North Coast: A Contemporary Love Story

by Dorothy Rice Bennett

  Gina’s father came out of the house, heading for the barn. She looked up at him, questioningly. “Dad, why are those two hens acting like that?”

  Her dad put his hand on her shoulder. “Yes, that is unusual, isn’t it. Normally, those two gals would be keeping their space. Unless the rooster is around.” He grinned at her.

  “But why are they doing that?”

  “Well, honey, sometimes animals are different. They are born that way, apparently, with some interest in others of their kind and the same sex. We don’t know why, but it does happen every so often. We just kind of ignore it, because they aren’t hurting anyone. It’s just nature.”

  Gina studied the hens. “But what about people? Do people do that, too?”

  Her father looked at her thoughtfully. “Humans are different from animals. We have the power of reason. God gave us reason so we can be responsible and make responsible choices. Animals just follow their instinct. We know what’s right, and we can choose to do it.”

  Gina looked at him quizzically. She didn’t really understand, but he was her dad and he must be right.

  Valerie saw Gina’s attention come back to the beach. She had allowed her some space for what was obviously a personal memory but now hauled out potato chips for a treat. The two women finished their soft drinks and then bundled everything back up in the cooler. Sam had settled down beside them with a rawhide bone and seemed very happy with her chewing. The red ball was at her side.

  “How have your parents accepted your being a lesbian?” Valerie finally asked very gently.

  Gina swallowed a potato chip before answering. “I didn’t tell them for a long time. When I did talk to them, Dad was more hurt personally, like it was somehow his fault. I had to do a lot of reassuring. I think my mom thought of my being a lesbian as a choice I was making—that I could be straight if I wanted to. She had a hard time recognizing that her daughter had emotional conflicts and that this gay thing wasn’t going away.”

  Gina sighed and ran her fingers through the sand between her feet. “It’s still touch and go, but we’re communicating better. I’ve never told them about the huge debt I have to pay off. They wouldn’t have the money to help me out anyway, and since it really is my problem I’m the one that has to deal with it.”

  Valerie thought for a moment. “Do you think it might help if they understood how much you have sacrificed to try to be the daughter they wanted you to be?”

  Gina shrugged. “I don’t know. It might. Maybe someday I’ll tell them, but not until the debt has been paid.” She grinned. “Sometimes I can be one of those stubborn Midwesterners.”

  They were both quiet, listening to the ocean waves as the new tide began to roll onshore—and to the crunching sound of Sam working on her rawhide stick.

  Gina slipped off her shoes and pushed her toes into the sun-warmed sand. After a considerable silence, she turned to Valerie and asked, “How did your parents react to your being a lesbian?”

  Valerie smiled. “My mother was a psychologist. My father was an art historian. They knew I was a lesbian before I did. We had this very unusual birds-and-bees discussion, when I was maybe 13—about how some birds and bees did things differently and if I was one of those, it was fine with them.”

  She sighed, thinking back. Even her younger brother Daniel hadn’t cared about her sexuality. When she started dating during college, he was into his own hormone explosion and barely noticed what was happening for her. “I was really lucky,” she admitted to Gina, “ because I grew up without my sexual identity being a problem. I never had to keep secrets about it. I brought my girlfriends home and my parents welcomed them. It was a little unnerving at times because no one else that I knew had it so easy.”

  “You were very fortunate,” Gina observed wistfully.

  “Yes,” Valerie acknowledged, “and I think that’s why I was able to have a healthy relationship with Doreen for two decades. I didn’t take that kind of baggage into the relationship. I had the built-in expectation that two women could love each other, just like a man and a woman. There was no shame, no angst, to stand in the way.”

  Gina looked as if she wanted to say something. Val paused, giving her room to speak.

  “If it isn’t too touchy a subject, how…how did you meet Doreen?” Gina asked, her voice soft and hesitant.

