"Do you really mean that?" he responded, putting down his luggage and standing with his hands on his hips and a big grin on his face. "I can, if you really want me to."
"No!" she smiled over her shoulder as she continued out the door.
Entering the main room, a few minutes behind Jessica, Cara spotted him just as he was about to get into the limousine. "Wait!" she yelled through the open window, stopping him as he reached for the door. Catching up, she led him out of earshot of the driver. "Tim, I know Jessica is not heterosexual," she insisted. "I'd bet my life on it. When you visit the government agencies, please do some careful research on that possibility of a false negative Scarpetti test. And whatever you find out, do not share the information with Jessica. Until we've had a chance to consider all the options—if there are any options—I don't want to upset her."
"You're the boss. Whatever you want me to do is fine with me."
After watching the limousine enter the forest, she ran down the stairs and joined Jessica on the beach. "To the Lair!" Cara yelled and the two women ran, matching strides, in the heavy sand. Shrugging shoulders at their exuberance, the security men sat down on the bench in anticipation of a long boring day.
"No fair. I was carrying the picnic basket," said Jessica as she arrived a few seconds behind Cara and fell to the ground beside her.
"Whoever said I was fair?" she asked as she leaned over and pushed Jessica onto her back, kissing her gently on the lips. "And this is something I've always wanted to do," she murmured as she used her tongue to lick the droplets of perspiration that lingered in the sweet cleft.
Their faces only inches apart, Cara was able to see the flash of moisture in Jessica's eyes as she assumed a more somber expression. "You know I love you, Cara."
"Yes. And I…you. I loved you the very first time you caught me on my hands and knees." She lightly ran her fingers on Jessica's midriff. "That must have been a sign," she laughed.
Pulling Cara down on top of her, she whispered in her ear, "I want to make love. Here. Now."
"No!" she said sharply, pulling back into a sitting position. "We can't take the chance."
After a few seconds of silence, Jessica jumped to her feet and spread the picnic blanket on the ground, emptying the basket of the sandwiches and snacks she had prepared earlier that morning. "How about a swim before lunch?" she asked, grabbing Cara's hand and pulling her to a standing position.
Later, after they had finished swimming and picnicking and were lying on their backs, hands casually touching, she softly asked, "What's going to happen to us?"
Cara, afraid to look at her, didn't move, her eyes closed in the direction of the sky. "Lots of special things. I will return to Cali and look back upon these times in awe. You, my heart, will probably marry and have two children and a wonderful husband who will love you deeply, though not half as deeply as I."
"That's not good enough," she shouted angrily, coming to a sitting position. "I don't want you to go back to Cali and 1 don't want a husband." She pulled up a handful of grass and threw it back at the ground. "Stay here with me. Become an American citizen."
Cara took her hands, and held them between her own "You know that's not possible. This country has strict laws against homosexuality. America would never grant me citizenship. Not even your father could change that." She held her hands tighter. "And I wouldn't want it changed. Jessica, I was exiled by this country before you were even born. My country is Cali. It's a country where I can be who I am, where 1 can live and love openly, where I can kiss your sweet face on the beach without fear of being imprisoned or beaten. You're asking me to give up my freedom. I cannot do that."
A pall of gloom hung over the rest of the day. Jessica was especially despondent. At dinner, even Mrs. Anderson took notice. "I don't know what's the matter with you two young girls, eh? You're picking at your dinner like you don't like my cooking." Going into the kitchen, she returned carrying a covered cake plate. "Well, I know you're going to feel a lot better when you see this. I made a special peach pie with a homemade crust. But you're going to have to save a piece for Mr. Tim for tomorrow, eh? It wouldn't be fair not to."
Politely, both women ate a piece of pie, but their spirits remained unchanged. "Let's take a moonlit walk on the beach," urged Cara as they left the dining room.
"No," mumbled Jessica, "I think I'm beyond consolation." Taking Cara's hand, oblivious to the stunned expression of Mrs. Anderson, she squeezed it affectionately. "I need to be alone tonight to do some serious thinking." Turning back, as an afterthought, she whispered, "I love you."
