“What’s the deal? She’s a big girl. Has her own apartment, boyfriend, and such. Right?”
“Yes. I don’t understand it myself. If she doesn’t want to watch the house anymore, Maggie could hire someone, sublet the damn thing.”
At that moment, Maggie walked into the studio. Libby, catching the spark in Celia’s eyes when she saw Maggie, smiled wryly before zipping up and leaving.
“I wish she’d get off my back,” Maggie said. “This reversal of roles is really getting on my nerves. Is this what children do? Grow up to boss their aging parents?”
“Libby reprimanded me today. Pointed her finger at me.”
“Young people today. Another beer, madame?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m starting to feel rather good.”
“That’s the point,” Maggie said, handing her a cold wet beer.
Celia ran it across her forehead. “I guess I could be persuaded into having another.”
“What did you do that was so terribly wrong?” Maggie asked, sitting nonchalantly in a wicker chair. The water from the mister felt good on her bare shoulders.
“Libby thinks we’re getting a little too chummy. She thinks I’d like to hop into your shorts.”
Maggie choked, showering them both with her beer. When she recovered her composure, she looked up and smiled. “Would you?”
“Maggie, I would never jeopardize our friendship in that way. You’re too much of a lady, and I wouldn’t know how to act.”
“And you’re afraid I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“It’s not hard. Believe me.”
Maggie smiled, thinking she’d be in trouble if Celia could read minds.
Later that night, Maggie lay outstretched on her bed, arms behind her head, thinking about what Celia had said. One overwhelming thought kept coming to mind. Was their relationship as platonic as they both liked to think? Was she even a woman-identified woman?
She hadn’t many female friends, and most often they had been wives of Harold’s colleagues. She felt socially awkward when other women rattled on about their families because she was less interested in hers and less fulfilled. It must have shown. The women shied away from her and sought more suitable acquaintances.
Maggie wanted to stay with Celia long enough to meet the apprentices. She needed to know if suburbia and suburban wives or her own inadequacies created her alienation. She got along with Libby well enough despite Libby’s suspicions. At least they could talk about ideas and opinions on the state of existence, art, literature, all sorts of things—and those things mattered to Maggie.
She knew one thing for certain. She liked being there, and if Celia spent each summer surrounded by women, Maggie could certainly be one of those women. No amount of persuasion on Amanda’s part could send her back now. Something within Maggie had been unleashed, and that something wasn’t willing to be tethered again. Amanda would have to get used to the idea.
“Today I want to teach you to throw,” Celia said.
“Oh, no. I’m not coordinated enough. Flat things are my forte,” Maggie replied, remembering her success with the tile tabletops. They were beautiful, and she was proud of them.
But Celia ignored her protests. She helped Maggie make several balls of clay the size of oranges. “We start with cylinders.”
Celia watched as Maggie tried to manage the miscentered wad of clay.
“See, I told you,” Maggie said as her fourth attempt failed.
“Let me help you,” Celia said. She sat behind Maggie at the wheel. Together they molded the clay, bringing it up, pressing it down, centering it on the spinning wheel.
“You know what this reminds me of?”
“Yes, it reminds everyone of that, but the movie scene had a real potter do the throwing.”
“It was a sensuous scene. I never thought I’d be doing anything close to this.”
“Unfortunately, there won’t be a seduction following,” Celia said.
“Shucks,” Maggie said, feeling Celia’s strong arms as they cradled her own, her breasts pressing against Maggie’s back, her breath warm on her neck.
Celia smiled as Maggie tried to manipulate the unwieldy brown mass in front of her. Celia’s trained hands slowly steadied Maggie’s tentative ones.
“I’ve got the wrong parts, remember?” Celia replied.
“Are you so sure about that?”
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were flirting with me,” Celia replied.
“Shhh, Libby won’t take highly to that. Too chummy.”
“Chummy is all we’ve got.”
“Whose fault is that?” Maggie joked.
“At the moment, I’d say it was Libby’s.”
“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were flirting with me,” Maggie replied.
“I would never.”
“And why not?”
“I’ve too much respect for your mind.”
“I would never stoop to something so trivial as flirtation. Thanks for making me feel undesirable.”
“Oh, you’re far from undesirable.”
“Then what am I?”
Celia’s reply was cut off as Libby slammed the door and scowled at them. Libby demanded that Celia help her unload the truck now. Celia would like to have answered Maggie by saying something to the effect that she was a sensuous woman with a nice body, beautiful eyes, warm kissable mouth, and breasts that Celia wished she could scoop up and suckle.
It was a good thing Libby came in when she did.
Celia sat at her desk with her palms resting in her eye sockets. Libby had nailed her ass to the wall about the chummy private lesson. How long could Celia sustain ignorance? She felt something like desire for her best friend, who, for purposes of reference, was straight. Were they really just kidding around, or was it some kind of verbal foreplay?
Was it a good idea to be toying around with a straight woman’s sense of sexuality? A forty-six-year-old baby dyke. The best way to get your heart broken. The confusing part was that Maggie was not necessarily an unwilling participant. They had steered clear of each other for a few days, and when they talked about it again Maggie apologized for causing friction.