  Val smiled wistfully. “It wasn’t at a gay bar, I can assure you.” She mused a moment, staring at the waves rolling onto the shore. “I always loved art, even before I realized that someday I would be a painter. So I hung out in art galleries whenever I had free time.”

  She was twenty-something—in short curls, a turtleneck, bell bottom pants, and pointed-toe shoes—standing in a San Francisco gallery staring at paintings for long moments and sometimes getting all teary-eyed over a work that especially touched her.

  That day Valerie had gone to the Palace of Fine Art, where there was an exhibit of paintings and sculpture by new artists. She had stopped before a modern yet classic oil of two nymphs in nearly transparent silky robes, standing in the forest in the light of a full moon, smiling shyly at each other. The oil so captured the essence of young love between women that she couldn’t leave it.

  She had gotten physically tired from standing there, shifting from one foot to another. Enthralled and unable to take her eyes off the painting, she felt a presence nearby. Her space and mood were being invaded and she turned sharply to see who it was. Just over her shoulder, maybe a foot away, stood a auburn-haired, brown-eyed young woman in a red T-shirt and jeans. She was staring at the same painting.

  Valerie gave her such a look of annoyance that the young woman blushed and apologized for gazing practically over Val’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said, “so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. The painting just grabbed me.” The young woman, in her early 20s, was very pleasant and the two began talking about the work of art.

  They went for coffee together and before they knew it they were dating. Soon afterwards they became lovers. Val knew immediately that their pairing was idyllic, compared to the traumas and struggles that many lesbians went through before—and if—they found a loving partner.

  “So, I was at a gallery one day,” Valerie continued, when her mind returned to the present. “I met Doreen there. She was a graphic artist, a freelancer at the time. She had kind of coasted through life, taking it the easy way. But after she met me and we both realized we were serious about one another, she settled down and developed a real career for herself. And I have to admit that watching her work with artistic elements, even though with a computer instead of paints, intrigued me. My life developed a new dimension beyond the business world. I began to think more creatively, and soon I was seeing in a new way and then drawing what I saw in reality, or visualized in my mind, on a pad. My art grew from there. Doreen really inspired me.”

  She paused a moment, adjusting her headband to prevent the wind from tousling her hair. “I know this all sounds too good to be true. And for the most part it was. But like all couples, Doreen and I had our issues. We sometimes fought over the dumbest things, like who got to read the Sunday funnies first.” She sighed. “The worst, though, was the cancer. It tore our lives into a million pieces. No one should ever have to go through that hell.” She passed a rock back and forth between her hands, pressing it tightly with her fingers. Her jaw tensed for a moment. She hadn’t mentioned that Doreen’s parents had never supported their relationship and at times had been truly mean and cruel to them. Val didn’t want to even think about what they had done after Doreen’s death.

  Gina studied her but didn’t speak. They were both quiet, lost in their own thoughts.

  Then Gina’s eyes focused for a while on a series of waves gently brushing the shore. She took a deep breath of the ocean air and let out a sigh. She smiled and turned to Valerie. “This is a wonderful way to spend the day, isn’t it? It’s so peaceful here it’s almost like being in church.”

  Valerie returned from her reverie, l
ooked at Gina thoughtfully, and asked, “Are you into church?”

  Gina shook her head. “Not any more. When I was growing up, it was church every Sunday. As regular as clockwork.” She smiled to herself.

  “What religion?”

  “Oh, Methodist. Everyone in town was Methodist or Lutheran or Presbyterian. I think, for me anyway, Methodist was the easiest to swallow.” She smiled at Val. “When I went to graduate school in Arizona, church was the first thing I dumped. I started spending my Sundays outdoors in the sunshine and open air. No preaching anymore for me.”

  Valerie considered that idea for a moment before speaking. “My parents were intellectuals, and neither of them believed in formalized religion. I never saw the inside of a church until I met Doreen. She was a devout Catholic. I sometimes went to Mass with her, but it didn’t mean much to me. And years later, I got pretty angry that this God in whom she believed so much would allow her to get cancer.” Valerie frowned and became quiet again.

