Martie had pulled the bedroom door shut behind her, leaving Dee free to stretch leisurely in the huge bed. She turned over and sprawled across the bed sideways with her arms hanging over the side. Except for the fading sensations from her dream, Dee felt wonderful—better than she had in too long a time.
She heard the outer door close and the cart clanking across the carpet. She sat up as Martie opened the door, then pulled the cart to the side of the bed. “Breakfast,” Martie proclaimed happily.
“You sound chipper this morning,” Dee smiled.
“Why not?” Martie replied. “I’ve had a marvelous stay in Paris, enjoyed the company of a fascinating woman—you—and am leaving for Munich tonight with nothing but pleasant memories. . . .”
Her voice trailed off for a moment, belying the airy dismissal in her 268
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tone. “I hope,” she said more seriously, “that there are no, well, shall we say, regrets.”
Dee lifted the coffee to her lips and took a slow sip. “About last night, you mean . . .”
Martie nodded.
“I should be the one to ask you—you didn’t stand much of a chance, you know.”
Martie stared at her a moment. “No. No regrets,” she laughed suddenly. “It’s pretty damn hard to tell who’s seducing whom when two women are involved, isn’t it?”
Dee smiled. She didn’t like the timbre of Martie’s joviality; it sounded forced and theatrical. She put her cup on the tray carefully. “Do you remember,” she began softly, “what you said last night . . . before we came in here?”
Martie nodded again. There was a quality about her that reminded Dee of the little boy who’s been told he can’t go to summer camp this year and is trying to be brave about it. Dee knew she would have to tread very carefully—if she behaved as if she expected Martie to be in love with her, she risked sounding like the worst kind of egotist. On the other hand, if she acted on the as-sumption that their relationship was completely casual, then she might hurt her terribly.
“Martie . . . come here. Closer.” She opened her arms out to her and, when Martie had edged right next to her, enfolded Martie against her breasts. “Last night was something pretty special for me. I don’t mean that it was the culmination of any grand passion or forever-and-ever love . . . but it wasn’t curiosity or just the old biological urge, either. I like you, Martie . . . very much. If you had turned me down, I don’t know what would have happened. I needed you, you as a person, not just a one-night-stand affair. I needed someone I could trust, someone gentle and sweet.” She stroked Martie’s hair and kissed the top of her head. “I just needed you . . . and you were there for me. I know it sounds cold and calculating, but thank you.”
“I could fall in love with you—you know damn well I could!”
Martie’s voice was choked and muffled.
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closer to her. “Don’t let yourself, Martie. I would only make your life a hell,” Dee almost whispered now. “I’m in no shape to return your love, or even accept it, with the tenderness it deserves. You saw that last night. . . .” Dee paused. “Do you still see it this morning?”
Martie pressed her face closer and kissed the soft roundness of Dee’s body. “I know, I know. . . .”
“You don’t think I’m awful . . .”
Martie hugged her firmly. “No, baby. I only wish I did.” She gave a short laugh.
They stayed like that, in each other’s arms, for a few moments without saying a word—each privately guarding her own thoughts.
Then Martie pulled away slowly and sat up, kissing Dee lightly on her lips. “C’mon, this breakfast is getting cold and it set me back four hundred and fifty francs plus tip.”
“Just like a man!” Dee teased, and they both laughed. They finished their coffee and Dee showered quickly. The mood now was one of good-natured kidding, and they did not come near enough to each other to touch. Martie called the airline office while Dee finished dressing.
Martie came back into the bedroom with an expression of something settled, irrevocable. “Lufthansa at five-fifteen this afternoon.
Doesn’t give me much time to pack.”
Dee turned around, indicating that Martie should zip her dress.
“I’ll be out of your way in fifteen minutes; don’t worry.”
“Guess I won’t see you again today . . .”
“Not likely,” Dee answered deliberately. “Will you be in Munich long?” She turned and faced Martie. Her expression was carefully blank.
Martie stepped back a pace, looking intently at her. A slow, almost wistful smile crossed her face. “It’s a one-week engagement. . . . I could make it longer—or shorter. Depends how well they like me.”
“Of course they’ll like you,” Dee assured her. “You’re terrific.”
Martie gave her a quick, grateful grin and walked over to the luggage rack at the foot of the bed and opened her suitcase. She kept her back to Dee and said, “It’s going to seem strange not to see you 270
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every day . . . to be way the hell the other side of the ocean from you . . . once you return.”
“Yes,” Dee sighed suddenly. “Most of the work is done here. I hate to think about going back so soon.”
“You might take a leave of absence and take a short vacation . . .
in Munich, for instance.”
The suggestion was both frightening and gratifying. Dee felt like putting her arms around Martie then, but was afraid of how Martie would take the gesture—she didn’t want to encourage her any more than she already had.
“I’d like to, Martie . . . I really would. But it’s out of the question.
There’ll be so much work to do back in New York . . . work that only I can cover. And then,” Dee paused pensively, “there’s a personal matter I have to take up with Karen. It’s going to be difficult . . .”
she said almost to herself.
