behavior was always born of suffering, and that violent people merited understanding.
But Abby didn’t care about Hattie’s pain and felt not the slightest urge to understand it. She looked at Mac again, her dark head inclined to hear Jo’s latest yarn, a smile flickering over her full lips. The length of her and the breadth of her shoulders conveyed such strength. For a moment, Abby remembered the smooth planes of that muscular body beneath her palms so clearly her gloved fingers loosened at her sides. Then she remembered the faint lacing of scars across Mac’s lower back, and she shivered again. She gave herself permission to loathe the damaged person who had put them there.
“That’s gotta be it.” Tina stepped off the trail and churned through the snow with determination.
Abby followed in Tina’s footsteps to the green tarp-covered heap that comprised their stand-by wood. The edges of the heavy plastic sheet were weighted down by snow, and she joined Tina’s struggle to pull it free.
“Bring that barrow over here, sweetie,” Tina called, panting. “And we could use some help with this thing, by the—”
Tina broke off as a loosely formed snowball smacked her in the back, spraying Abby with a few stray drops. Tina turned and perched her hand on her hip. “Oh, real mature, Josephine!”
Abby heard Jo snicker behind them, but she almost had one edge free so she kept tugging. “Don’t worry, Tina. I believe Jo will soon remember that she’s due for a TB test next week. If my fingers are broken and twisted from lifting this tarp all alone, I’ll have to punch the needle—”
Abby broke off as a similarly wet ball of slush hit her precisely on her upraised behind. She whirled to glare at Jo, and instead saw Mac brushing snow from her hands, grinning like a bandit.
“Stop smiling like that,” Abby said. “You look carnivorous. Are you going to help us with this, or what?”
“Or what,” Mac called back.
“Mac.”
“Abby.”
“Macawai Kaya Laurie.”
“Yes, Dr. Glenn?”
Abby rolled her eyes and turned back to her work, which involved the foolhardy error of turning her back. The next power slushball smacked her exactly on the same buttock.
“Two!” Jo hooted and high-fived Mac.
Abby spun again. “I cannot believe you—”
Splat. Abby sputtered through the curtain of snow that showered her face. “You bloody delinquent!”
Tina was looking at Abby, her mouth open. Their gazes met, and they nodded with grim resolve. They both bent and scooped up handfuls of white slush.
“God save the queen!” Abby cried. She clenched her tongue between her teeth and let fly, hitting Mac square in the boob.
It was the War of the Roses all over again. Abby and Tina retreated quickly from the answering fusillade behind the inadequate cover of the small woodpile, while Jo and Mac upended the wheelbarrow to serve as a shield. There was a rapid-fire exchange, accompanied by harrowing battle cries. Some snowy missiles sailed satisfyingly to their targets, many did not. Finally it was Mac who crawled out from behind her shelter, her hands raised in defeat.
“War is hell,” she gasped.
“Amen.” Tina laughed, leaning on the woodpile for support.
“You got a mean right arm, Abby,” Jo complained, shaking snow out of her long hair.
“Hear the pitiful cry of the vanquished,” Abby panted. She limped over to Mac and gave her a hand up. “Look at me, Mac. You’ve destroyed my credibility as a feminist pacifist for all time.”
“I apologize for that, ma’am.” Mac brushed snow off Abby’s back, but her hand stopped short of her hips. She straightened and smiled down at Abby with a gamine charm that weakened her knees.
Behind them, Jo and Tina, crabbing happily, finished hauling the tarp off the woodpile, then brought the wheelbarrow closer and started stacking it with kindling and small logs.
Abby stood close enough to Mac to feel the mild warmth of her body. They were quiet for a moment, both watching the two women tease each other as they worked. Abby marveled at the uncomplicated ease of the couple’s affection, so clear in their every word and gesture. She couldn’t imagine love flowing so easily to her, light and free and without complication.
“Cleo’s told me stories about what it was like, growing up black, doing anti-racism work in DC,” Abby said finally. “I can empathize, but I’ve never experienced the kind of bigotry Cleo has.” She nodded toward Tina and Jo. “I’ve empathized with gay women too, and the hatred they have to put up with. Has it touched you much, Mac?”
“I’ve been luckier than some of my friends.” Mac stirred the slush at their feet with the toe of her boot. “My parents accepted my coming out with a minimum of angst. I’ve always lived in cities that had gay-friendly pockets to nestle into. If those pockets weren’t cozy enough, I just moved on.” Mac cleared her throat. “You’ve only been able to empathize then, eh, Doc? It’s never occurred to you that you might have…similar inclinations?”
