The Lavender List

by Meg Harrington

  “A prostitute! All this time you thought I was a prostitute?”

  “Only since last week. And why are you acting so shocked?”

  “I told you I work at a factory. How on earth does that lend itself to ‘lady of the night’?”

  “Well, how else do you explain that fella ferrying you around?”

  “The obvious conclusion. Spy.”

  “Excuse me, Mata Hari. Besides, I don’t see why you’re so upset. Whores can be plenty classy. Who are the biggest tippers at church? Whores and mobsters.”

  Laura bristles with indignant WASPness. “I’m neither.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Thank you.” She seems cranky.

  They’re out of the city and headed deep into Jersey. Amelia’s not real sure where exactly they’re aiming for, and Laura seems too annoyed for her to ask.

  The silence stretches.

  “Your cousin and his friends? I presume you thought they beat me in some sort of—”

  “Kinky sex thing? Yeah. I was gonna tell all their wives.”

  “Did it never cross your mind that it all might have backfired?”

  “Oh honey, I know where just about all those boys’ skeletons are hidden. The worst they could have done to me was tell my mom stuff she already knows.”

  More silence. Laura chews on Amelia’s words like they’re some hearty bread.

  “Is she all right with it?” She glances at her. “With you?”

  That big pit that wells up when folks talk about Amelia’s predilections doesn’t show up this time. Amelia stares back. “What do you think?”

  “But you still have a relationship?”

  “Denial. Hurts like hell but gets me invited to Sunday dinners.”

  Laura’s got nothing to say to that. Her face is all inscrutable as her brain works on things she’s not gonna privy Amelia to. She just keeps driving. Darkness overtakes them the farther they go. Fewer cars. Greater distance between houses. The road lulls Amelia. And before she knows it, her eyes are closing.

  Last thing she sees before sleep is Laura’s profile. Hard and dangerous.

  An agent, Laura called herself.

  She smiles sleepily.

  Amelia Maldonado’s gone and fallen in love with a spy.

  And who knew. It hurts just as bad as if she were a prostitute.

  CHAPTER 7

  The car rattles to a stop—accompanied by hurried French cursing. It pulls Amelia out of her sleep, and she glances at the clock on the dash. Past midnight.

  Outside, the damp of the last few days has broken into a soft rain.

  “Where are we?” she asks.

  Laura is fiddling with the screwdriver and the gas pedal and muttering to herself. “Middle of fucking nowhere.”

  Amelia’s eyebrow climbs halfway up her face, and while she’d like to ask if Laura kisses her mother with that mouth, instead she says, “We been driving all this time?”

  “Of course. Why?—”

  “Radiator, Laura. It’s probably overheated.” The hissing noise coming from the front end, loud enough to hear over the patter of the rain, is a dead giveaway.

  Laura looks like she doesn’t believe it. Then she shakes her head and gets out. She’s still mumbling, and her frustration with something as simple as a broken down car has Amelia working hard not to smile.

  The hood flips up, and Laura stands in the headlights, hand on hip, clearly annoyed, and making no effort to hide it.

  The cool spy who drove half the night in a stolen car probably doesn’t know the radiator from the carburetor.

  So Amelia ignores Laura’s gentle protest and gets out. “Could be gas, too. I’m betting this thing wasn’t filled up when we headed outta town.”

  Laura blushes.

  Steam’s coming off the engine. Definitely overheated. “We have any water?”

  Laura waves to the rain. “We’ve got plenty of water. It will just take a little time to collect it.”

  Amelia goes around to the back of the car and squats down. The gravel is already turning grimy, and it’s gonna leave marks on her nice clean dress. Laura is clearly confused as to what she’s doing, so she just watches, arms crossed over her chest, and the rain makes short work of her normally fastidious curls.

  Bracing herself against the bumper, Amelia reaches under the car and flicks the gas tank with her knuckle.

  The hollow sound faintly audible above the rain makes her wince.

  Laura’s not just grumpy. Now she’s petulant. “We’re also out of gas, aren’t we?”

  “Nothing but fumes.”

  She curses again.

  Laura’s got her arms wrapped tight around herself, pulling the fabric of her jacket. There’s a singed tear she might not have even noticed herself. “I’m positive I saw a gas station a mile or two back. I can head there—”

  “At midnight? We’ll be lucky if they’re open at dawn.”

  Laura nods. “Then we’ll bunk here for the night. If that’s all right?”

  It’s more than all right for Amelia. But instead she says, “I guess there isn’t much of a choice.”

  “You seem to know quite a bit about cars.” Laura’s sitting in the front seat—back ramrod straight, gun nestled in her lap.

  Amelia’s lounging in the back. She’s kicked her shoes off and is resting her feet by the headrest. The rain beats against the windshield and finds its way in through the bullet holes. “Dad was a mechanic.”

  That earns something like a rueful smile. “Learned at his knee then?”

  “Something like that.” She taps Laura with a toe. “What about you? How’s a nice girl from Connecticut go and become a spy?”

  “Agent,” she says absentmindedly.

  “They recruiting out of boarding schools, or you get lost on the way to cotillion?”