  Gina put a hand on Val’s arm. “I’m sorry that you had to have that kind of experience,” she said gently. She looked out at the ocean thoughtfully. “I used to go to a desert park, up in the hills near Tucson. There was a very old saguaro cactus, a really big one. Saguaros sort of look like people, you know. This one had a bent head and two arms outstretched.” She put her head slightly to one side and stretched out her arms at odd angles, helping Val visualize that cactus and forcing her to laugh. “I decided one day that this saguaro was God,” Gina continued, “extending love and peace to everyone. I came to the conclusion that God is present in all things—so I don’t need to go to a church.”

  Valerie studied her for a moment. “That seems like a good way to believe.”

  Almost simultaneously they both stretched out on the blanket and let the sun warm them for awhile. Val watched the breeze play with Gina’s hair and then she closed her eyes, feeling good and at peace. It seemed they both had stared at some personal demons and maybe the breeze would waft them away. Sam, too, seemed at peace as she rested her big head on Valerie’s thigh. Val wished this day could go on forever—the sun, the sand, Gina, Sam, and her, all together. It was such a nice fantasy.

  Her mood was broken abruptly when Gina looked at her watch. “What time were you planning on going back? Is it time to go soon?”

  Val sighed. She glanced at her own watch.

  “Yeah,” she said, standing up, “We should go. There’s actually plenty of time left, but neither of us is tanned and we shouldn’t be in this sun too long. I don’t want to get burned and I doubt that you do either.”

  Gina agreed and began helping her collect their things. Then a thought occurred to her. “Oh, wait. I want a picture of you and Sam.” Secretly delighted, Valerie knelt next to Sam, while Gina took a couple of shots.

  “How about you?” Valerie asked. “How about you and Sam?”

  “Oh.” Gina seemed surprised. “Sure, if you don’t mind. It’s an easy camera to work—just point and shoot, as they say.”

  Valerie took a picture of Gina with her arms wrapped around an accommodating retriever who seemed to be grinning through it all. Momentarily the thought crossed her mind that it would be nice to have a picture of herself with Gina, or the three of them together, but there was no one on the beach to ask. And perhaps that was better anyway. Gina was planning to move to San Francisco before long. Never forget that.

  They gathered up their things and trooped back to the Volvo wagon. On the way to the freeway, they were surprised by a cow standing in the middle of the road. Next they saw another cow and then another. Gina grinned and Valerie gasped in surprise. A whole herd of cows was being moved from field to field, and their milk-laden udders hung heavily between their rear legs. Valerie had no choice but stop and let them pass. The line of cows seemed endless, and several of the brown and white spotted bovines looked up with curiosity at Valerie and Gina and the Volvo. Sam could hardly contain her excitement.

  Finally a young, dark-skinned man on a small tractor closed a gate and followed the herd down the road. He nodded pleasantly as he passed the station wagon.

  “Oh, those poor things,” Valerie said.

  “I’d almost think I was back home.” Gina leaned out the window to take a picture with her camera. “Those cows are obviously being well fed.”

  “What is that slogan about California cows being happy cows?” Valerie asked with amusement.

  When the herd had moved along to the next field, hopefully headed in the direction of the milking barn, the women continued their return trip to Eureka.

  After each film showing Gina was assigned, along with a skinny red-headed fellow named Rick Hendricks, to clean up the auditoriums. The two worked well together and got a lot done in a short period of time. Gina noticed that every Saturday she and Rick were placed in the same rotation. Not being turned on by men, Gina paid very little attention to him. He would sing while he picked up the trash from the auditorium floor or chatter away about something that didn’t mean anything to her. Sometimes he talked continuously and Gina would just nod and move on after her own work was done.

  One particular Saturday Rick was more of a chatterbox than usual. Gina tried to ignore him, but this time he was unusually pointed in his comments. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you at the Purple Priscilla,” he said to her, abruptly and very directly.

  “The what?” she asked, not knowing what he meant.

