by Bobbi Marolt
“Nah,” Nina said. “She’ll call. The way she lip-locked you, she’ll get unpacked and then stroll back into your life.”
“Maybe. Hey, I need you for the next show. Are you available?”
“I’m always here for you, sugar. Call me when you’re ready.”
Marty’s phone signaled another caller. The display flashed Liz’s name and number. “I gotta go. She’s trying to get through now. I’ll call you.” Without saying good-bye, she clicked into the next call. Caught off guard when Cupid slung arrows of outrageous giddiness toward her, Marty giggled. “Hello,” she said, embarrassed at herself that a near stranger could make her feel so smitten.
“Hi. It’s Liz Chandler. Are you busy? I’m standing at your front door.”
“What? Really?” She leaned forward and peered through her second-floor window. On the stoop below, Liz leaned against the concrete banister. What a lovely vision. “You sure are. How did you know where I lived?” She tapped on the glass.
“You’re in the book.” She looked toward the window and held up two candied apples. “Come on out. I have something sweet for us.”
“I’ll be right down.” She closed her phone, tore off her ankle weights, ran barefoot down the flight of steps, and out the front door. When the heat of New York in mid-August whacked her, she still marveled at the clarity of the sky. “It’s gorgeous out here.” Had Marty run into sleet up to her hips, the day would still be perfect with Liz standing there looking wide-eyed at the candy apples. “For me?”
She handed one over. “For you.”
“Thanks.” She watched while Liz unwrapped her treat. If Liz’s smile were any sweeter, Marty’d trash the apple and nibble her instead. Slow down, she thought. Settle down. Don’t make a fool of yourself. You’ve just met this woman. But that woman gave her the shivers all the way to her knee bone. Good shivers. Marty sat on the concrete barrier and tore off the cellophane wrapper from her apple. Liz sat on the opposite wall. “How’ve you been?”
“Good. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, but everything’s moved and stacked neatly. I’m lazy enough that I’ll live out of boxes for a while.”
“This makes up for not calling.” She bit into the apple.
“I’ve been thinking about your offer of brainstorming script ideas. If that was a valid proposal, let’s do it.”
Marty’s face turned red. Yes, her suggestion was real, and she wanted to tell her as much, and she would tell her, if she could get her teeth out of the apple. Instead, she nodded.
“There’s no rush since you have something else going.”
Surely, the heat from her face would soon melt the cement-like sugar. She nodded again and tugged at the apple.
“You’re stuck, aren’t you? Let me help.”
Marty felt like a pig ready for roasting, but waited patiently while Liz slowly worked the apple back and forth. Their eyes held a gaze, and Liz’s long eyelashes made embarrassment bearable.
Saliva built up in her mouth, and when she swallowed, a small trickle dripped from the corner of her lips. Liz snickered when Marty wiped it away. After a final pull, the apple came free and she checked to make sure her incisors were intact.
“Thanks,” she said. “You know, a moment ago, I had an internal conversation to not make a fool of myself. It didn’t take.”
“That wasn’t foolish. It happens.”
Unlike their first evening together when Liz’s thoughts dragged her attention away, this felt casual and relaxed. Liz handed the apple back and stood beside her. Marty liked today’s Liz better.
“Where’s your new place?”
“Just around the corner. We’re neighbors.”
Could life get any sweeter? “I’d be happy to help you organize, and I especially enjoy painting. It helps keep me fit.”
“No painting is necessary, and you do well at keeping fit.” Her eyes scanned Marty’s body.
“Job security demands it. I think you’ll like this neighborhood.”
“Good. I’ve made some recent changes to my life, and I need to find a new circle of friends.”
“That sounds like big changes. Did you end a relationship?” Baggage, the last thing she wanted.
“Yes. I ended twenty-four years’ worth of relationship.”
Liz bit into her apple. Hers was a small bite, a delicate bite that wouldn’t repeat Marty’s stick and drool ways. She chewed slowly, leaving enough time to have the information digested.
