Love Is Proud

  Bruce asked the same question.

  “No, he ain’t heavy.” I looked at Bruce, who nodded. My mother smiled, tears in her eyes, too. She nodded when she caught me smiling back at her and she let me know she was happy about us. Bruce grabbed Emerson’s carry-on as Emerson walked on crutches and in doing so Emerson slowly, but tentatively released me.

  “Walk close to me, Kade. I don’t want you too far.”

  “Oh, I won’t be far,” I said as we headed to baggage claim. “I’ll be here by your side.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Emerson. “I’ll remember that for sure and that you said I wasn’t too heavy for you.”

  Kade smiled. “I love you, Emerson. You’ll never be too heavy for me. I’ll always be by your side, whether you’re near or far.”

  * * * *

  ABOUT W.S. LONG

  W.S. Long lives in Orlando, Florida, and is honored to be part of this anthology to help the victims of his adopted city. When not writing, Spencer frequents Orlando area theme parks and travels to romantic lands with his lovely husband. For more information, visit facebook.com/wslongauthor.

  Teacups by Rae MacGregor

  “I’ve dreamed of meeting her all my life. I never really supposed

  I would, but so many of my loveliest dreams have come true

  all at once that perhaps this one will, too.”

  —L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

  I would be lying if I said I had never thought about it: the curve of her waist beneath my hand, her chest pressed up against mine. I didn’t think it would happen, though—not for more than a moment or two, at any rate. Hugs hello. Hugs goodbye. Embraces rationed out in parcels of platonic respectability. It was enough.

  (It wasn’t enough. I wanted to lift her off her tiny feet and twirl her around just to hear her giggle. I wanted to bury my hands in her curls and sweep her up in a dramatic movie star kiss. I wanted to press my lips to the parts of herself that she keeps hidden beneath those ridiculous dresses and shawls—to peel back layers of gauze and lace like unwrapping an extravagant gift.)

  How often can you compliment a woman before she starts to wonder about your intentions? I told myself that once a week was fair—often enough to make her blush in that way she does, but not often enough to arouse suspicion. Not often enough to arouse anything.

  By the time we were setting up our spontaneous tea party that Friday night, we had orbited each other in this excruciating ambiguity for so long that I had almost convinced myself I was comfortable there. It was her idea, the tea party. We had been watching Anne of Green Gables, when Eliza abruptly hit the pause button and started bouncing up and down, making the sofa shake.

  “Mimi,” she whispered, pushing her white curls behind her ears. My real name is Sarah. I don’t even remember why she started calling me Mimi. I think she picked it up during her Maurice Chevalier phase. “Mimi, we should have a tea party.”

  I nudged her with my stocking foot from my place on the other end of the sofa. “It’s ten o’clock, you goose. Who has tea parties at night?”

  She was already untangling herself from the blankets and climbing to her feet. I held my breath as she almost tripped over her long velvet skirts, but she steadied herself just in time and faced me, arms folded. “Old ladies who don’t give a fuck what time it is, that’s who. Come on.” She held out her hand.

  My knees protested as I uncurled from my cushion nest. “Okay. Whatever Liza wants. Since when do you even like tea, though?”

  “I don’t. We’re not having tea.”

  “A tea party…at night…with no tea.”

  I made a show of sinking back down on the couch, but she tugged me up again. “Yes. Stop asking questions! Just go change into something festive and meet me back here in ten minutes.

  I indulged in a deep sigh. “I’m too old for festive, Liza.” She was already turning me around and pointing me towards my bedroom, though, so I kept walking until I found myself in the very back of my closet, where I keep the remnants of my younger, more outlandish days. There were corsets and bloomers; petticoats and kimonos, pirate blouses and jangly belts. These days I limit my sartorial rebellion to vaguely edgy T-shirts, but there was a time when I could flounce with the best of them.

  Without allowing myself to think too hard about it, I selected a long, full-skirted dress with a leaf and flower print. Then, figuring I might as well complete the ensemble, I dug a pair of green tights out of the bottom of a drawer. When I was finished changing, I studied myself in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door. I looked like…what? Like a children’s television show reject? Like an overgrown doll?

