Captive Hearts

by Harper Bliss

  “I would. It’s not every day I bump into a fellow lesbian in this town.”

  “Well, there are Myriam and Isabella,” Megan offers, palms wide.

  “A fellow lesbian who might be single,” I say, though I have no idea whether Laura is single.

  “And pleasing to the eye?” Megan asks.

  “Extremely,” I concur, remembering Laura’s blue eyes, smooth, pale skin, and high cheekbones.

  “Maybe you should invent a new feature for The Ledger in which you interview all new arrivals in Nelson,” Megan says.

  “That’s actually not a bad idea.” Hope flares in my stomach. The very reason I’m discussing this with Megan is because I know she can reach the same levels of excitement as I can, and just as easily.

  “That was just a joke.” Megan cocks her head. “It would be a bit too obvious.”

  “Oh, and asking her off the bat to redo The Ledger’s layout isn’t?”

  “Well, yes, of course that was too obvious. When will you learn to control yourself, girl?”

  “Heck if I know. I’m thirty-nine years old. I’m not going to change overnight, if ever, am I?”

  Megan sighs, then smiles. “Christ, I’m happy I no longer have to go through this.”

  “Rub it in, why don’t you.”

  “I’m just saying… Do you remember how I got my Douglas claws into Scott? I’m the same as you. If it’s meant to be, she won’t have been put off by your forward ways. You’ll get another chance. Make sure you’re ready for it.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” She didn’t even give me her last name, I suddenly think. I can’t even google her. Would Laura have googled me? Would she, at least, have visited the website of The Nelson Ledger? Or will she just have buried my business card somewhere—or thrown it in the trash, thinking that she doesn’t want anything to do with that mad woman she met at the store?

  “Take a few deep breaths and keep your cool,” Megan says.

  “Worst advice ever.” I slap my palms onto the table.

  “You could go and see her, I guess.” Megan shrugs. “It worked for me and Scott.”

  “Go knock on her door, you mean?” I ask incredulously.

  “Why not? What have you got to lose? This could be your soulmate, Tessie.” Megan adopts a serious TV newscaster voice. “One cannot play around with these things.”

  “You’re sure she lives in Millicent Johnson’s house?” I ask.

  “I’m a soccer mom, which means I know everything that goes on in this town,” Megan says, her voice devoid of irony. “Between you running The Ledger and me spending half the day listening to gossip, the Douglas twins have got Nelson’s secrets pretty much covered.”

  “Apart from Laura’s last name and why she would move to this one-horse town,” I muse.

  “She must be a relative of Millicent’s. As far as I know, that house was never on the market.”

  “Hm, that does make sense. Millicent moved into Windsor Oaks a few weeks ago.” The pieces are starting to come together in my mind.

  “Maybe she moved here to help out her aging relative. That would be very noble of her,” Megan says.

  “There must be a reason.” I’m not a journalist as such, but I’ve always had a good nose for smelling stories—a necessity when trying to come up with news about a town with a population of less than a thousand.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions though,” Megan insists.

  “I’m intrigued.” I look into Megan’s eyes, which are exactly the same color as my own.

  “Here’s what you do.” My sister is using her serious voice again. “Give it a few days and if you don’t hear from her, go to her house. You run The Ledger, you can think of an excuse. Tell her you’re hunting for a story. Ask her if she’d be interested in introducing herself to the town. Something like that.”

  “I’ll be sure to give that some thought,” I say. Then Scott walks in with his mobile phone in his hand.

  “Honey, could you tell me why your mother is calling my phone to ask when we’ll be there for dinner?”

  “Simple, hon,” Megan replies. “I’m talking to my sister and I don’t like to be interrupted when I do. I’ve put my phone on silent.”

  “Tsss,” Scott hisses and hands Megan the phone.

  * * *

  Toby, Max, and little Emma all come running toward me as though they haven’t seen me in a month when I pull in to the driveway of the ranch. I quickly get out of the car and hug Emma. The boys are just excited about my arrival, not so much about me actually being there.