“Not really, no. Well. Not until recently.” Abby felt color fill her face. She checked to be sure Tina and Jo were still occupied with the woodpile, and let the crisp air cool her cheeks as she sorted her thoughts. “I didn’t date much, while I was in school. I was too busy studying, and too shy to socialize very often. Dating women never even occurred to me, Mac. I never had crushes on girls…” Abby trailed off. “But to be honest, I didn’t have particular crushes on any of the boys I dated, either.”
“None of them?”
“Not a one.” Abby blinked, puzzled. “Not my lab partner in high school. Not my dashing anatomy professor in med school. I didn’t stay up nights thinking of them.”
“Not even your husband?”
“Not even Michael.” Abby stared at her empty ring finger. She had mentioned her marriage briefly to both Cleo and Mac. It was one of those topics she could cover fully in three sentences or less. “My mother told me, more than once, that I’m simply incapable of feeling romantic attraction, or inspiring it. I’ve wondered if she was right, i
f sexual desire just isn’t part of my make-up. At least I wondered before…”
“Before?” Mac stepped closer, and her breath stirred Abby’s hair.
“Before you came to Fireside.” Abby made herself meet Mac’s eyes. “Before you touched me for the first time, the day I showed you your office.”
“Abby.” Mac took Abby’s hands and lowered her voice. “Sometimes I want you so much, my teeth feel soft. Do you realize that? I walk around with my hands stuffed in my pockets, to keep from touching your face. When I kissed you last night—”
“When I kissed you, Counselor.” Abby knew Mac could feel the trembling in her hands. “I was the one who leaned in first, I believe.”
“Abigail.” Mac traced Abby’s brow with one finger. “What are we going to do about this?”
“Macawai,” Abby whispered, closing her eyes. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Hey, we’ve got about all the wood we can push, over here,” Jo called. She and Tina were pulling the tarp back over the diminished pile. “You guys ready to head in?”
Mac waved at them. “We’re right behind you.”
They walked quietly down the trail, side by side, letting Jo and Tina range ahead. The two residents were still absorbed in each other, pushing the loaded wheelbarrow in awkward tandem, their shoulders bumping affectionately.
“I’ll need some time, Mac. May I have that?” Abby slid her hand through the crook of Mac’s arm, suddenly tired to her bones. None of the men Abby had slept with had ever robbed her of sleep, but she hadn’t closed her eyes once last night. “Just a few days. To think about what this might mean for me.”
“Of course.” Mac planted a brief kiss on the top of Abby’s head. “There’s no need to rush. We can walk this trail one step at a time.”
But how long will we walk it together, Abby wondered. Next year, when the snow melts again and this trail is lined with flowers, Mac, will you still be beside me?
Abby wasn’t at all certain she was brave enough to follow this path herself, not knowing where it might lead. It saddened her to admit it, but she had found a kind of insidious safety in her solitary life. Devoting all her energies to her work carried certain advantages. She hadn’t had to dwell very often on her failures as a lover.
She remembered the slow fade of interest in Michael’s eyes, his indifference. Abby had never been a raving beauty, and rarely anyone’s first choice. But she remembered feeling hope, at the beginnings of her few romantic relationships. Hope that she could inspire the kind of devotion she wanted to feel herself. That she was worthy of love, and nothing she’d done in the past had changed that.
Now, six feet of hope was walking next to Abby, and it scared her. She was considering an entirely new world. Mac was opening a door to her membership in a family of women, with a shared history and culture, that Abby had always respected. In truth, exploring lesbian identity seemed a far less daunting prospect than…exploring this particular lesbian.
Abby was beginning to think the hope might be real this time. She could accept the possibility that the light shining in Mac’s eyes might not fade. She could risk investing her heart fully, for the first time in her life—in a woman with a history of vanishing like mist on a summer morning.
The faint sun was setting behind them as the house came into view. Abby watched their linked shadows, hers and Mac’s, gliding together over the path at their feet, stretching toward home.
Chapter Ten
“I noticed you didn’t hand that girl a Kleenex last night. At the support group meeting.” Danny walked beside Mac through the brisk morning air, her eyes on the frozen ground. “Inez, her name is?”
“Inez, right.” Mac looked down at Danny’s bent head. She had been there over a week now, and joining Mac on her morning walks had become part of their routine.
“Inez cried a lot when she was talking, and the Kleenex box was right there, but you never handed her one.”
“I guess I think handing somebody a tissue when they’re crying might make them feel I want them to stop. I reckon Inez would have reached for one if she wanted it.”
“Oh. That makes sense.” Danny lifted her head and breathed in the pine-spiced air, and Mac was gratified to see the bruises on her face fading to a less vivid hue. They both turned and looked down the trail. “Are you okay back there?” Danny called.
“I’m fine.” Puffing, Cleo was taking her sweet time catching up. “You two little gazelles just trot right on down the road. Don’t worry about me.”