Great. Twenty-four years wasn’t just baggage. That was a warehouse of Samsonite. Liz might be ready for a date in two years.
“Twenty-four years. Ouch. That’s a long time. Wow. That’ll take some time to get over. New friends sound like a good idea, and they’ll help smooth the rough edges.” She half-expected Nina to walk around the corner and tell her to stop babbling.
Liz smiled with her candy-apple red lips. “The breakup wasn’t that devastating for either one of us.”
“It was amicable?” She perked up. “That’s rare, but always good. What happened?” They sat together on the concrete step.
“I was eighteen when we got married. After college, he continued through med school and we became better friends than we were lovers. While I took on more clients, I put him through school, and that was the end of us, pretty much. We’ve been coasting for decades.”
“Him?”
“My husband.”
“You married a man?” Marty asked. “Of course you married a man. You mean to tell me the biggest deal in lesbian fiction is straight?”
“Yes. I don’t want to mislead you.”
“Oh, no. You didn’t mislead me.” Marty set her apple on the concrete at her feet. She crumpled the cellophane in her hand as she spoke. “Okay. I thought you were gay. Your books naturally push a woman’s mind in that direction. Not to mention your kiss.” She crinkled the plastic anxiously. “Oh, yeah. That was convincing. So was the way you looked into my eyes when you worked the apple from my teeth. Do you remember that part? That was convincing.”
Marty wasn’t angry, and her words weren’t harsh. In fact, she felt foolish because the notion that a celebrated author of girl-on-girl novels was straight had never entered her mind. Marty had been single for two years, and she was ready to find Ms. Right again. Liz was the first woman that grabbed her attention. She had even given thought to checking out Liz’s love scenes on a more intimate basis. She hadn’t planned on doing it today, not tomorrow, but hopefully in a few weeks, or maybe as long as a month from today. A month would have been perfect. She laughed to herself. Nah. Straight? That announcement couldn’t possibly be true. There was always room for hope. A final squeeze of the plastic accented a final question.
“You’re kidding. Right?”
Liz pried open Marty’s fingers and removed the cellophane. “I think this is dead now. I’m not kidding. I’m straight.” She shrugged.
“Dynamics are everything, aren’t they?” She shook her head, an attempt to understand the statement. “What happened? Twenty-four years is a long time to shrug off.”
“Our marriage should have never taken place, and we knew it soon after we tied the knot. We were young, dumb, and we stayed together because we got comfortable. When he finished med school, we talked about divorce but never followed through. Dr. and Mrs. Chandler became those dreadful people who have open relationships, although we weren’t sleeping together.”
“He cheated on you?”
“It worked both ways. No secrets. I had a few liaisons, but nothing serious. Casual sex.”
Marty reflected back to Liz’s state of mind on their first meeting. “The day we met, you had an appointment with your attorney. Was that the day you signed the divorce?”
“Yes.”
She looked seriously at Liz. “Are you really okay? That’s a lot of emotion to sort through. Even if you were no longer in love, you’ve been glued to Dr. Chandler’s hip.”
“The day we signed the papers, and until yesterday, I wasn’t ok
ay. I wasn’t sure how to handle…freedom.” She smiled at Marty. “Anyway, I sound like I’m dumping on you, but I’m not. I wanted you to know because I…well, forgive me for being direct, but I have the impression that you’re attracted to me, and I didn’t want that to come between a new friendship.”
“I appreciate your candor. Some people would see you as narcissistic.”
“How do you see me?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“The answer is as clear as the plastic in your hand.” Marty looked long into Liz’s eyes. “Okay, I’ll be candid. You wrote a lesbian novel for every year of your passionless marriage, you contained yourself within that comfortable lifestyle for whatever reason, and you lip-locked me to the point that my flesh performed a happy dance all over my body. There’s no way you can tell me you didn’t enjoy kissing me.” She laughed. “To me, it’s perfectly obvious that you had some huge closets on Fifth Avenue.”