  “I have a talent for languages, can aim a gun, and wasn’t afraid to be thrown out of a plane into the middle of France.” She ducks her head. “Being a woman helped, too. Less suspicious to the Nazis.”

  “So you were… in the Resistance?”

  She’s heard about it. To a lot of people, it’s a bit romantic. Brave Frenchies fighting for freedom.

  “For a time.”

  “But you said you worked in that factory during the war.”

  Laura says nothing.

  “Were you not supposed to tell me?”

  “The majority of my war record’s no secret. And I do work there now. Not much place for women in intelligence now—allegedly.”

  “So why’d you lie?” Amelia asks softly.

  And this moment—it’s one question Laura can ignore. She can play it dumb, act like she couldn’t hear. Amelia’s given her that out. She spoke soft enough, and the storm is loud enough.

  But instead Laura’s sad. Maybe melancholic is more appropriate. When she does speak it comes out honest-like. “I don’t know.”

  Only that isn’t good enough for Amelia. She moves forward throwing her arms over the front seat and hugging it. “Doesn’t that bother you, Laura? Lying all the time?”

  Something flickers in her eyes and Laura looks down at her pistol. “It’s the job.”

  There. Another crack. The tiniest.

  “Maybe during the war, but gab about the Russians all you like—war’s over now.”

  “We think that? Don’t we. We win a battle. Stop a Nazi. Kill a fascist. War’s over. Fantastic job, kids. Pack up and move on. It’s not over.”

  “Yeah, it is Laura. Hitler put a bullet in his head, and you all got to come home.”

  Laura’s thumb is on the trigger of the gun she’s holding. Short trimmed nail glossing over shiny metal. Brushing against the safety. Running over the rough
ness of the grip.

  Her lips move, forming something like a sigh.

  Amelia scoots closer.

  She starts to reach out to Laura. Maybe put a warm hand on her damn shoulder and stave off the melancholy bringing her down. Only Laura looks up suddenly. Eyes dark. Hot. Heavy.

  Laura stares, and Amelia swallows.

  Then falls back against her seat. “You all got to come home. But not him. Right?”

  Laura looks away again, and Amelia’s half proud she hit it on the head.

  “You told me about him,” she adds. That blade again, rutting against all that armor, hunting for a crack.

  “I told you a man died,” Laura snaps.

  There. A chink in it.

  “Fella you love dies. You don’t got a monopoly on that particular story.”

  It’s the smile. The last vestige of Laura’s armor that turns her whole profile vicious.

  “He was an artist. And he was kind. And they pulled the nails from his fingers and the teeth from his mouth, and then they went to hang him in the square while we all watched.”

  The gun’s loud as Laura drops it in the seat next to her.

  “I shot him.”

  She’s falling now. So fast. All that armor tempered in coffee and Seven Sister schooling and war is splintering.

  “He smiled when he died.”

  “And you thought what the hell—better go with him.”

  She whips around so fast the car rocks. Glares at Amelia like she’s been carving swastikas in the seat.

  But that just…It fires Amelia up, and she sits forward again. Leans in close enough she can watch the damp cling to Laura’s neck. “Fella you loved died, and it’s gotta hurt like hell that you’re the one that put him in his grave. But then you went and won a war. You got all that peace he lost his life over, and all you’ve done is squandered it. Beatin’ men in pool halls. Stringing along your Frenchman. Lying to me.” That last one flies out of her with an embarrassing amount of hurt.

  “It was to protect you. All of you. After him—”

  “You gave up.” The wind whistles as it pushes against those holes in the window. “The way I see it,” she’s real quiet, “There’s no point in protecting the world if you don’t get to live in it. And honey, you haven’t lived in it since the gallows.”

  Laura’s eyes are as dark as those fields out there. Near to black. As quick as Amelia thought she’d torn that armor down, Laura’s got it back up again. She’s staring at Amelia so hard she might just go up in flames.

  “What do you suggest I do,” Laura asks. Iron. But fresh out of the forge. Scorching.

  Amelia’s blood is running hot, but it feels a little pleasant, and something nervous and nice is boiling inside of her all at once. She swallows, and Laura’s eyes flicker to her throat.

  “Live,” she finally whispers.

  Laura keeps staring. And Amelia feels sick and stupid and raw.

  Suddenly Laura throws the door open and bursts out of the car. She slams it behind her, leaving Amelia in deafening silence.

  She scoots back. Pushing herself across the seat ’til the door handle presses into her back.

  Laura stalks through the rain to the rear door.

  The door opens and the rain slips in.

  All she can see is Laura from the neck down. The wet’s cut straight through her silk blouse and beads on the wool of her skirt.

  Then she’s in the car. Poised like a cat. Hand on the headrest, bracing herself up. Soaked through.

  Laura’s not so scary when she’s bedraggled. Her makeup is near gone, and her hair’s ruined. Like a puppy pulled out of the river.

  She’s not so scary.

  But oh, that look.

  Amelia swallows.

  Quite of their own volition, her legs—up on the bench in front of her—part. She maybe sighs. She can’t be sure of anything anymore. On account of this hungry and devastating creature, looming there, half out in the rain.

