by Radclyffe
The slow song segues into something speedier: an oldie by the Knack.
“I love this song!” Ramona announces, and bounces.
So I serenade her, my voice vacillating between shy and sweet and loud and proud. I hope she can hear my rendition over everyone else’s and I especially hope that she takes it personally. “M-m-m-my Ramona!”
Let’s broadcast it to the world.
Well, today the theater world.
Tomorrow, the whole world.
So look out, world, ’cause queer we come.
SECOND CHANCES
Jade Melisande
Abigail slowed to a walk and finally came to a stop at a crossroads, pulling the cap from her head and gloves from her hands one by one as she brought her breathing under control and felt her heart rate slow. Her breath billowed from her mouth in vaporous clouds and condensation formed on her sunglasses, which she removed as well. She put an arm around first one knee and then the other, pulling them up high against her chest to give her hamstrings and glutes a good stretch before they cooled down too much. In response, a muscle spasmed in her ass. She groaned and reached back to massage it.
“Need some help with that?”
Abigail spun around to find the owner of the voice grinning at her: a tall, slender woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, large grayish-green eyes and a mischievous grin. Unlike Abigail, who wore her typical running gear, the woman was in hip-hugging jeans, boots with actual spurs (though not the sharp pointy kind in cowboy movies, Abigail noted) and a long-sleeved T-shirt that stretched across full breasts and well-defined arms. A cowboy hat topped her ensemble, shading a face Abigail guessed had seen a few less summers than hers, though not many.
“Hi,” Abigail said uncertainly. Had this woman just offered to massage her ass? She’d never been hit on by a woman before. If that was what was happening.
She gave herself a mental shake. Of course that couldn’t be what the woman was suggesting. She had to have been joking. Of course she was joking.
“Um, thanks,” she said, “but I’ve got it under control.” She lifted her leg and hugged it to her chest again to get the maximum stretch. The woman stepped forward and placed a hand on Abigail’s shin, exerting gentle pressure on it, presumably to help Abigail with her stretch.
Presumably.
Abigail met the woman’s eyes, only inches from her own. She felt the warmth and firmness of the woman’s hand on her leg and saw a hint of that same grin she’d given her moments before lift the corner of her mouth. Her breath caught in her throat and the place where the woman held her leg suddenly felt hypersensitive.
“Thank…thank you,” she said, dropping her leg and stepping back.
The woman stuck out her hand. “I’m Laura,” she said.
Abigail took it in her own. “Abigail,” she replied. The woman’s hand was firm and strong, yet delicately boned. And warm. Abigail wondered when the last time was that she had held a woman’s hand.
She pulled her hand away abruptly. This wasn’t hand-holding, this was hand-shaking. She felt her face heat and looked down in embarrassment and some confusion.
“Nice to meet you, Abigail,” the woman said. “Are you vacationing around here?”
Abigail looked up at her. Her smile was generous, inviting, and Abigail found herself warm to her. “Frost Valley Resort,” she said, nodding back the way she had come with her chin. “You?”
Laura chuckled. “Nope. Born and raised here,” she said. “My vacations are taken in the tropics. Got to get away from real life occasionally, right?”
The thought of “real life” brought a small frown to Abigail’s face. Getting away from real life was certainly what she was doing here.
“You live here?” she said, realizing belatedly how inane she sounded.
Laura only chuckled again. “Yes,” she said, “there are a few of us that actually do.”
Abigail looked around, noticing for the first time the lane she’d stopped in. It curved between rows of pines and was flanked on both sides by a tall, wooden fence, behind which she could see shaggy-coated horses grazing. A saddled horse was tethered to a fencepost just off the road.
Robert used to tell her that she was a danger when she ran, oblivious to the world around her, and she had to admit it was true. She plugged into her playlist and the world faded around her, narrowing down to just the music in her ears, her breath and her body. She never even noticed where she was until it ended and she stopped to look around and get her bearings. It was an old habit, a routine she had followed ever since she had started running years before.