  “Auntie Tess, I made you a cake,” Emma says. “Apple and vanilla.”

  Before I get the chance to reply, Max, now five and the middle child, says, “It’s not real, Auntie Tess. She made it in her plastic oven.”

  “It is,” Emma shrieks.

  “I’m sure it will be wonderful, honey,” I say, and hold her a little closer. Toby has already wandered off toward the shed. Scott and Megan arrive and park their car behind mine and, as soon as she gets a whiff of her mom being around, Emma shakes herself free from my hug, and rushes toward Megan.

  Fifteen minutes later, we sit down to dinner, which is never a quiet affair with three children at the table. Scott occupies himself with feeding Emma, who’s only just turned three, while Megan fusses over the boys.

  “How much did grandpa spoil you this afternoon?” she asks Max.

  “I do no such thing,” our dad says, though we all know it’s a lie. He’s always sneaking the boys candy when no one’s looking, against Megan’s explicit request to stop. “And when I do give them something, I make them work for it first. Toby helped me feed the cattle today. He’s going to grow up one fine rancher.” Dad holds up his hand for Toby to slap a high-five against.

  “So will I,” Max interjects.

  “You will become the star quarterback of the high school football team,” Scott says. “You’d better start practicing.”

  Max sits there beaming, in awe of his dad, the football coach, though he’s only been playing soccer so far.

  “What will I become?” Emma asks with a small voice.

  “Anything you want, my little angel,” Mom says. “But as far as I’m concerned, you’d make an excellent President of the United States.” It’s the exact same thing she used to say to Megan and me when we were little. However after college, which we attended together, both my sister and I couldn’t wait to get back to this town everyone always wants to get out of.

  We could never stand to be away from Earl and Maura Douglas for too long. Megan even lured Scott here to take a non-prestigious job coaching high school. She never dreamed of starting her family anywhere else but here. And me… I gladly took the opportunity to move back into my old bedroom. I tried moving out once, years ago, to live with a woman in Houston, but not only could I not get used to city life, the relationship didn’t exactly meet my expectations either.

  So, here I am, still living with my parents on the cusp of 40. I’m not unhappy, but, somewhere deep inside, I do feel a clock ticking. Not a biological one—I’m more than content being an aunt to the three rascals sitting across from me. But I’m so ready for true love, I can practically feel the desire for it pulse in my veins. It’s in my breath when I inhale and on the back of my eyelids when I close my eyes at night. That’s why, every time I meet an attractive woman I even remotely suspect of being a lesbian, my heart does a crazy pitter-patter. And that’s how I know I will go knocking on Laura’s door one of these days.

  Three

  Laura

  I glare at my computer screen. At the image that is not coming together. My work has suffered since Tracy’s death. Where I used to be able to draw a straight line with just a quick flick of my wrist, when I try now, all I get is a line shaken to the core—like me. I try again with the same result and let my pen drop onto the drawing tablet. But I have no choice but to finish this tonight. The client is waiting. One of the few who genuinely didn’t mind my relocation fr
om Chicago to Texas. Whereas it is true that I can work from anywhere, most people like to discuss their artwork with the designer in person before trusting them to actually do the job. My portfolio is suffering.

  I sigh with exasperation. My portfolio is not alone. My hand is suffering. My bank account is suffering—though it helps that I live rent-free these days. I should have actually taken the woman from the newspaper up on her offer of work. I cast a quick glance at the card that I’ve shoved to the side of my desk. If only I were a better businesswoman, better at selling myself and my services—but I’m old-fashioned, and I like to let my work speak for itself.

  “Right,” I say to no one in particular. I know what to do. Sometimes all I can bear are a simple sketch pad and a real pencil in my hands. I grab them from the desk, my gaze drifting to the business card again—the words The Nelson Ledger displayed in a ridiculously out-of-date font—and head for the door. Just outside the house, there’s an ancient, massive oak tree where robins tend to flock. If I can draw a live bird, I’ll be able to cobble together that illustration of ‘an arty kind of lion, very stylized’ according to the client’s brief.

