Lucky Love: A Lesbian Romance

by Anna Cove

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets. "Well? Do you need anything in particular before we get started?"

  "Nope, I brought my materials." She patted the side of her dress. "I'm going to start with the less expensive items so we can clear them away. The best way to get through this is from the top down."

  "Right."

  "Right." Alice nodded slowly.

  It felt like I was back in school where I seemed to be missing the social handbook everyone else had memorized. Why was she delaying? Was this part of her tactic? "So? Aren't you going to start?"

  "Of course. Sorry." Alice shook her head and turned, snaking down the narrow passage between the Chippendale chairs. Her dress swayed around the items as if it had a consciousness of its own, or like it was a stream. It went to the empty spaces, the carved spaces. I watched in awe as she moved, as she swayed her hips, the swish-swish mesmerizing me. Only when she turned the corner did I realize I had been staring at her. And why? I didn't find her attractive, did I?

  Even if I did, I couldn't afford to fall for her. My recent history had already shown me that love and lust and all those emotional things clouded my judgment. Had I learned nothing at all from my experience with Tara? If Alice was screwing us out of our inheritance, I needed the clarity of an objective mind. I noted this to my body. Hear me? A strong 'no' on Alice.

  I followed her footsteps, though mine seemed stilted and loud after her graceful movements. I found her in the dining room, sorting the items on the table.

  "How are you sorting those?"

  "By category and then approximate year. These are old gas lamps. You can't see it under all the dust, but they're made of copper. Imagine them glowing in a flickering light."

  I folded my arms, imagining one of those lamps in the middle of a table, lighting a dinner. The effect was romantic, and I immediately shut it down. Hard. No. "What are you going to do after you sort them?"

  Alice gestured. "Some of these things aren't worth a whole lot, but we can still get some money out of them. They're called 'vintage' items rather than antiques. I think Lois collected them because she liked them, because they reminded her of when she was young. This whole room is full of them."

  Some of the items I recognized. The candle holders, for example, were the exact candle holders Lois used when I lived with her. The two of us would sit on either end of the table like a Victorian married couple and eat in silence. I'd always wondered why she bothered with the candles if it was just us. It had seemed pretentious and cold back then, another thing that set us apart.

  "Do you want them?" Alice asked, pausing.

  "Hell, no. When will you be able to sell them?"

  "As soon as tomorrow. The lot is probably worth a couple thousand dollars, just because of the sheer mass of stuff. I'm friendly with a couple who owns a vintage store in town who will come over whenever we're ready, if you like, and take it right off your hands."

  "Just like that?"

  "Just like that." Alice nodded and continued to sort the items on the table. I hadn't really done much research on these, as there were too many separate items.

  I picked up an old camera which looked like a small suitcase. Its lens clung to the front of a crimson accordion. It read "Kodak" on the top. "A vintage camera," I said. "That must be worth something."

  Alice stopped what she was doing and placed her hands on her hips. "Fun fact. It was worth seven dollars in 1907 when it first came out, which is about 175 dollars in today's money. That particular item..." She walked toward me and took the camera from my hands. A flowery scent washed over me. "Well, you'd be lucky if you got that much for it now. There are lots of these Kodak cameras out there."

  I stepped back and turned around, thankfully escaping her cloying scent. "I'll be right back."

  I didn't catch Alice's reaction. I knew I was being abrupt, but I had to do my due diligence on her. I absconded to the kitchen where I found enough space to pull my phone from my pocket. I plugged in the name of the camera and found the same exact one for sale for about $165.

  Call me impressed. She was spot on, even with something that wasn't really her specialty. I admired people who were competent at their jobs and, begrudgingly, I had to admit, Alice wasn't terrible. But this was only a crumb. In order to believe her, I would have to see the whole loaf of bread. Or in Alice's case, maybe the whole muffin. I snorted at my own joke.