She felt the familiar twinge of old pain at the thought of Robert. This was her first vacation since he had died two years earlier, her first vacation alone in at least ten years. They’d had a phase of separate travel for a few years somewhere in the middle of their twenty-seven-year marriage, but the last ten or so they had always traveled together. Now that he was gone, she was acutely glad for the memories of those last travels together—although, in the dark period just after his untimely death, she had wished she could forget everything. It hurt too much to remember. Now she was grateful for the memories, and the long, mostly happy marriage they had shared.
A soft hand touching hers brought Abigail back to the present with a start. She looked over at the woman—Laura—and realized that she had been speaking to her. “I’m sorry,” Abigail said. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you’ve ever been horseback riding,” Laura answered. “You were looking at Buck so intently,” she said, nodding over at the horse. “Kind of…sadly. Or longingly.” She smiled a little. “Kind of like I used to when I was a girl, wanting to ride the horses in the field next to the house I grew up in.”
“Oh,” Abigail began, embarrassed that her emotions had been so naked on her face. “No, I…”
She paused. She had been about to explain where her thoughts had been, then thought better of it. This woman didn’t know her and certainly didn’t want to hear her life story. No one knew her here. That was why she was here, after all. She just wanted to be Abigail Marshall, woman on vacation, not Abigail the widow. Laura was just being polite.
“I mean, no, I haven’t ridden recently. Not since I was a teenager, actually.” She remembered suddenly how horse-crazy she had been as a teenager, as so many girls were. She thought about the summer she had spent at her aunt Bernie’s farm in Ohio, and how she had wished so fervently that Bernadette had been her mother instead of her own mother, June, with whom Abigail had constantly argued. She remembered riding nearly every day that summer and loving the sense of freedom she had had. Come to think of it, there had been a girl there, too. What was her name? Kinsey? Casey? Something like that.
She smiled ruefully. “I guess I outgrew horses.”
Laura smiled back at her. Her eyes were clear and more green than gray, with fine lines at the corners when she smiled. She had even, white teeth and a generous mouth that seemed perpetually ready to break into a grin. Abigail found herself liking her without knowing anything about her.
“Some of us never outgrow being horse-crazy,” Laura said. “Most girls transfer their crazy to boys at some point, but some of us… Well, a boy can never take the place of a good horse.” She chuckled in a way that seemed to include Abigail in a private joke and that made Abigail feel oddly warm.
Unbidden, the image of Casey—she was almost sure that was her name—floated into Abigail’s mind again. They’d been what, thirteen or fourteen? Casey was tall and lanky, already outgrowing her baby fat, whereas Abigail was short and still pudgy. Abigail suddenly remembered one night, “camping” out in Aunt Bernie’s backyard, in which Casey had confessed to kissing a local boy, and then proceeded to demonstrate—with Abigail!—what it had been like. Casey’s mouth had been hard and untutored, and her tongue, when it had darted into Abigail’s mouth, had startled her so much that Abigail had yelped and jumped back, sputtering, “Ew! Gross!” Casey had been infuriated and told
her she was just a baby and didn’t understand sex. Looking back, Abigail wholeheartedly agreed with Casey’s assessment.
Abigail realized she was looking at Laura and thinking about kissing a girl. She felt her face go hot again.
Damn, what the hell was wrong with her? She was fifty-two years old, the widow of an almost thirty-year marriage, the mother of two grown children, and a successful business-woman. And yet everything this woman said made her blush and stammer like she was fourteen again. She looked up to see Laura looking at her bemusedly.
Abigail shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ve just run six miles. I’m afraid I’m a bit wiped out.” She hoped her excuse would explain away her odd behavior.
Laura cocked her head at her. “Six miles! I’d be lucky to survive two.” She paused and gave Abigail a sympathetic look. “Would you like to come up to the barn for a glass of water?” When Abigail glanced up the long, tree-lined drive, she added with a wry grin, “We can ride.”