  Then it hit me: I looked exactly the way I used to look when I first met Eliza. When I used to primp and preen for hours before she came over, hoping to subtly advertise my feelings for her through the flounciness of my skirts.

  It didn’t work, of course. There’s no skirt twirly enough to grab hold of the woman you love and tell her you want to kiss her until she can’t catch her breath. When we stopped playing the “will they, won’t they” game and turned our attentions to more conventional partners, I gradually drifted towards the jeans and T-shirts of everyday reality.

  When I returned to the living room, Eliza had shoved the coffee table aside and laid down an old green velvet curtain in its place—slightly moth-eaten, but still sumptuous in the dim lamplight. I thought I remembered it from an apartment I’d rented in my late twenties. Nestled in its folds, a painted tea tray held a porcelain teapot and two matching cups.

  Eliza perched on the ottoman, overlooking this tableau, but as I approached she wiggled gracefully down onto the floor. I hesitated. “Come on, Eliza. Can’t we at least do this on the couch like civilized people?”

  She rested her chin on her hand and fluttered her eyelashes. “Since when are we civilized people?”

  “All right. Whatever.” My skirt billowed out around me with a gentle floomp as I lowered myself onto the curtain beside her and folded my legs primly in front of me. I would feel it later, but I wasn’t about to splay myself out like a toddler at a magic show. I picked up the cup in front of me. “What, no petits-fours?”

  Eliza smirked. “I don’t think they’d go very well with this tea.” She raised the tiny porcelain vessel to her lips and took a tiny sip of the liquid inside.

  I did the same, and almost spat it back out in surprise. “Jesus, Liza! A little warning would have been nice.” She had clearly filled our cups with the remainder of my dusty bottle of Laphroaig scotch whiskey. I took another, slower sip, and this time the smoky liquor sent a pleasant warmth through my belly and out into my limbs.

  We drank in silence for a time, staring into our teacups and shifting uneasily on the curtain. Eliza seemed to be working herself up to say something, and I was almost afraid to hear it. Finally she set her empty cup down and cleared her throat. “I was thinking, Mimi.” She traced spidery patterns on the velvet with a turquoise-polished fingernail as she spoke.

  I reached out and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but said nothing. I was fighting the urge to run back into the bedroom, change back into my reliable jeans, and tell her we could continue this conversation another time. I made myself stay, and after a moment she spoke again.

  “You know…Anne and Diana, and the raspberry cordial…”

  Now I was frozen in place, caught in a nightmare I’d had too many times over the years. She wasn’t going to do this, was she? I made a noncommittal noise of assent, and she went on.

  “That time we were out drinking, and I was a lot drunker than you…and you started talking about Anne Shirley and Diana Barry—and you looked at me…”

  I was shaking now. It was thirty years ago, but I remembered exactly what I had said, and how she hadn’t responded. I thought she hadn’t remembered. Thirty years of mortification and rejection came crashing back over me.

  (Every time we watched Anne together, I wondered, a little, but she never said anything. She never o
nce let on.)

  “I’m sorry, Eliza,” I blurted, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m so, so sorry. I should never have—”

  To my utter astonishment, she interrupted my self-recriminations by sweeping the dishes aside and launching herself awkwardly into my lap. Suddenly it was all happening: the lapful of warm, yielding woman that I had stopped even bothering to imagine. She wrapped her arms around my neck, enshrouding me in her gauzy sleeves, and gazed up into my eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for. You were my Anne, my Mimi…” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “My kindred spirit. My Sarah. And I was a coward. Have been one, all this time.”

  “You don’t have to,” I murmured, but she cut me off with a soft fingertip pressed to my lips.