  I returned to the dining room and watched her sort. She worked, focused on her task, not prattling on as I feared she would. The night before, in preparation, I had learned about the table. Now seemed to be as good a time as any to show her I was watching, to prove to her that I was a fast learner, and I would be able to see if she was screwing me in any way.

  "So, this dining room set. Do you think it's Spanish Baroque?"

  Alice stopped again and looked up. She had pretty eyes. They had a golden hue to them, or perhaps they just looked like that today with her choice of makeup. "Yes," she said, widening those eyes so I could see them even better.

  That sent an unexpected warmth through my stomach, the pleasure of being right. I'd found a similar set on sale for fifty-five thousand dollars, so that was the number I needed to hear. Alice ran her fingers longingly over the square of open table. "It was made of red cedar wood circa 1910, so it's not all that old, but it's breathtakingly beautiful."

  She backed away and gestured for me to come around her side of the table. Since I had engaged her in the conversation, I thought it was only fair to go.

  She pointed. "Look at this exquisite carving. It marries the masculine solidity and the feminine flexibility seamlessly. It's one of my favorite dining room sets ever."

  I let my eyes travel over the curves and the twists of the carvings, over the solid legs of the table.

  "It's romantic," she said on a whisper. "Something that lasts."

  She said it so softly I almost missed it, and maybe that's what she intended, but now, instead of looking at the table, I regarded her. "You're one of those romantic types, huh?"

  "What makes you think that?" Alice asked, her head tilted. Her hair was arranged in curls around her face today, bouncy, like her skirt.

  "You just called a table romantic."

  "Ha." Alice shrugged. "Maybe once I was. I honestly haven't had the chance since college. I don't see much of my type in Gardner."

  "Oh, come on. You don't have some jock from high school sitting at home waiting for you? Or some hedge fund manager who spends all his time in the city and comes home weekends?"

  Alice raised her nut-brown eyebrow. "Nope."

  She went back to her task, sorting the last three items into piles. "For your information, and I don't know why I'm telling you this because you obviously don't care, I went to Smith College. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Plus, I don't have sex with men. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  No sex with men? Did that mean she didn't have sex at all? Before I had a chance to say anything more, she disappeared through the door, and I felt like an idiot. More than that, I was appalled. My whole life I'd hated when people judged me because of how I looked or dressed, and I had done the same to Alice. It struck me perhaps this was another manipulation of hers, something she said because she somehow knew I was gay, but it hadn't seemed so. I had touched a nerve, one strong enough for her to leave.

  I hoped, prayed, I hadn't made her cry. I couldn't tolerate it if she cried. Nor could I leave her alone in the house. I gave her a few minutes, then followed her into the kitchen.

  "I'm sorry," she said, peeling an orange. "I was getting hungry. Want one?"

  My mind rewrote our past interactions given this new information. The way she'd stared at me, how she touched me. How she dressed and how she acted. It was like I was viewing her through a different set of glasses, though nothing had really changed. "You don't want to talk about what you just told me?"

  "Not particularly."

  I should apologize for this, at least, if not for the other stuff. I hated
doing it, but it was what was right. "I just want to say... I'm sor—"

  "We're good," Alice said, before I could get the word out.

  I took an orange and ate alongside her, enduring an awkward silence. Only once we started working did relief come. We worked for much of the afternoon and into the evening, making visible progress. At no point in the afternoon did we mention our little exchange, but I found myself acting differently toward her. Kinder. At five, we moved back into the kitchen, both of us practically falling into the chairs.

  Alice smiled to herself, as if this was exactly what she wanted to do on a Friday evening, and I realized I actually had enjoyed her company. I could do that, right? No harm as long as I knew the stakes.

  "I'm beat," she said. "Don't think I could move another muscle."

  "Me either." I hummed a popular Michael Jackson song.

  "Can't you feel the fever, feel it," Alice sang after me.

  I sat up. "Those aren't the words."

  "Yes they are!"

  "No they aren't. The word fever isn't even in the song. Don't even try to challenge me on Michael Jackson lyrics."

  "Okay, okay. What do you say I take you to Mexican food down the street where we can continue this argument?"