“Actually, we lived on Thirty-sixth and Madison.” She never batted an eyelash.
Marty held up her hands. “My bad.” Her smile couldn’t stretch wide enough. “No further comment on your closet space?”
“No. Was I wrong? Are you attracted to me?”
“Like lightning to the Empire State Building. It doesn’t matter, though. Not if you’re straight.”
“I suppose you’re right. Good. That’s settled.” She cleared her throat, maybe an apologetic act, and promptly changed the subject. “Are you busy?”
As far as Marty was concerned, Liz’s announcement wasn’t settled. Too much coincidence existed when Marty considered all those novels. Not to mention her kiss and her searing brown eyes. Yes, Marty knew a good act when she saw one, but she also knew a bad act. One sat directly beside her.
“No, I’m not busy,” she said. “I was exercising and trying to figure out a fix for my new show.”
“How about coming over to my place? I’ll put you to work sorting through boxes with me and then we’ll have a look at the script. Maybe we can come up with some ideas for the show.”
Intrigued with Liz’s inner-workings, Marty was curious to look inside the boxes. She slapped her thighs and stood. “You know what? I’d like nothing more than helping you sort through your clutter and then hand the script over to you.” She ran upstairs for the play and a pair of shoes. “I’m yours,” she said when she returned to the sidewalk. “You lead the way.”
She wondered if Liz appreciated the double entendres.
*
Liz’s loft was a roomy, renovated warehouse, and the scent of fresh paint lingered in the air. A row of windows completely lined one side of the apartment. Stacked neatly and tightly against another wall were twenty-four years of boxes.
“I’ve set up my bedroom and workplace, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Marty looked around the vast room, danced a playful shuffle, and nodded. “You have a nice place. I could use some of this space.” She scanned the boxes. “You didn’t label them? This’ll be fun. Where do we start?”
Liz pulled a box from the top and set it on the floor. “Right here.”
They plowed through box after box for three hours. Marty filled empty containers with discarded items while Liz placed towels, dishes, and various forms of whatnot on, in, or near their probable niches. Together, they hung clothes, hung art, set up electronic devices, and then took a break before they emptied the final boxes.
Liz took a long look around the large living area. “We did good. The furniture works better in these positions.”
“You could use some track lighting. Soft spot lighting would work for your art pieces.” She stood in front of the two Roy Lichtenstein art pieces they had hung. In one, a woman in the picture talked on the phone. The text bubble read “OHHH…ALRIGHT.” In the second piece, a dark-haired woman smiled from a bubble bath. “Why do you like his work?”
“I like the simplicity and his colors.” She pressed her fingertip against the bathing woman’s hair. “Did you notice? Her hair is salt and pepper like yours, and she has it pinned up in the same way. That could be you in the bath.”
Marty felt nude when scrutinized by Liz. Her eyes moved slowly around Marty’s face, down her neck, and across the opening of her v-neck top. The look in her eyes told of twenty-four years of desire, no longer written on page fifteen or somewhere within chapter nine. The truth now escaped her. It poured from her eyes, from the single twitch of her lips, from her slow and deep breath, and from the rise of her chest. That look was one found in the bathroom of a sleazy bar, or in the shadows of a darkened alley, where Marty would find herself backed against a wall, or a cold chain-link fence. If she moved one muscle, she’d envision her clothes being torn away.
Marty was too playful and curious to let that serious gaze go unnoticed. Liz wanted her, and she couldn’t feel any differently about the fact.
“Who was she?”
Liz’s snapped her eyes upward. “Who do you mean?” There was no look of embarrassment, but a friendly smile.
“I get the feeling a young woman had your hormones caught in a raging cyclone, but dropped them and you onto a field of debris. That would explain your books.”
She shook her head. “Nothing like that ever happened. I’ve never slept with another woman.”
“That could explain your books, too. Frustration and desire, even fear, can loom heavily and find themselves in paperback.”
“That’s a typical lesbian response.”