  She swallows. “You’re letting the wet in.” Her throat sounds dry and scratchy.

  Laura’s almost violent the way she surges forward. She’s this carnal creature that would turn Amelia’s legs to jelly if she were standing. She presses into the door and struggles so hard not to kiss those lips.

  Laura hovers over her and smells like rain and day old perfume. All that armor washed away completely.

  Maybe it’ll build back up tomorrow. Amelia can’t be sure. But tonight, in a Cadillac in the middle of Jersey, it’s gone.

  And she’s not one to brag about conquests, because it creeps her out when her cousins or brother do it, but she’s kissed a lot of girls.

  None of ’em ever kissed the way Laura does.

  The world’s not supposed to end in a kiss. All that important reality isn’t supposed to feel like it’s crashing down around ’em.

  But kissing Laura sends the rest of the world on its way.

  Laura braces herself on one hand, and the other finds its way to Amelia’s bare leg. Fingertips honest to God dance up her calf and play at her knee, and she has to stop kissing just to tug on Laura’s ear with her teeth and say, “The door’s still open.”

  One of her legs moves, followed by a thump, and the outside is shut away.

  Laura stops kissing her and presses her nose, all cold, to Amelia’s throat. Her fingers are still on her leg. Dragging real slow.

  Up.

  And down.

  Climbing higher.

  But slow.

  Laura’s a nibbler, but she’s real confident about it. It’s all part of that sweet build. Between her mouth and her hands, she’s stoking Amelia like a goddamned fire.

  “Laura.” She gasps, pulling on Laura’s shoulders. Trying not to flail from what’s building, she wraps her fingers around her wrist. “If you don’t touch me soon, I’m gonna—”

  Two fingers. Maybe three. Who’s counting. All she knows is, Laura thrusts up into her and catches her gasp in her mouth and oh Lord.

  Oh Lord, the woman’s good at this.

  Amelia has been crushing on Laura so long. She’s never actually thought about the sex—just assumed she’d be like every other good girl who’s come along.

  But Laura gets it. God does she—Amelia needs more than that hand pumping in and out of her and that goddamned thumb of Laura’s fluttering across her.

  She needs skin. Hot, damp skin. She claws at Laura’s shirt, pulls at the buttons, and forces Laura back until Amelia can straddle her thighs and have it all.

  Just like the girls in the magazines.

  Amelia’s never understood the appeal of boys. She gets how it’s easier—that’s why she tried her hand at one—but really she doesn’t get it. They’ve got no stamina compared to girls. And the hair. All that hair on their chests and arms and backs.

  Laura, unlike boys, is smooth. Her breasts aren’t hidden behind a thatch of blonde to match the one between her legs. And while the reflection is crummy, she still gets an idea of the muscles in Laura’s back when she’s over her and kissing her between nips and teasing smiles.

  And she can go for hours.

  They can go for hours.

  Okay, maybe Laura’s a little worn out. She’s lying on her back, playing with Amelia’s hair, and smiling like she’s got a happy secret.

  Amelia, being younger and having not recently engaged in any fights with other spies, has a bit more energy. She’s down on the floorboard with one of Laura’s legs thrown over her shoulder, enjoying a very lazy bit of cunnilingus.

  Laura’s bare chest is glowing with sweat. It could be love, the way Laura’s looking at her.

  Could be lust, too.

  She slips a finger into Laura, and her eyes close. She sighs, taking the air
deep into her chest. Amelia pauses just long enough to kiss her thigh.

  “Feel it,” she asks.

  Laura just tugs her lower lip into her mouth and nods.

  “Let it come.”

  She doesn’t even need to add another finger. She could probably just blow and Laura’d come. She’s real careful, letting the orgasm creep up on Laura. It’s slow and easy. For seconds that seem to span hours, there’s just dark hooded eyes watching her, the smell of Laura, and the pulse of her against Amelia’s mouth.

  It’s gotta be the closest a hellbound gal like her is ever gonna get to heaven.

  Laura uses her handhold in Amelia’s hair to pull her up. The kisses they share, all naked and happy, are lazy and easy too. Like they’ve been kissing each other all their lives.

  They don’t talk.

  They cuddle.

  Amelia pillows her head on Laura’s, and it isn’t hard to nuzzle into her cleavage and say, “This is nice.”

  The hand combing through her hair pauses. Then goes back to what it was doing, nails scraping all pleasant against her scalp. “It is.”

  “It’s not gonna last. Is it?”

  “No.” Laura’s so quiet, Amelia could have imagined her talking if she hadn’t felt it through her chest.

  “The way I see it,” she squeezes Laura tight, “we can wallow in what’s coming. Or we can enjoy today.”

  Laura laughs. “You sound like the war’s back on.”

  “A couple of hours ago, you said it never ended.” She shrugs against her. “So let’s think about how great the sex is gonna be when it’s over.”

  Laura tilts Amelia’s head so she has to look at her. It’s gonna be a long hard road to forget those eyes. “If it doesn’t?”

  “We live right next door to each other, Laura. You come by for sugar, and I’ll declare it Armistice Day.”

  She laughs, and Amelia laughs, and until the sun comes up, the war is over.