  I wanted to. I did, oh I did, but as I glanced at Alice, the hamster wheel in my mind started to turn. On the floor at her feet was her basket. Why was her basket so big? What if she was planning something? Was she really as tired as she was acting?

  Or was she about to launch her own little barricade on the house, shutting me out of my rightful inheritance? It seemed plausible, even likely. I had been nothing but obstructionist to her, so why wouldn't she set up shop the first chance she got?

  "No," I said.

  Alice opened her eyes and her gaze slid to me.

  "In fact, I'm pretty tired. So why don't we call it a night and I'll see you again tomorrow."

  "My vintage friends?"

  "They can come tomorrow, right?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "Good."

  With a groan, Alice lurched forward and picked up her basket. Her exhaustion made her slightly less rigid, slightly less perfectly graceful. Almost... pretty.

  No. Stop.

  She hesitated at the kitchen door. "Are you sure you don't want to come? The Margaritas are to die for."

  My mind jumped to us, laughing and sipping Margaritas together. She would have three and I would have two, staying slightly less drunk than her but still tipsy enough to tell her about Tara, about my adoptive parents, about the reason why I disliked Lois so much. Maybe she would touch my hand and I would let her. And maybe we would kiss and after the day we'd had, I couldn't promise I wouldn't bring her right back here and have a good fuck with her. And it would be good. Damn, it would be good.

  I blinked slowly, pulling myself back to the reality. "I'm certain," I said, opening the door.

  "Suit yourself."

  I clicked the door shut behind her and rested my forehead on the cool glass. I remained there until my breathing returned to normal. Something pulled at my chest, a yearning, a loneliness. After a full day of company, I was acutely aware that I was here with no one. My family wasn't supporting me in this, no one was thinking about me at home. I opened the door to see if Alice had lingered. If she had, I might have jogged to catch up.

  But she was gone, and so I crept back into the empty house alone. I was better off this way.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ALICE

  I had not only made progress on the house the first day, but I seemed to have made progress on Lena as well, right up until the last moment where suspicion had clouded her face. Before that, she had been relaxed, calm, even funny at times. In the few moments she'd let her guard down, she had this incredibly dry, cutting sense of humor that sent me into fits of laughter.

  I wanted more of that Lena.

  The second day, I decided to bring in the big guns. Ronald. It was hard not to love an animal who was at once so sweet and so helpless. I arrived at the house at 8:05, holding him under one arm, and a basket with lunch under the other.

  Lena opened the door and frowned. "What's that?"

  "I brought us some lunch."

  "I mean—that." She pointed at Ronald.

  Of course she had to be nasty about it. We'd gone right back to the beginning. I pasted on my smile. "He's my pug. His name is Ronald. He's going to play with us today."

  Lena's eyes didn't move from him. "Won't he scratch the floor?"

  Silently, I prayed he wouldn't let out a cloud of ill-timed exhaust. "He doesn't move much. I'll put him in the kitchen and he'll stay there pretty much all day. I can promise you he won't be a problem."

  Lena's expression remained blank, but she stepped back from the door. I began to doubt the foundation of this idea. What if Lena wasn't a dog person? "You're not allergic, are you?"

  "No," she said.

  "Okay," I said after a beat. Most people I knew usually used more than one word to answer questions, but I should have known by now that wasn't Lena's style. Especially, I was learning, in the morning. I crossed to the back of the house and settled Ronald on the kitchen floor. Then I reviewed my agenda for the day.

  That day, I would revisit the real antiques as a reward for digging through the junky stuff the day before.

  I moved into the sitting room toward the middle of the house where the colonial items were housed. We—I assumed Lena would hover today, too—would work there until the vintage store owners came later in the afternoon.

  Lena shadowed me. I'd noticed she was uncomfortable with the size of my skirt yesterday, or so her frown indicated, so I'd dressed in a shorter number instead. It was black with splashes of color on it like paint. One of my modern dresses. It was much smaller and had less room to hide things, if someone was concerned about that.