Mac thought Cleo might be hanging back to give Danny some private time with her counselor before this ceremony. Or maybe she needed a little private preparation herself.
“She’s got this hacking cough now.” Danny folded her arms and frowned at Mac. “Does Abby know about that?”
“She knows.”
Cleo reached them and braced her arm on Mac’s shoulder, white steam puffing from her lips. “Okay. This place? You got in mind for this? It’s in Virginia?”
“It’s right through those trees, there.” Mac cocked her head.
“Cool beans.” Cleo straightened and looked at Danny. “So. You finished this picture last night?”
Danny nodded and unzipped her parka. She drew out the large tablet that contained her drawings and held it protectively in her gloveless hands. “We just need someplace pretty.”
“I think the grove I told you about will do,” Mac said.
“Lead on, Counselor.” Cleo took Danny’s elbow to steady her as they stepped off the path.
They walked together down a tree-lined trail that opened into a small clearing enclosed by tall pines. This hidden spot had been one of Mac’s happiest discoveries in her first weeks at Fireside. She could imagine this smooth white space spangled with wildflowers in the spring, but even under a blanket of snow, it was beautiful. Frosted greenery lay in intricate swirls at the foot of the trees, and the pure air enveloped them in a cathedral silence.
Mac wondered if Danny would show them this drawing. She’d seen some of her sketches, and Cleo was right—Danny had a wicked artist in her. But this image was very private. It was Lily Sherrill’s birthday today, and the drawing was for her.
Danny was looking around the snowy clearing. “This is perfect,” she said softly.
“Yeah, Mac.” Cleo’s tone was hushed, as if they stood in a library, or a church. “Nice choice.”
“Glad you guys like it here.” Mac folded her hands and waited while Danny opened the tablet and turned several pages, and then very carefully tore out a single sheet.
Mac believed strongly in the power of ritual when it came to matters of grief. One of her clients had scattered her father’s ashes in the high meadow of a mountain they both loved, rendering the entire mountain a lasting shrine. Another had dug a small reflective pool in the garden her grandmother had cherished, and lined it with stones taken from each of the places they had visited together. Danny’s tattoo was a healing ritual as well, as was this drawing.
Danny studied the thick paper for a moment, then started to roll it into a cylinder. She hesitated, then unfurled the paper and handed it to Cleo. “Mac can see it too,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
Mac went to Cleo, and together they looked down at the myriad images swimming over the page, all sketched in dark pencil, vivid lines against the cream surface. Almost every inch of the sheet was covered by small sketches, ten or more of them, angled different ways. Near the center, a mother cradled a newborn child, her devotion poignantly clear in a few deft sweeps of Danny’s pencil. Mac had never seen a photo of Danny’s mother, but she had no doubt who this was.
The same mother, and a larger woman with dark skin, laughing, holding the hands of a little girl in pigtails, all three on roller skates. One sketch of the two women alone, facing each other, close enough to touch, their smiling eyes filled with warmth.
And images of Danny alone—not just as a child, but in recent years—wearing a pirate costume from a play, putting o
n makeup in front of a mirror, waving as she drove a car. Mac watched Danny grow up in these small drawings, and realized that seeing her grow was the gift Danny was offering her mother now.
Cleo was very still, and Danny was watching her closely. There were no tears in Cleo’s eyes, Mac noted, and her hands, holding the paper, were steady. But her face glowed with a quiet light, as if washed in years of memory.
“Baby,” Cleo murmured. “This is perfect.”
“Thank you.” Danny took the paper, and rolled it carefully into a tight scroll.
Mac was tempted to try to talk Danny into hanging on to this skillfully drawn history of her life, but she understood that parting with it sweetened the uniqueness of the gift.
Mac and Cleo waited as Danny walked slowly around the enclosed circle, holding the scroll in both hands, looking up into the snowy branches of the towering trees. She searched for a long time.
Mac leaned against Cleo and lowered her voice. “You doing all right with this?”
“Yeah. I’m cool.” Cleo nudged Mac gently. “Thanks.”
Finally Danny stopped, and pointed at two branches intertwined about three feet above her head.
“I think right there.” Danny glanced back at Cleo. “Can you give me a lift?”
Cleo went to her. “You sure about this? What about those bruised ribs?”
“I’m sure.”
Cleo put her hands around Danny’s waist, bent her knees, and lifted her with effort. Danny slid the scroll into the joining of the curling limbs, tucking it securely within the gnarls of bark.
“Okay,” Danny said.
Cleo lowered her to the ground slowly and released her. Danny backed up several steps, surveying the branches with a critical eye. Mac realized that the artist in Lily’s daughter had chosen the ideal resting place for her birthday gift. The trees and their snow-shrouded limbs all seemed to incline slightly toward the joining of the two branches, as if in tribute to the illustrated lives they sheltered.
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