“I don’t mean to come between you two.”
“Maggie, it’s not like that.”
“I can’t say that if I was Libby I wouldn’t feel the same way. You two have been out here by yourselves, and then I come along and mess with things. But she must know it’s not like that. I’m not trying to steal her girlfriend.”
“You mean you’re just a tease?” Celia said, trying to divert the conversation with humor.
“Celia,” Maggie said, looking at her seriously.
Celia suppressed the urge to say, Do you know how sexy you are when you do that? Almost as instantly as that question sprang to mind, she knew she’d better put a lid on it or there would be big trouble on the ranch, namely, that Maggie would pack up, scared as shit that her long-lost dyke pal tried to seduce her. “I’m sorry. But Christ, this is really getting old. You know what I’d like. I’d like to be in love with a woman, an adult, someone who didn’t fly into jealous rages over every little thing and think everything I do is a provocation.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t want to cause trouble.”
Celia looked at her, squelching her desire to throw herself prostrate at Maggie’s feet and say, Why can’t I admit to loving you? I know I want you, but you’re not like that. It’s my own craziness. Say something to make it go away. Tell me I’m being foolish. That you’re flattered and all that, but it can’t be. “No, don’t be sorry. We’re not doing anything wrong. She’s being possessive, and I don’t like it. If she makes me choose, she’ll be the one to go. I’m sorry you have to experience one of my mistakes.”
“Is it a mistake?”
“Yes, and the sooner it’s over, the better. I just wish I wasn’t such a coward.”
“A coward? I always see you as heroic.”
“If I w
as heroic I would simply tell her it was nice but it’s over.”
“It is never that easy. You don’t like to hurt people, so being that abrupt is not in your nature,” Maggie said, walking over and putting her arms around Celia’s shoulders.
“Let’s go for a swim. I’m hot and tired. There’s no pleasing Libby, so we might as well piss off the rest of the afternoon. I am the boss.”
“Okay, boss lady. Let’s go.”
The intimate sharing and withdrawal under careful scrutiny of a third party confused them both.
Maggie tried to steer herself away from Celia and Libby to give them time alone. Libby took it as an act of faith that Celia and Maggie were simply friends, that Maggie was straight.
Maggie knew she had begun to tell herself lies again. The sheen she had so recently felt enveloping her life was becoming cloudy, except when she was around Celia. Maggie knew that her eyes told truths her mouth denied. She was afraid that if Celia looked into them, she would read the secreted truth.
Celia understood what Maggie was trying to do, so for a while she paid attention to Libby, taking her for walks, potting with her, getting her to help in the large garden. But Libby enjoyed none of those things. She acquiesced when she was feeling generous, but they both knew it was an effort. The only time they came together was when they made love. It was then they talked to each other and made allowances. Celia apologized with her body and breathlessness for not loving Libby, and Libby understood that her body was all Celia could offer. Though it made her ache, Libby began to know that Celia didn’t withhold her love because she was mean and manipulative but because she didn’t have anything to give anymore.
Celia now admitted to herself that she had kept Libby on because she was lonely and missed having someone around. Waking up to an empty house or going home to it was too sad.
Her previous self-imposed isolation had bothered her. Her desert home needed the barefoot slapping of many feet, the tinkling of many voices. That was why she had started the summer apprenticeships, so she would have women around her.
The little art community worked. She had women around, and they weren’t lovers. And that was pleasant. She could be the charming queen of the house, flirt in harmless attraction, and have women come and go with an occasional tumble and few complications. Libby was the exception, but that was due to her attractive tenacity.
Celia admired Libby’s stubborn courage. But she wanted to be with Maggie. She enjoyed her company most, and she could do things with Maggie that she couldn’t do with Libby. But triangles don’t last; they tumble like houses of cards. One person always left for one reason or another.
One day Maggie would leave, and Celia dreaded it. She would have the summer, but the house always emptied itself in the fall. Maggie would go home, and Libby, or someone else like her, might stay. Celia would feel the loneliness and creeping sense of loss again.
Celia closed the book and held it to her chest, wishing she could stop feeling the dread. She couldn’t tell Maggie that she wanted her to stay, to live here, to be the one that made her feel complete and not lost. Lovers, not friends, stay together. Friends get dragged off by lovers. Celia couldn’t expect that Maggie would live a celibate life on the outskirts of Celia’s love affairs. But it didn’t seem possible that there could be anything else.
Her gloomy thoughts were broken by a soft tap on the door frame.
“Can’t sleep?” Celia asked. Maggie stood in a nightshirt, her hair disheveled about her shoulders.
“How was your evening?” Maggie asked.
“It was okay.” Celia and Libby had gone into town, eaten dinner, and seen a movie. “I missed you,” Celia added, patting the bed. “Come sit down.”
“What are you reading?”
Celia showed her the cover.
“Is it good?”
“Yeah,” Celia replied, putting the book down. “Maggie, what’s wrong?”
Maggie looked at her and started to cry. Celia put her arms around Maggie and switched out the light. Celia didn’t ask questions. They both knew what it was about. They lay back, not saying anything for several long minutes.