“She’s in love with you, isn’t she,” Martie said simply.
Dee was startled. “No. Of course not! In fact, until just recently, she didn’t even know I was gay. It’s a long and complicated situation. . . .”
“But you’d like it if she were in love with you?”
“Don’t be childish!” Dee snapped. Then, contritely she walked up to Martie and placed her hand on her arm “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bark at you like that. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t very fond of Karen. But if I’m in love with her . . . oh no. It would be impossible. Really quite impossible.”
Martie’s voice was low and controlled. “But you would like it if she loved you, wouldn’t you?”
“None of that, now, Martie! I don’t know and I don’t want to think about it. Sometimes it’s better not to let your conscious know what your subconscious is doing. All this damn psychological probing—like playing war with live ammunition . . . you could get killed that way!” It was an old joke punch line that she knew Martie would recognize and hoped would take the edge out of her own voice.
Martie shook her head patiently. “All right, all right. Don’t get your dandruff up again. Let’s drop it. Let’s discuss something that isn’t impossible.”
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Dee leaned across the bed to the tray and picked up her cup, finishing the now cold coffee. She tried not to let her hand shake. She didn’t want to show how much Martie’s question had affected her.
“Let’s talk about us and when we’ll meet again. Now that your friend Chloe—”
“Rita,” Dee corrected with a smile.
“Now that she has departed, may I call you at home when I get back?”
“Certainly,” Dee answered quickly. “I’ll even cook you a TV
dinner.”
“Reluctantly accepted. What’s your home phone?” Martie grabbed a pencil
and in a boyish scrawl wrote down the number Dee gave her on the inside of her passport. “If you don’t hear from me right away,” she advised Dee, “don’t think I’ve forgotten. It would only be because I’m still on this side of the world.”
Dee smiled. “I trust your motives. . . .”
“Well,” Martie gave a wry chuckle, “at least I fooled you that much.” The tone was joking, but the swift shadow of pain that crossed her face did not escape Dee.
She stood a moment without comment. She wished she could reassure Martie, tell her that perhaps her present feelings would turn into love with time . . . but what for? Even if she did fall in love with Martie, what would the future hold for them? She considered the advantages of living with someone who adored her but whom she was only fond of. There were many advantages, she knew. But she just wasn’t ready to accept life on those terms yet. Somewhere there was someone who was exactly what she wanted.
“Well,” Dee began finally, “guess I’ll be off. Have a good trip.”
“Sure, sure. And I’ll give you a call as soon as I get back.”
They walked side by side to the front door, carefully formal.
Martie opened the door for her and stood, uneasily twisting the handle up and down.
“Martie . . .” Dee was suddenly reminded of the telephone conversation she had had with Martie so long ago in New York—of that terrible feeling of losing something, of needing to say more and not knowing how or what.
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“Go on,” Martie laughed nervously. “Don’t prolong the agony.
Never saw such a ham in all my life, always milking your scene.”
Dee smiled slowly, then leaned forward and despite the open door quickly kissed Martie on the lips. “Please do call . . . I mean that,” she whispered.
Martie only nodded, and Dee left swiftly when she saw the tears coming into Martie’s eyes. She couldn’t stand the thought of having made Martie cry. Even though she knew it wasn’t really her fault or her responsibility, she felt guilty.
She hailed a cab in front of the hotel and gave the driver Bizot’s address. The last few days began to seem incredible to her—that all of this was happening in Paris, that she had run into Martie. And last night seemed the most unreal of it all.
She felt a sudden need to see Karen, just to know she was around. If Karen was still talking to her. Dee wouldn’t blame Karen at all if she had pulled up stakes and gone back to the hotel—even if she’d quit her job rather than look at Dee again. It had been stupid of her to place the girl in a situation that could expose her to Rita.
And then not having the courage to answer Karen’s letter after what Rita had put her through . . . simply trusting that Karen would come out of it unscathed, without jeopardizing their friendship.
What a gutless, shallow, and selfish thing to do!
Dee tried to visualize Karen in the apartment, using her things, sleeping in her bed. . . .
Stop it now, Dee warned herself. Some friend I’ve been, she thought ruefully. Just leaving her there to sweat it out while I’ve been having a wild time myself.
She did not know then that she had already made up her mind to leave. It never formed actual words in Dee’s mind—it simply went from intuitive recognition into purposeful decision. She would call the airline when she got back to the Bizots’ and try to set up the date for her departure. As soon as possible. Preferably tomorrow.
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Chapter 19
The small Renault bounced and swerved at a moderate speed through the traffic down the Boulevard Raspail heading toward Orly Field. Raoul had attached the luggage rack to the top of the car and strapped Dee’s valises to it carefully.
Dee sat up in front with him, perched in a sideways position so she could also talk with Pepe. However, they had driven mostly in silence thus far. Dee wished now she were the clever type, with a running line of jokes and puns, something witty forever at the tip of her tongue. She hated to say good-bye—she always felt so damn in-adequate.