Abigail’s eyes widened. “Really?” she asked. “But, well, it’s been so long, I wouldn’t know how.” But she couldn’t stop herself from smiling at the thought.
Laura grinned back at her. “It’s like riding a bike,” she said, reaching out and taking Abigail’s hand to pull her toward the horse, which turned its head to watch them approach. “Besides, all you have to do is hold on. I’ll do the rest.”
Five minutes later, Abigail was, indeed, holding on, her arms wrapped around Laura’s waist as she guided the gelding up the lane toward the barn. He had a gentle, rolling gait that lulled Abigail. As they rode Laura told her about the breed of horse that Buck was, a Tennessee Walker, and about the history of the breed.
Abigail only paid half attention—the other half was noticing the feel of Laura’s back against her breasts, Laura’s thighs against hers, the feel of her waist beneath her hands. She found herself wondering what Laura’s skin would feel like beneath her fingertips and surprised herself by not suppressing that curiosity as soon as it came into her head. Riding along behind her on the horse she felt safe, even with these thoughts, and she let her mind wander. It wandered back to those first moments when she had met Laura, to the woman’s teasing offer to help Abigail massage the incipient cramp in her backside, to Laura’s hand on her leg and in her own hand, to the warmth and…something else…in Laura’s eyes and smile when she looked at Abigail. Was she reading too much into the encounter? Was Laura just being friendly to an out-of-towner?
She felt Laura’s hand rest lightly on hers where it lay on Laura’s waist, for just a moment. “How you doing back there?” Laura asked. Her voice was quiet, intimate. For a brief instant Abigail longed to lay her face against Laura’s back as she answered. And she longed to answer truthfully. Wonderful. She was doing wonderful, and felt more alive than she had since Robert had passed away. Alive and expectant and excited.
But of course she couldn’t say any of that, not to this woman, not now.
Maybe not ever.
She was obviously reading far more into this than was real, or healthy.
“I’m great,” she said. “Thank you. For the ride, and the offer. It’s…an unexpected pleasure.” She did lean against Laura’s back then, just for a moment, smiling, before pulling hurriedly away.
Laura felt Abigail’s smile against her back in that momentary contact and felt something deep and warm opening up inside her. She didn’t know anything about this stranger she had met on the road, but there was something about her that fascinated her.
Oh, at first she had just been blatantly flirting and teasing. What was the harm in coming on a bit to a stranger, a vacationer? She didn’t know her, and she would either react positively or not—but either way she would leave in a few days, a week tops. No skin off either of their noses. But Abigail’s reaction had been such a mixture of shyness and curiosity, tinged with an inexplicable sadness, that Laura had felt a little ashamed for coming on to her at all. She felt ungainly with her, a rider with a heavy hand on a horse with a soft mouth.
At the thought of Abigail’s mouth, Laura suppressed a shiver. She had seen the woman’s eyes go to her mouth, seen her lips part and her breathing quicken as she had held Abigail’s hand in her own for just a fraction longer than was absolutely necessary.
She’d been around the block a time or two. She knew the signs, recognized that Abigail was attracted to her. But she also realized that Abigail had probably never been with a woman. Either she didn’t even realize her own attraction to them, or she deliberately suppressed it. Either way, whereas Laura might normally thrill to the challenge of initiating Abigail to the pleasures of sex with her own kind, a little no-strings-attached exploration, there was something about Abigail that gave her pause, some feeling of protectiveness that held her back. But what was she protecting Abigail from? Her? Or herself?
The barn was warm and redolent with the smell of hay and horses and leather. Laura took a deep breath as she brought Buck to a halt by the tack room door, feeling as unsure and gauche as a teenager.
“Hang on,” she said, and swung a leg over the gelding’s neck before dropping to the ground next to him. She turned and placed a hand on Abigail’s calf. It was firm and well-muscled, and she felt a tremor go through the other woman at her touch. Her own belly and groin responded instinctively, tightening and yet feeling as though she was expanding inside, all at the same time. She looked up at Abigail, wondering if she had any idea of the effect she had on her.