  It didn't seem to matter. It was as if I'd rewound the clock with Lena. I wanted the funny Lena to come back, the relaxed Lena. I enjoyed her much more than this lurching, awkward Lena.

  "Did you play rugby in college?" I asked, searching for something to distract her.

  "Yep." She nodded.

  "Ah." Stupid me, I'd asked a question to which she could say yes or no. If I wanted her to speak more, I should have opted for something more open-ended. Something like... "You know, I never asked you what you do for your job. Could you tell me a little about that?"

  Lena blinked, glancing up. She paused for so long I could almost see the gears moving in her mind. "I'm coding an app to help people track their health habits."

  I bent, running my finger gently along the corner of a tall boy colonial dresser to feel for any dings. "And how did you decide on that subject?"

  "My girlfriend was into cross-fit and ketogenic diets and all of that. She convinced me to crunch some numbers, and the numbers revealed there was a hungry market for this type of thing." Her lips twitched. "No pun intended," she said deadpan.

  "Your girlfriend?" I found myself saying. Of course, that was the thing I pulled out from that sentence. "I mean, I wasn't aware you were dating anyone."

  "I'm not," she said. "We broke up."

  "Are you still working together?"

  "Yeah." I glanced up at Lena to find her staring at my fingers on the dresser. "What time period is that from?" she asked.

  "Colonial era, around 1780, I'd say. It's in beautiful condition, isn't it? Simple, but strong, and heavy. I love a good ornate Victorian or baroque style any day, but this..."

  When my eyes met Lena's this time, she laughed. "The way you talk about the furniture..."

  "What?"

  Lena smiled—fully smiled—her cheeks creasing and her eyes narrowing.

  Taking a chance, I leaned forward and punched her shoulder gently. "Come on. Why are you laughing at me?"

  "Because you look at the furniture like it was a lover."

  "I do not."

  "Yes. You do."

  I chuckled along with her, but I didn't dare meet her eyes. We
'd had a few lingering gazes already, and after an exchange like this... yeah... I didn't want to encourage myself. It was clear Lena had little interest in me. She was just making fun of me. No point getting my hopes up. I turned back to the furniture and bent to examine it, trying to look at it objectively rather than as a lover, whatever that meant. I worked, noting peculiarities and dates, joints, and so on for each piece of furniture. I would have to do some more research later, but that was the easy stuff. The fun stuff. To the extent I could, I forgot about Lena standing over my shoulder, reading everything I wrote.

  "How was your Mexican food last night?" Lena asked, her voice low, almost hoarse.

  I shrugged. "I didn't go. Didn't want to go alone."

  "Could you have asked a friend?"

  "Sure, but by the time I left here, the mood had passed. I went home to visit with my Aunt Helen. Well, she's really my great aunt, my mother's mother's sister."

  Lena paused for a long time. In this pause, I grew aware of a different kind of energy coming from her. A nervous energy I had only seen once or twice before. Her foot tapped on the floor next to me. Instead of filling the gap, I waited for her to speak again.

  She cleared her throat and walked away. "I've got to call someone. I'll be upstairs if you need me."

  "Okay," I said, falsely chipper. Though I was getting used to Lena's company, it would be nice to move without her scrutinizing my every move. As she left, I let out a long breath.

  After a moment of reflection, I realized Lena had asked me a question. A personal question. One that could not possibly lead to bettering her stance or point of view. Was she finally coming around to me? Hope buoyed my movements, though Lord knows I tried to keep them down.

  When Lena returned, she brought her laptop with her. "Do you mind if I work in here with you?"

  "Not at all," I said, moving to another item.

  Together we worked in—if I wasn't kidding myself—companionable silence. After the first few seconds, her keystrokes set a rhythm to my movements. When they stopped, I stopped too, often looking up and catching her eyes. Her look was different now, less scrutinizing and more... what? Curious? Unlike most of my life, I felt no need to fill the silence with chatter.