  “Hold your tongue, Anne,” she admonished, and I obeyed. And then her hand was sliding around to cup my cheek, and her delicate, crinkly eyelids were drifting shut and she was kissing me. I was kissing her. We were kissing—two old women on the floor of a dusty room, abruptly caught up in an amber bubble of early summer sunshine. Two girls embracing on the bank of a laughing brook, apple blossoms drifting down onto our silly heads.

  * * * *

  ABOUT RAE MACGREGOR

  Rae is a librarian and geek who collects strange clothing and stranger pets. She lives in Maryland with her spouse and child, where she is slowly amassing the world’s largest craft beer bottle cap collection. She has written for JMS Books and Circlet Press.

  The Kiss by Wayne Mansfield

  The ambulance siren screamed through the night, growing louder as it approached the open double gates of the Silver Waters Retirement Village. Many of the residents had come out in their pyjamas and dressing gowns to see what was going on, but saw no more than the lights of Villa 42 blazing.

  Inside Villa 42, Susie Waters, the nurse on duty, was trying to comfort Everett Peterson, who was greatly agitated.

  “Is he all right?” he asked, hovering over the figure lying sprawled on the carpet beside the bed. “I didn’t know what to do. He’s not moving.”

  He looked at Susie, his red-rimmed eyes beseeching her to help, to make everything better.

  “Please,” he said, his frail voice filled with desperation. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if he…”

  Tears filled his eyes and Susie felt her own eyes grow misty. She placed an arm around Everett’s shoulders.

  “I’m sure he’ll be all right, Mr Peterson,” she said, shushing him gently. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Everett brought a shaky hand to his forehead. “I-I-I don’t know.” He lowered his hand. “I guess he was getting out of bed and…and he must have hit his head. Is he going to be okay?” He stooped down as far as his arthritis would allow. “Charles, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

  But Charles remained still on the carpet, a small trickle of blood drying on his forehead.

  The ambulance siren had fallen silent and two ambulance officers came hurrying through the open front door.

  “We’re in here,” Susie called out to them.

  Susie escorted Everett away from Charles, which made him anxious once again. His mild shaking had become jerkier, more pronounced. He raised his arm, pointing at Charles with a bony finger, and was making small sounds that might have become words had he been calmer.

  “It’s okay, Mr Peterson,” she said. “The ambulance officers will look after Charles.”

  She began rubbing his arm, comforting him, and when he looked at her, she smiled one of the warm smiles she was known for.

  “Is he…do you think…he’ll be all right?” asked Everett.

  Susie’s smile wavered as she nodded. “I’m sure he’ll be back to his old self in no time at all.”

  “We’ll have to take him in,” said one of the ambulance officers. The name on his uniform was Adam. “Obvious concussion. Broken arm.”

  Everett broke free of Susie and shuffled towards Charles’s unconscious body. “You’re taking him away? No. You can’t. Don’t take him away.”

  Adam stood up. “Mr…”

  “Peterson,” said Susie.

  “Mr Peterson, we’re taking him into the hospital to get his arm seen to and to make sure he’s okay. That’s all. He’ll be fine. He’s just given his head a nasty knock.”

  Everett appeared confused. He began to turn back towards Susie then stopped. He looked down at Charles before shuffling around until he was facing Susie.

  “Can I go with him? Please, I have to go with him.” He turned back to face the ambulance workers. “I have to go with him.”

  Adam nodded. “Of course you can go with him.” He turned his attention to Susie. “We’ll be back in a moment.”

  They returned with a stretcher and after carefully moving Charles from the floor to the stretcher, they carried him out to the waiting ambulance. Susie followed along behind, escorting Everett into the ambulance.

  “Are you coming, too?” he asked.

  Susie nodded. “I just have to wait for the relief nurse and I’ll follow along in my car, Mr Peterson.”

  Adam shut the back of the ambulance, leaving Wendy, his colleague, and Everett with Charles.

  “Might be an idea to give him something to settle him,” said Susie. “It’s been quite a shock.”

  It was one of the retirement village’s regulations that a trained nurse had to be on site at all times. Despite her concern for one of the village’s oldest residents, Mr Everett Peterson, she couldn’t leave the premises until her replacement had arrived. Fortunately, that didn’t take long. Half an hour after the ambulance had sped away, Susie was in her car and on the way to the hospital.