“A what?” She laughed and sat on the sofa. “What the hell does that mean?”
Liz straightened the Lichtenstein and turned toward the sofa. “You like thinking all women are dykes. Well, we aren’t.”
“I don’t think that way at all. You looked as though you were about to rip my clothes off and dive inside me without as much as an ‘excuse me, but.’ How do you explain that?”
“I wrote a character that looked much like you. Seeing you is like having her next to me. It’s an odd feeling.”
“I know the book you’re talking about. The title was No Business, Show Business, and the character was Abby McNair. You wrote your best love scenes for Abby.”
“You’ve personified Abby, and I feel comfortable with you because of her character. That’s why I easily kissed you in your dressing room.”
“I’m not Abby, and I’m certainly not fiction.”
“Of course you aren’t fiction. I was reflecting on the character. Comparing the two of you, I guess. I know the difference between you and fantasy. I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”
“I’d be out the door if I felt discomfort, but there’s no sense in us butting heads over Abby. Do you still want to look at the script with me?”
She smiled. “Lighten the mood, huh? Yeah. Shoot me a synopsis first.”
“A synopsis? Let me think.” Marty grabbed the play from the kitchen counter and returned to her seat. Liz relaxed at the other end of the sofa. “Basically, the play is a monologue. The character is an insomniac and has a night-long conversation with her subconscious. Herself.”
“What does she talk about?” She reached for the play.
“Infidelity, relationships gone wrong, stardom, and obnoxious friends. Most of the dialogue is bland.” She watched Liz flip through the pages and occasionally stop to read a line or two.
“Some of this is funny. Maybe your delivery is stale. Why is that?”
“Probably because I don’t have a single song or dance number.”
“You’ve pigeon-holed yourself. Shame on you.”
“Yeah. I should have given more thought to the show before I signed. I’ve come to realize there are two distinct voices, and I think they need distinct sounds. I’ll wreak havoc on my vocal chords by changing character.”
Liz pointed to a section on the paper. “In this segment, you’re brushing your hair in a mirror and speaking to your reflection.”
&nb
sp; “And it’s one of the dumbest scenes. I feel like Felice Tate’s managers have dumped a pile of manure onto my lap. The audience will laugh me out of town, or at least well off Off Broadway.”
“I think that’s an overstatement. My thought is the play needs two women to feed off each other. Have you talked to your producers?”
“No. I’ll wait until production begins. We’ll have a sit down and go through the script. Producers included.”
“What do you like about this play?”
“The character’s anguish for the way she mishandled her life. She contemplates suicide, and she contemplates murder, but in the end she blames no one but herself.”
“Who does she want to kill and why kill them?”
“She’s bitter about her life and angry with her friends. She’s turned Diva and wreaked havoc on her career.” Marty reached for the script and scanned the pages. “Here it is. She’s tired of having to explain her actions and desires to friends and cast members. She simply wants to be herself, and to receive what she demands. The character has no real desire to kill anyone. Her thoughts of murder are hypothetical.”
“I don’t understand that state of mind, about not wanting to be asked why.”
Marty dropped the pages to her lap. “Are you kidding me? I think you understand her emotional state quite well. Random questions: What color are my eyes?”
“Sapphire. Pretty blue. Sparkling blue.”
She stopped a smile. “Thank you. Will the Yankees win the series this year?”
“Maybe. I hope not, but maybe they will.”
“Do you hear those Mexican laborers speaking Spanish in the loft next door?”
She turned her ear toward the window. “I hear them.”
“Do you want to go to bed with me?” Liz fell mum. Her color changed instantly from Caucasian to sunburn. Her lips moved to speak, but nothing followed. Her thought processes raced in her eye movement. They moved from Marty’s eyes, to the floor, and up to the bathing Lichtenstein. Perhaps her eyes searched for spontaneity or a witty response, but still no words followed. Liz’s inner workings were jammed like the keys of an old typewriter. “There. That’s how the character feels. She can’t breathe.”