  Just as I’m about to open the door, someone knocks on it. I’m so startled that I drop my pencil and sketch pad on the floor. I quietly pick them up, hoping that whoever’s there will go away. There goes my chance for drawing outside. I haven’t had any visitors here and I have no earthly idea who it could possibly be. If anything was up with Aunt Milly, someone from Windsor Oaks would call me. Or perhaps it’s an old acquaintance of my aunt’s who doesn’t know she doesn’t live here anymore. If so, I’d better help them and point them in the direction of the nursing home.

  Come on, Laura, I say to myself inside my head. How bad can this possibly be? This is not Chicago, but a small town where people still come knocking on each other’s door. With that, I open the front door.

  It’s her. The woman from the store.

  “Hi, er, Laura. Remember me? Tess,” the woman says. She rubs her palms on her ochre pants. “Sorry to bother you at home, but I didn’t have any other way of contacting you.”

  My protective instincts take over immediately and what runs through my head is: don’t let her in. Under no circumstances let her through the door. It’s stronger than myself. My wounds are still too raw. And how does she even know where I live?

  Tess fills in the silence that falls. Her Texan accent is very pronounced when she says, “I was wondering if you’d be interested in a feature in The Nelson Ledger. Well, I say feature, but I actually mean just a few sentences introducing yourself and your business.” Her gaze drops to my hands. “Oh, were you drawing? A drawing would be an excellent accompaniment to the article.”

  What is this woman babbling about? And why is she after me? Maybe she knows, I think. Maybe she recognized my face from the news. After all, she runs a local gazette, so it stands to reason she would follow national news as well. I tried to minimize coverage about what happened as much as I could, but reporters will stop at nothing these days. And that’s what this woman is. A reporter, out for a scoop.

  “No. I’m sorry. I’m really not interested in that,” I say, my voice stern—I’ve worked on my tone of voice a lot since the accident. I can state things firmly now, with real meaning behind them. It helps me feel less powerless.

  “Oh.” Tess slants her head. “Are you sure? It’d be a good way to get to know some people. We’re a real friendly bunch, you know?” She gives me a wide smile that comes across as totally fake.

  “I can tell.” I start to close the door. “Please don’t bother me again.” I close the door another inch.

  “Please, Laura, wait!” Tess yells. “I’m screwing up again. Going about this all wrong. I’m out here kicking myself, I swear.”

  It’s hard to ignore the pleading tone in her voice, so I re-open the door a fraction. “What do you want from me?” I ask. I glare at her with just my head sticking out from behind the door, using it as my shield.

  She inhales deeply, then loudly blows air through her nostrils. “I’ve just calmed myself down. Permission to start this encounter anew?” She peers at me from under her long lashes.

  “Fine.” I shrug. I must admit to being a tad amused by her tenacity. There’s also this vibe coming off her that I can’t describe—like there’s something intrinsically harmless about her.

  “Here I am trying to make you feel welcome while accomplishing the exact opposite. My deepest apologies,” she says. “I usually have my head screwed on my shoulders more firmly.” She breaks out into a smile. “No more talk about The Ledger, I promise. I guess I just wanted to apologize for cornering you at the store the other day. I have a bit of a, er, forward personality.” She stands there grinning, clasping her hands together at the waist. “But despite my screw-up, I enjoyed meeting you the other day. I guess that’s all.”

  “Apology accepted,” I say, but make no moves to open the door further.

  “Would you like to grab a coffee sometime?” Tess asks with her eyebrows raised. “I can give you all the information you need to know about this town.”

  I weigh my options, and start to, perhaps, get a whiff of what this is really about. Could she be? And if she is a lesbian like me, should I not run for the nearest hill and avoid her altogether? “Look, Tess,” I begin.