Twenty-Two
Jumping on Cara's bed, it was evident that Jessica's mood had changed by the next morning. "Wake up so I can tell you how much I love you," she yelled, covering Cara's face with kisses.
"How much?" Throwing off the comforter, she pulled Jessica on top of her. "This much?" Cara asked as she removed Jessica's robe and slid her fingers into the moistening crevice of Jessica's vagina, the fingertips of her left hand lightly riding the hills and valleys of her backbone. It was an hour later before they lay quietly, facing each other with the sweet smiles of the aftermath of lovemaking.
"I've decided to return to Cali with you after your final week in this country," she casually announced as they showered after a late day swim. Lathering her legs with unusual care, she peered up at Cara with the impish expression that was proving so endearing. "And that's that."
Grabbing her towel off the outdoor bench, Cara ran after Jessica into the house and up to her room. "That's not that," she said as she nervously ran her hand through the familiar shock of hair. Pulling off her wet bathing suit, she took both their suits and threw them on the bathroom floor, returning quickly to sit on the bed next to Jessica. "The only way you can get into Cali is by testing positive for the Scarpetti gene. You don't have the gene or you would have been sent to Cali before your third birthday."
"We'll just have to lie. We'll doctor my records. As the daughter of the president I have access to all kinds of people. Nobody will ever know."
"Yes, they will." Frustrated, Cara began pacing the floor. "It's an unusual situation, but I know that my country will insist on testing you right after you enter and that would end the masquerade right there." She paused, breathing deeply before continuing. "Jessica, there are some possibilities that Tim and I are working on, but you must realize the lull implications. If we are able to obtain admittance for you to Cali, and you decide to go, it would mean giving up everything and everyone you've ever known. Your life would be totally different."
"But that's the point. It would be the life I'm supposed to have. I don't know why…and I don't know how…but I do know that I belong with you, and with Tim, and with Jody, and Miriam Ek-strom, and Vanessa, and all the others you talk about. I love my father and Mrs. Anderson," she explained as she stood by the balcony door, her near-perfect body silhouetted against the evening sky, "but I also need to be who I am. And I am Jessica Mooran, the lover of Cara Romero. I belong in Cali with her."
"Oh God, what am I going to do with you?"
"Just love me," said Jessica, burying her head in Cara's shoulder.
Two hours later, after pleasing Mrs. Anderson by eating a hearty meal, they sat on the front terrace awaiting Tim's return. By the time the limousine emerged from the forest, Cara had told Jessica all the reasons he had been spending weekends in the City. She omitted nothing, even elaborating on the relationship between Barbra and the prime minister.
"It's okay, I've told Jessica everything," said Cara as Tim approached.
Sitting down opposite them, he put his feet on a low wicker table. He leaned back, folding his hands across his chest, and sighed deeply. "I'm beat. These feet have done a lot of walking."
"But what has the head found out?" asked Jessica anxiously.
"I've got bad news and worse news," he said, trying to lighten the tension. "I visited at least a dozen government health agencies and six or seven hospitals. No one has ever heard of
Barbra Weissman."
Cara was crestfallen. She had thought it would be so easy to find her. With the increasing sophistication of computers, it was practically impossible for anyone to disappear in an area as small as New York. Was it possible, she wondered, that Barbra had been transferred to some other state? If so, she was beyond their reach.
"And what did you find out about my Scarpetti test? Is a false negative test result possible or could there have been an error?" Sitting on the edge of her chair, comforted by Cara's hand resting affectionately on her forearm, Jessica waited patiently for his response.
"That's the worst news," he said as he reached over and patted her comfortingly on the shoulder. "When I was looking for Barbra, I stopped at the Scarpetti Center, the agency responsible for the testing program and the maintenance of records related to the program. 1 didn't find Barbra, but I did get answers to some of your questions. Within three weeks after birth, each infant's blood sample is sent to three different medical laboratories operated by the center. The results must concur. In the event there is any discrepancy, the child is immediately retested. The results must be identical before a determination of gene negative—"
Cara's heart sank as she watched Jessica's stoic expression begin to crumble. "What if the results never concur? What if, let's say, two remain positive and one, negative?" she interrupted.