The headlights of the oncoming traffic illuminated each of their faces just enough for her to make out their expressions, yet not enough to be able to interpret them.
Raoul broke the silence, cursing a car in front of them, which had made a sudden decision to pull into his lane.
“I wish one of you would say something,” he said a moment later.
“This silence is making me nervous.”
Dee smiled. “I feel the same way, Raoul, but what can I say? That you’ve been wonderful, that I’ll never forget how perfect you both made my visit? It sounds so synthetic.”
“Oh, no!” Pepe interrupted. “Those are things for polite strangers.
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We were friends the moment we saw you, and it grew deeper each day like a love affair of the minds. Had you not been at home, do you think we would not have sensed it? Please. Let us not waste time with this kind of nonsense. Let us speak plainly like friends.”
“This is true, darling,” Raoul agreed. “We are going to miss you very much, Dee. It is not as if you were simply going to be gone on a vacation—we may never see you again.”
Dee felt the warm sting of tears coming into her eyes and blinked to hold them back. The same thought had been going through her mind, too. She glanced at Pepe in the backseat and wondered what, if anything, she thought about the time Dee had spent away from them. Pepe had not actually asked why Dee was suddenly so anxious to get back to New York . . . but the question was obviously bursting to come out.
Yet she didn’t want to say anything—it was better to let them use their own imaginations than to try to make up a story. Let them think she’d been jilted, or was afraid of falling in love, or anything they wanted. If she lied and they were able to see through it, things would be much worse. She wished to hell she could find a man and get married. . . . If she could be just half as happy as Pepe and Raoul, it would be worth any sacrifice. But that’s the trouble, Dee thought. Marriage for me is a sacrifice!
As if by some kind of telepathy, Pepe brightened up a bit and said, “Perhaps Dee will marry and come to Paris for a honey-moon.”
Dee shook her head with a slow smile. “Don’t count on it. But there’s no reason why you couldn’t come to New York on a vacation or business trip—then you would be my guests! Pepe would love New York, Raoul. Why don’t you plan it?”
“We have often talked about it,” Pepe said thoughtfully.
“Well, then. Why not?”
“Perhaps . . . who knows?”
Suddenly they all fell silent again as if each of them had tired of the game of making gracious noises at one another.
“Raoul,” Dee said suddenly as he turned into the approach to the terminal, “don’t park.”
“What?” Pepe said, not a little confused.
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“No . . . please,” Dee continued. “Just let me off in front and the porter will take my things inside.”
Raoul glanced in the mirror for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Women . . .” he commented to no one.
“You wish to leave alone?” Pepe asked.
She nodded. “I just can’t stand the thought of us all standing around, nervous and uncomfortable, and then having to say good-bye. I—I don’t think I could take it.”
Raoul pulled up to the terminal and, with a barely noticeable choke in his voice, said, “I think perhaps Dee is right.”
Pepe was beginning to cry herself. “I intend to go home and get drunk.”
“I’m not exactly being shot off to the moon, you know,” Dee said, keeping her voice in control, “and the mails are still running.”
“And we might really go to New York,” Pepe said.
“Or Dee might come back,” Raoul offered.
The porter walked up to the car and began removing the luggage from the top. None of them said a
nything for a few moments.
Suddenly, Pepe leaned forward and grasped Dee gently by the head and kissed her on both cheeks. The taste of her tears was still on Dee’s face when Pepe whispered, “We will meet again, chérie. . . .”
“I know.”
Dee hesitated a moment, looked at them both, then quickly opened the door and kissed them swiftly before stepping out.
“Adieu,” she managed to say, and shut the door firmly.
She almost ran into the terminal, the porter following her more slowly. She didn’t dare look back and focused only on the Pan Am counter ahead of her—she hoped she would not have to wait too long before takeoff.
Dee used her briefcase as a lap desk inside the lounge of the Strato-cruiser. She tried to keep her mind on her notes, to compile them before she got back to the office. She had slept for several hours after the first part of the trip between Shannon and Gander, but now it was impossible.
It was a little foolish, she realized, to be working now. No one at 276
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the office expected her back before Thursday or Friday—and she still had a vacation coming to her despite the trip to Paris.
But just sitting in her seat had been unbearable. She kept turning over and over in her mind what she would say to Karen. Karen would have received her cable by now and would know she was coming in sooner.
“Sir,” she called suddenly, and her voice sounded strange, “how much farther now?”
“Let’s see,” the flight attendant said, looking at his watch. “About another two hours, Miss.”
For no apparent reason, Dee felt tears welling up and wondered what Martie was doing just now. She would have to write Martie a long letter. Why was it she always felt as if she had so much to say to Martie until it came time to say it? She could talk to Karen . . .
Karen.
Am I falling in love with her? Dee asked herself. Could I be that big a fool? But it wouldn’t matter much now. . . . Karen had probably cleared out. She had never sent that second letter she’d promised.
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