  She stops me and holds up her hands in supplication. “No need to reply now. Think about it. You have my number.” She takes a step back, for which I’m grateful. “Okay?” She can’t help being pushy though.

  “Yeah. Sure, I’ll think about it.”

  “Thank you.” Instead of waving goodbye, she holds one hand up to her ear and makes the universal ‘call me’ sign. Forward isn’t strong enough a word to describe this woman’s personality.

  I don’t close the door immediately, trying to show a modicum of politeness. But I already know that there is no way I’m going for coffee with Tess Douglas. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll get rid of that business card sitting on my desk straight away. What does she think? Because we’re both lesbians we must have coffee? What is this? The eighties?

  Maybe in Nelson, Texas, it is.

  Four

  Tess

  I examine The Nelson Ledger’s logo again. Even its off-green color is offensive to me now, after all these years of being forced to look at it. I could just bite the bullet and ask Ivan, the guy who’s done all Ledger graphics for two decades, to come up with something new and fresh. Yeah right. He might be able to come up with something new, but it’ll never be fresh. And The Ledger needs something fresh. On the website, which I put together myself—teaching myself WordPress in the process—it just looks so off. It makes TNL look so hopelessly old-fashioned.

  I’ve tried my hand at designing a new house style myself, but I had to admit defeat depressingly quickly. I don’t have the skill for it. I just know what’s wrong and what will work. I can dream up a concept—I have many written down in a stashed-away notebook—but I can’t bring it into reality myself. I need an artist for that.

  The thumping of running footsteps outside pulls me out of my dreams for a new Ledger logo. The sound immediately makes my heartbeat pick up speed. Could it be her? It’s been more than a week since I made a fool of myself outside of Laura’s front door, which, I have concluded, was so ghastly it made her change her running route so as not to have to pass by my office anymore.

  I rush out of my chair and pull the front door open. It’s her. “Laura,” I yell, without giving it any further thought.

  She’s a few houses farther already, but she stops and turns around.

  “Hey.” I wave. I shouldn’t be so happy to catch a glimpse of her, I think. I’m like a puppy whose owner has returned after weeks of absence.

  “Hi,” Laura says while catching her breath, then jogs in my direction. She’s dressed in a tiny pair of running shorts—the professional kind, I think—and a loose fitting, faded t-shirt.

  “Have you thought about my humble i
nvitation to share a cup of coffee with me?” She must think I’m shameless for not knowing when to stop, but, gosh dang, I’m going to keep on trying with her.

  “I have.” Laura gives me a subtle smile. “I’ve even visited The Nelson Ledger’s website, and I see what you mean.”

  My heart whoops inside my chest. I really should tone it down. What is wrong with me? Though I know exactly what’s wrong with me. It’s been far too long since I last met someone who as much as sparked my interest. “You have?” My voice comes out like a jubilant cheer. “Do you have time to meet sometime this week?” I point at the coffee shop across the street. “Mary in there brews the most excellent cup of coffee.”

  “If she brews tea as well, I could be persuaded.” Laura still stands more than an arm’s length away from me.

  I chuckle. “Of course. Any kind you like.”

  “Oh really? Does she have Yunnan pu-ehr?” Laura asks.

  I burst out in too exuberant laughter. “I honestly haven’t a clue.”

  “How about tomorrow before lunch? Say eleven?” Laura asks.

  “I’ll be there with bells on.” I can’t make my lips stop smiling.

  “Okay. See you then.” Laura gives a quick nod, turns around, and starts running again. She has a graceful stride, as though she’s floating over the sidewalk. I do wonder what made her change her mind.

  As soon as I go inside I call Megan. Before she can even say hello, I blurt out, “I have a coffee date with Laura tomorrow at eleven.”

  “That’s great news, sis,” Megan says. “Good to hear your charm isn’t entirely dwarfed by your goofiness.” In the background, I hear Toby and Max yelling at each other.

  “I’m coming over later, okay? You need to give me detailed instructions on what to wear and how to behave.”