Standing up, shrugging his shoulders in helplessness, he continued. "They say that in the millions or billions of tests they've done, that's never happened. If one lab's results are different on the first go-round, it's because of faulty equipment or tainted blood. On a repeat, they've always obtained identical results. And," he looked at Jessica sadly, "the test is one hundred percent reliable."
"God," she moaned, putting her head in her hands, "who am I? I feel like an alien. What's wrong with me?"
"Tim, there's one more possibility." Soothingly, she began rubbing Jessica's neck. "Did you see her test records? Maybe Jessica's records got lost in the shuffle…accidentally, or even deliberately. Maybe she tested positive, but got buried in the computer's negative file."
"Is that possible?" asked Jessica, feeling a sense of hope once again.
Sitting back down, he rested his chin on his hand in posed thought. "Maybe. I suppose anything is possible." He looked at Cara. "In answer to your question, no, I did not see the actual records. Only stipulated-by-name personnel are permitted access to the computers. Visitors can't get beyond the reception room. And it's well guarded."
"We can't get in there," said Cara, jumping up after several minutes had passed, "but I bet Barbra Weissman can get computer access."
"What good is that if we can't find her?" they asked, almost in unison.
"It means we have to find her," she said simply, as though their successful search was now assured. "Tim, how about that reporter, Sherry Ryan? Suppose I put her on Barbra's trail. I'm sure she can be trusted and reporters are good at this kind of thing. Heaven knows they're always able to find out more about me than I want them to." Feebly, unsure of the strength of her conviction, she looked at Jessica.
"Why don't we begin with a good night's rest? It's been a long day for all of us, and there's some practicing I have to do before I go to sleep." Looking at her with adoration, she winked suggestively at Cara, and the two of them walked into the house, leaving Tim sputtering to himself about what a good idea it was to talk to Sherry Ryan.
Twenty-Three
Waiting for Sherry outside the pressroom, Cara's thoughts were interrupted by a bemused Angelico who stood up from behind his desk and joined her at the door. "Ms. Romero," he bowed slightly, "good morning. It's a pleasure to see you again. Is everything to your satisfaction? Are there any problems?" Reaching up, he straightened his tie, slicked back his hair, and waited for her response. "Of course," he asserted when she didn't immediately answer, "this office will do anything it can to be of assistance to you."
"You can relax, Mr. Angelico, this has nothing to do with you." Turning her back to him, she continued to watch the elevator doors.
"Oh," he said, obviously disappointed. With her back still toward him, he leered lustfully at her behind before reentering the office.
"Sherry, how about that lunch?" she called out as the pudgy reporter appeared. "I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner, but the conference has been keeping me busy."
"Well, yes, that would be fine," said Sherry, eyes wide, surprised that Cara was waiting for her. "When you didn't respond to my notes, I thought I might have to visit Cali for our luncheon. What day is good for you? Any day but Wednes—"
"How about today?"
"Today?" repeated Sherry, confused by the sudden attention. "Well, uh, let me just check my schedule to be sure I can clear things." Pulling out an appointment computer from her back pocket, she scanned it, while Cara hovered over her shoulder, trying to think of all the things she could say in the event that she tried to put her off. "Great! I can rearrange a few things." Talking more to herself than to Cara, she pressed a few buttons, and smiled at the Calian who appeared to grow more attractive each day. "No problem. How about meeting me in the press dining room right off the main restaurant? No one uses it on a Monday, so we can get some privacy there."
The morning conference session passed agonizingly slowly and it was the first time that Cara could not stay focused on the agenda. Her mind kept slipping to thoughts of Barbra. The need to find her was so much greater now than it was when she left Cali…for wholly selfish reasons.
Arriving in the press dining room at 12:00 sharp, Sherry Ryan immediately grabbed a corner booth where it was less likely that their conversation would be overheard by other patrons. She wasn't sure why Cara finally agreed to meet with her, but she did know that she-wanted the meeting to be conducted in total privacy. Sherry had her own secrets to share. Restlessly waiting for Cara, she read and reread the menu, realized that she hadn't comprehended a thing, and tried reading it again. "Damn," she muttered in exasperation as she slammed the menu on the table, "maybe I should just send her a letter." She was about to get up to see if Cara was waiting in the hall when she saw her enter through the adjoining restaurant.