  After parking her car and enquiring after Charles at reception, she soon located Everett sitting by himself outside the room where they were taking care of Charles.

  “Hello, Mr Peterson,” she said.

  Everett looked at her blankly. It took a moment for him to recognise her.

  “Have they finished?” he asked. “Has he woken up? Can I see him?”

  Susie sat down next to Everett and took his hand. “I don’t know, Mr Peterson. I’ve just got here. I can find out if you like.”

  Everett looked at her with milky eyes, his eyebrows raised at the centre. “Would you do that?”

  Susie patted the back of his hand and released it. “I’ll be right back.”

  She knocked on the door and poked her head around the corner. She could see the nurse had cleaned up the blood and was just finishing the cast on Charles’s broken arm. The doctor had attached a heart monitor.

  “I have an anxious partner out here,” she said, her voice low.

  “Give us another ten to fifteen,” said the doctor. “Then he can come in.”

  Susie returned to Everett, sitting down beside him and, once more, taking his hand in hers.

  “They said it will be just a few more minutes before you can go in.”

  Everett nodded. “You see, we haven’t been apart in many years. I don’t know what I’d do if anything…”

  His eyes filled with tears.

  “He’s going to be all right,” said Susie, her mind racing to think of something that might take his mind off his injured partner. “How long have you known Mr Overton?”

  Everett stared at the wall opposite and Susie wondered if he’d even heard her, perhaps because he was too preoccupied with the condition of his partner.

  “I met him in 1947. I was twenty years old and he was twenty-four.” He paused. “Almost seventy years.”

  Susie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “That is a long time.”

  “You see…” He turned to Susie, his body stiff and his movements slow and jerky. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “It’s Susie.”

  Everett nodded and returned his gaze to the wall opposite. “That’s right. Susie. You see, Susie, in all that time, I can’t remember many occasions when we weren’t together. I suppose there might have been a few instances, when we were younger, but since we’ve retir
ed, there hasn’t been a day gone by when we haven’t been together. That’s why it’s so frightening…”

  His shaking started becoming more pronounced. His eyes welled with tears.

  Susie gently squeezed his hand. When she thought of how much in love they must still be, and the idea that one of them should be permanently separated from the other, she had to fight back tears of her own.

  She forced a smile. “Tell me how you met him.”

  Everett began pressing his lips together as though he were trying to find the words to answer Susie’s questions. “We met at a tea dance. I don’t suppose you have them anymore. Everything has changed so much since those days. We both had dates. I was escorting a pretty girl called Eileen. He was with a girl called Miranda. You had to do that in those days. Pretend.”

  A couple of nurses rushed by, distracting Everett. He began pressing his lips together again before turning to Susie.

  “I’m sorry. Where was I?”

  Susie patted his hand. “You were telling me how you met Mr Overton.”

  Everett nodded. “Oh, you mean, Charlie. Mr Overton. So formal.”

  He smiled, which made Susie smile.

  “You said you met him at a tea dance. You were there with Eileen.”

  Everett nodded. “That’s right. I went outside for a cigarette and saw Charlie standing there. I asked him for a light, like they do in the movies.” He chuckled to himself before his laughter turned into wheezing and then coughing. He held a shaky hand up. “I’m all right.” He coughed once more and cleared his throat. “We started talking. I don’t know what we were talking about. It was so long ago. I remember a kiss. I remember his lips tasted of wine and his breath smelled of fresh cigarette smoke.”

  Susie had a dozen questions she would have liked to have asked, but as Everett had been successfully distracted, she didn’t want to break his train of thought.

  “We started seeing each other. Sneaking around I think you call it. We had to. There was no other choice. I suppose in the big cities it might have been alright. The town we lived in, Gracetown, was very big, but it was still a town. People talked. We had to be so careful.” He twisted stiffly about in his chair once more. “We were in love, Sarah…”