Then, “Celia?”
“Yes.”
“I missed you tonight. I can’t go on existing on the periphery. I’m tired of being alone.”
“I know.”
“I’d better go.”
“No, don’t go. Stay. We’ll be two old, lonely women together.”
“But you have Libby.”
“It’s possible to have someone and be lonely, sometimes even lonelier.”
“But—”
“Shhh, let’s rest.”
When Celia heard Maggie’s deep and regular breaths, she too fell asleep, glad that Maggie was close by.
They were still sleeping when Libby found them. Celia’s arm hung loosely across Maggie’s side, her face nestled close. Libby strode from the room in silent fury.
The sound from downstairs of slamming coffee cups woke Celia. She heard the coffee decanter being thrust into its cradle and knew Libby had seen them. It was late. Celia rolled on her back and listened to Maggie’s even breathing, watching the serenity that sleep had brought to her face.
Oh, Libby, why must you move with such anger and force through your own life and mine? I don’t want your anger, your rage at the world for not being like you want it. You don’t know what you want, only that you want. I can’t give you the answer. My lust and your desire will not deliver you from your own passions, Celia thought as she crept out of bed.
She wished she would be there when Maggie awoke, that she could stroke her hair, kiss her sleepy eyes, and smile deeply into her soul. Reluctantly, she went downstairs to face what she knew would be a very unhappy woman. It wouldn’t have looked good to Libby, but it had been innocent. Celia wouldn’t lie and say she hadn’t enjoyed it. She had wanted Maggie there.
“Good morning,” Celia said, sensing the imminent barrage.
Libby scowled at her. “What the fuck is going on? Are you two sleeping together and just haven’t gotten around to telling me?”
Celia poured herself a cup of coffee, vying for time. Maybe she should let Libby think something was going on so it would be over. But she knew that wouldn’t work. Libby would confront Maggie, and Maggie wouldn’t lie. What would that do to Maggie? Would it frighten her to be implicated in such a sordid affair? Just because she spent the night in your bed doesn’t mean she would fuck you.
Celia looked glumly back at Libby. “It wasn’t like that, won’t be like that. So drop it.”
“Maybe you’re wishing it was like that.”
“Libby, you don’t own my life. I’m not obligated to explain anything to you. Maggie is my friend, and sometimes friends need each other. Think what you like.”
“I think you’d like to fuck your best friend, only you don’t have enough courage to admit it. You’re both hypocritical cowards, saying one thing when you really feel quite different.” Libby glared at Celia. “It doesn’t matter what happens to us. I’m just the excuse you use not to confront your feelings for her. It doesn’t matter that I love you, that I want you, that it drives me crazy when you keep me at arm’s length, that you let her in your bed but not me. I don’t mean shit to you!” Libby slammed the door behind her.
“I hate door slammers,” Celia said to an empty room.
“Me too. Amanda slams doors,” Maggie said.
Celia looked up. Maggie stood on the stairs.
“Maybe we should introduce those two.”
“Pity they’re of opposite persuasions.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s the underlying current around here.”
“Is it?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know how.”
“One of us should probably learn then. Coffee?”
“Please.”
Chapter Four
The tavern was relatively quiet when Maggie, Celia, and Celia’s friend Karen took stools at the bar. It was early
afternoon, and most of the locals were still working. Maggie admired the ceiling, which was made of ornate copper tiles.
Celia and Maggie had left Libby sulking at home and driven to Jerome with a shipment of dinnerware. Jerome had been a mining town, then a ghost town, and now it was a mecca for gay and lesbian artists and entrepreneurs. Maggie was stunned by the majestic beauty of Jerome. The gentrified town sat high on a red cliff and possessed a view that seemed to go on forever. They took the shipment to the gallery that Karen owned and operated.
Karen Thomas was a tall woman, an impressive personality in well-tailored clothes. She wore her dark hair in a tight bun. Her long neck was accented by a sculpted brooch that closed her white silk shirt. She was the richest woman in Jerome, and she commanded respect wherever she went, Karen Thomas was not a woman to cross. She thought the world of Celia and worked hard to sell her work.
“Where’s the snot-nosed brat?” Karen asked.
“Libby is sulking at home.”
“What did you do this time?”
Celia looked at Maggie, who sat on the other side of Karen. Maggie raised her eyebrows and looked around.
“I’m not paying her enough attention, and she’s jealous that I prefer Maggie’s company.”
“Which is perfectly understandable, since Libby’s such a pain in the ass. No offense, Maggie. Libby makes me wonder what happened to give her such an attitude. The grinch could not possibly have stolen her Christmas every year.”
“I don’t know. She won’t talk about anything in the past. What’s done is done as far as she’s concerned.”
“Sounds like someone in need of therapy—or someone who gave up on too much therapy. Anyway, we should have ourselves a good ole time tonight. Before we call it an evening and head back to the ranch, we should buzz into Phoenix and hit a few bars. I haven’t been out in ages,” Karen said, pouting.
Celia didn’t exactly point in Maggie’s direction, but Karen got the gist.
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