“Swing your leg over and slide down slowly,” she said, hearing the hoarseness in her own voice.
* * *
Abigail swallowed and stared down at Laura. She felt the heat in Laura’s hand on her leg and felt something unspoken move between them. She leaned forward and grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane, then swung her leg over, balancing across Buck’s back. She felt Laura slide her hands up her waist, steadying her, as she slid down the side of the horse to land gracefully next to him. She turned and found herself within the circle of Laura’s arms.
Their eyes met. Abigail realized she was holding her breath.
Buck snorted and shifted impatiently. Abigail stumbled back against him, but Laura grabbed her arms and caught her, pulling her upright. Abigail gasped as her momentum carried her forward and thrust her against Laura’s chest. Laura’s arms tightened instinctively, holding Abigail close.
The moment stretched, giving Abigail forever to notice the hardness of Laura’s arms—and the softness of her breasts. She felt her own nipples hardening against Laura’s, felt the tightness of her runner’s jersey constricting them, and a flood of heat flashed through her. It blazed its way from the tips of her breasts down to the vee between her legs before it found its way back up her chest to her neck and into her face. Laura’s hands left her arms and landed on her waist, then came back up to her shoulders and, finally, to the sides of her neck. She looked up into Laura’s face and knew that Laura was going to kiss her.
“Laura?” The voice, strident and demanding, came from outside the open barn door. Laura merely looked in that direction, but Abigail jumped away from her and turned her face into the placid gelding’s neck.
“Abigail—” Laura began.
“Laura, are you here? I need help saddling Pharo.” The owner of the voice came into view. She was a pimply preteen with sandy blond hair and a petulant set to her mouth. Abigail looked over her shoulder at Laura.
Laura shrugged and turned up a corner of her mouth in what could have been amusement—or derision. “Duty calls,” she said. Then she stepped in close to Abigail, who had turned to stroke the gelding’s soft, round cheek, as much to hide her own confusion as to give Laura the space to do her job. She touched Abigail lightly on the back, a feather stroke between her shoulder blades.
“There’s water in the fridge in the tack room,” she said. “Help yourself.”
Abigail watched as Laura walked away. She wanted to kick herself—damn her stupid imagination! Obviously she had mi
staken everything. Of course Laura hadn’t been about to kiss her.
Laura stopped and looked back at Abigail. “Don’t go,” she said. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Abigail stared at her, wondering if she wanted to be right or wrong about Laura’s intentions. She drew a shaky breath. “I…I can’t,” she finally said. “I have…an appointment to go to.”
Laura held her gaze for a moment longer. “I’d like to see you again,” she said. “Please, come by tomorrow. I’m off work, but I’ll be in the office for a couple of hours in the morning.” Abigail watched her walk away, wondering what she had been saying no to—and why she had lied to avoid it.
Abigail ran in the opposite direction the next morning. She had spent a restless night after her return to the hillside condo that she had rented for the week, by turns convinced that Laura’s invitation to return the next day had meant nothing—and that it had meant a whole lot more. It was imagining what that “more” might be that had kept Abigail awake, her body aching and sensitive in ways and places that it hadn’t been in a long time.
Too long.
She thought about that long-ago kiss she had almost shared with Casey and her own reaction to it. Had she really been repulsed, or had she been afraid of her own reaction, her own excitement, of half-glimpsed feelings and desires that confused her? As a young girl she’d never known anyone who was gay, and when it was mentioned by those close to her, it was always with a vague embarrassment or even outright distaste. She realized now she had always been intrigued by women who loved other women. Never enough to experiment or to risk her family’s and friends’ censure, though. Then she had met and married Robert, and all that had been laid to rest.
Until now. Now a stranger had stirred up all those old feelings. Now she was remembering the echoes of curiosity and urges—and yes, fantasies—that she had long suppressed.