  “You don’t know the club?” One eyebrow shot up.

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gina admitted, a bit sharply.

  “Maybe I’ve got you figured wrong,” Rick mused, waving a hand in the air.

  “What do you mean?” Gina’s heart suddenly began pounding very hard.

  “I thought you were MOT,” he said.

  “What’s MOT?”

  “Member of the Tribe. You know, gay,” he said, frustrated at having to spell it out.

  Gina froze in her tracks, her broom held in midair. She nearly gasped. So people at the theater—well at least Rick—had figured out that she was a lesbian. Could it be that the two of them were assigned to work together because Rick had requested it or the manager thought they would understand each other and enjoy each other’s company?

  Gina felt exposed, as if she were standing there naked. Her first impulse was to flee. Then she took a deep breath, let it out, and resumed her sweeping. Maybe being recognized wasn’t totally a bad thing. It took a load off. She could relax a bit and not worry about being “outed” any longer. If they knew and hadn’t fired her for being a lesbian, then maybe it was okay.

  After a moment of working in silence she looked at Rick. “Where is this Purple Priscilla?” she asked. That was the closest she could come to admitting he was right about his supposition.

  He picked up some drink cups and a popcorn bag and smothered a private grin. “It’s a new place up in Arcata, near the university,” he said. “If you haven’t been and want to go, maybe you could join some of us after work. It doesn’t have to be tonight. The invitation is open, whenever you feel like it.”

  “Thanks, I may take you up on that sometime.”

  The gang wasn’t getting together this weekend. Judee had the boys because her ex was out of town on business, Josie was studying for a big botany test she had to pass, and Lanie was caught up with some old friends who had arrived unexpectedly from out of town.

  So Valerie was at home with Sam, her book, her television set, and her feelings. She tried to read a mystery novel that she had been slogging her way through, but when she started reading the same paragraph for the third time she decided to switch on the TV instead. Surfing the channels, she found a tear jerker movie. She got up, made some herbal tea, and popped some popcorn, sharing the warm kernels with Sam.

  No matter what she did, she found herself, thinking, remembering, feeling. She liked the group activities on Saturday night. They occupied her mind and suppressed memories of Doreen for hours.


  But with an empty evening and no one there to distract her, she was remembering the good times she and Doreen had enjoyed. Saturdays had been very special for them, usually involving an elegant dinner out or a romantic meal with candlelight at home. Because they had been together for several years, they both knew the importance of keeping romance in their relationship. They worked at it, buying flowers and bringing home balloons, sweets, and wine.

  Her body ached for Doreen’s gentle touch. Doreen had been physically beautiful and a perfect lover—sensitive, imaginative, and flexible. During their intimate moments Doreen had also massaged her tenderly, helping her to relax from hours spent over an easel. Thinking about it, she could almost feel those hands.

  Valerie’s hand grasped the paint brush tightly. Hour after hour she struggled to make her brush strokes as broad or as narrow, as deep or as feathery as she wanted them. As a beginner at painting, her goal was discipline and control, just as a pianist might play scales for hours to gain mastery over the instrument. Her hands began to ache, her arms trembled, and the muscles in her shoulders and neck started to scream.

  She was sitting in the guest bedroom of the condo she shared with Doreen. She had just turned this room into a makeshift studio. Her easel was positioned to capture the natural afternoon light. A small table held her paints, brushes, and wiping cloths. She wanted so to learn, to put on canvas what she could see and feel in her mind.

  Fingers lightly touched her shoulders and, at that touch, her body began to relax instantly. The fingers stroked and the knots gave way.

  “That feels so good, Doreen,” she whispered.

  “I’m glad, my love. You’ve been at this for hours and you are exhausted.”

  “I know, but I want so much to do it right!”

  Doreen leaned down and kissed Valerie’s ear lobe. “You are doing it right. Every time I come by, I can see your increasing skill. I see a Monet or a Seurat in the making, and it will happen. It will come. But you need to rest now and then, sweetheart.”