"I'm sorry. The morning session broke later than usual and I just got out, but we have an extra half hour for lunch and if you have no other plans, we can extend our luncheon." After Sherry nodded in agreement, she continued. "Let me just make a quick stop in the ladies' room and I'll be right back." As she rushed off, Sherry found herself trying to define the word charisma.
They chatted politely as they both ate salads, discussing their work backgrounds, the success of the conference, and Sherry's recent rise-in prominence as a reporter—the direct result of Cara's kindness in granting her special admission to the briefing. Thirty minutes later, tiring of the chatter, Sherry nervously pushed the plate away and methodically refolded her napkin, waiting to see if Cara would begin the conversation.
"I'm not going to beat around the bush on this," Cara finally began. "I need your help." Immediately, Sherry took out her press computer, put it in the middle of the table, and pushed the switch to audio. "No," exclaimed Cara as she reached across and moved it back to the off position. "This is not on the record. I need your promise of full confidentiality before I speak."
"You've got it," responded Sherry, relaxing a little bit when she realized that there would be an exchange of secrets.
"There is someone in this country whom I urgently need to find. Tim Felmar has been looking for her since our arrival, with no success. It was our understanding that she was in New York City, but now we're not sure."
Leaning forward, Sherry's face suddenly became a mask of seriousness, her fingertips tapping on the table. "Go ahead, Ms. Romero. Continue."
Cara heard herself take a deep breath; suddenly not quite sure that asking for a reporter's help was the right thing to do. "She's a physician, about sixty years old, a documented lesb—"
"And in 2018, she had a daughter named Cheryl."
&nb
sp; Not quite sure of what she was hearing, Cara cocked her head to one side, a look of incomprehension spreading across her face.
"My maiden name, Ms. Romero, is Cheryl Weissman. My mother's first name is Barbra. Barbra Weissman is my mother," she said, slowly and distinctly, smiling slightly as she saw Cara's expression change to one of understanding.
"But…how…how did this happen? It's just too coincidental." Leaning forward with her elbows on the table, she shook her head in consternation.
"Hell, it's no coincidence. I've been waiting to meet you for the last six weeks. I badgered my office to get this assignment. You got me into the press briefing, but I got myself assigned to your visit. I had no idea you were looking for my mother. I just knew that I needed to talk to you."
"That's incredible!" mumbled Cara, not used to being at a loss for words. "What did you need to talk to me about?"
"I want you to help me get my mother to Cali." Once said, Sherry breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the doubts of commitment fading.
"Do you think she wants to go to Cali?" Whispering now that more people were coming into the dining room, they moved their heads closer together.
Sherry shrugged her shoulders. "Hell, remember me? I'm the unopinionated woman reporter." She smiled weakly. "I don't know. Actually, we've never discussed it. I know she loves Miriam Ekstrom. And I'm a big girl now. It's about time she gave me up." There was a long pause while she disdainfully wiped away the tears that were starting to form. "Damn, I'm such a wimp."
"Where is your mother now? In Cali, there's a rumor that she was transferred to New York City three months ago. But Tim Felmar has queried almost every government agency, researched all computer records, and even checked with other gays, and we haven't been able to find a trace of her."
"Your rumor was one hundred percent correct. Without warning, Mom was reassigned from the Fantasia to Scoge, an obscure agency in New York that provides specialized care for children of government employees. The Olms, followers of the hate doctrine preached by that bastard Olmstead, got word of a lesbian's presence and picketed Scoge." Her pudgy face reddened in anger and she reached for her glass of water. "My mother's patients and co-workers were furious with the Olms, but they couldn't make them stop. Mom, already depressed about leaving Miriam Ekstrom for a second time, threw in the towel and decided to call it quits. She retired four weeks ago." She took a long swallow of water and solidly placed her empty glass on the table.
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