Such Happiness as This

by Laina Villeneuve

  The scroll draped like a fishing line waiting for a bite, and Grace realized as the poet began reading the poem from the bottom back to the top, pulling it in just as slowly as she had let it out, that she was hooked, her whole attention held through the second traipsing through the garden poem and into another called “Strawberries.”

  “There she was

  naked to the morning

  to the strawberries

  and to me.”

  Grace reached into her briefcase and pulled out a notepad, jotting down the words before she forgot them. She sat, hand poised over the pad as the woman continued. She pictured her holding a naked woman in her arms, “her body memorized in my hands.”

  The last line jotted down, she joined in the applause for Ruth Mountaingrove, a favorite judging by the reaction of the crowd. A young woman stood and offered her hand as Ruth stepped away from the mike, guiding her back to their table.

  Rooted now, Grace scanned the audience full of women and could feel how present they were in the room, captured by each voice that took the stage. This was the community Gloria and Kristine had talked about. Here they were, gathered in reverence for the written word, with Grace’s attitude the only thing stopping her from being included herself.

  From that moment, she listened intently and allowed herself to turn her face to observe the audience in between poets without worrying that the young lesbian who brought her the flyer would spot her. She found herself disappointed when the emcee returned to the stage to thank all of the evening’s poets.

  “But don’t get up yet. I have one more request,” he said. “Please welcome to the stage my good friend Buzz. He’ll wrap things up here with a song.”

  A bearded man who looked more lumberjack than hippie took the stage in his heavy boots and jeans, scruffing at his beard with his hand to hide his reaction to the applause. He strapped a guitar around his shoulder and tipped his head to acknowledge the young woman who lit up the stage with a sparkling smile. “Jen’s helping me out tonight and next Thursday when we’ll do a whole set down at Café Mokka.”

  He met the young woman’s eyes, synchronized their beat and they launched into song. Buzz knew what he was doing on his six-string guitar, but it was the woman with her violin who took Grace’s breath away.

  All of the brightness of the woman herself came through the strings as she pulled the bow across them, leaning into notes to give her instrument voice as she accompanied her friend’s folksy tune about the ocean. The style was far from what Grace played on her cello. However, someone who could coax such a pure tone from the violin was clearly a skilled player and it was easy to imagine playing with her.

  Grace was genuinely disappointed when the song ended. As they returned their instruments to the carrying cases along the wall, people lined up to talk to them. Grace longed to get in line herself to inquire about the violinist’s repertoire and possible interest in playing something more classical, but spotting the young woman who had dropped off the flyer deterred her.

  She briefly entertained the idea of talking to Ruth Mountaingrove, but she, too, was surrounded by a large group of admirers. Giving up, she slipped out into the night. She drove out of town out to the bottoms, a flat stretch of farmland between the town and the bay, where she rented a small two-bedroom house.

  Inside, she logged onto her computer and did a quick search to see if Ruth had any poetry published. Reading through her bio, she furrowed her brow and slipped into her chair, curious about the description of Mountaingrove as a lesbian photographer. She quickly revised her search to include photography and clicked on an archive at the University of Oregon, finding more than a hundred photographs.

  She clicked through the images, most of them captured in an intentional community, mesmerized by Mountaingrove’s frank presentation of women working, celebrating, loving. She kicked herself for not approaching the poet after the event. Navigating away from the pictures, she searched for contact information, scanning through articles describing Mountaingrove’s works and contributions.

  Reading that Mountaingrove had coordinated several shows of feminist and lesbian photographs, she frowned when she heard the popping bottle cap that signaled a message on her phone. She retrieved it and pulled up the text from her sister.

  You still up?

  The contact, especially at the late hour surprised her. Of course. Everything okay?

  Not working, are you?

  Part of her motivation for accepting the job at Humboldt State was that she’d be closer to her sister, yet in the ten months that she’d been in Arcata, she had only been up to Oregon to see her for a handful of holidays. The chaos of following tradition left her feeling that though they had spent time together, they hadn’t really visited at all.

  Getting ready for bed.

  Distracted by Leah, she closed her search and shut down the computer. She considered calling but changed for bed while she waited for Leah’s reply.

  We need to talk about Tyler.

  An icy wave crashed over Grace. What’s he done now? she typed, teeth clamped.

  Nothing. But we need to talk about what’s best for him.

  Grace didn’t want to talk to her sister. Any time they talked about Tyler, they ended up fighting, and she was too tired to fight tonight. She took a deep breath trying to remember the last time she’d spoken to her brother. The only thing she was able to recall was her heartbreak in hearing the demands and anger in his voice instead of atonement. It had taken her a long time to realize and accept that even if he was sorry, words were never going to repair the hurt he had caused. She’d cut him off completely, and when Leah had started talking about the challenges of having Tyler live with her family, Grace had begun to avoid contact with her sister as well. I have an early meeting tomorrow, she lied. Before Leah could reply, Grace texted goodnight and switched off her phone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Smiling, Grace sipped her coffee and tapped the Los Bagels business card on her desk, still preoccupied with the barista’s banter. It had quickly turned flirtatious and ended with the wink-delivered card with Megan’s cell number scrawled on the back. Grace stared at the number, considering whether to call and ask her if she’d be interested in going to hear the violinist play at Café Mokka on Thursday.

  Instead of working, she watched students descending the hill from Founder’s Hall, feeling their weekend vibe, remembering the days when she could drop a book bag on the couch and vow to not touch or think about homework for the entire weekend. Oh, to be young again when it felt like the world was full of opportunity and beautiful single women. She bet herself that none of the students worried about the selection diminishing.

  She itched to pick up the phone and call Megan even though she’d only left the campus extension of the bagel bakery a half hour ago. She felt foolish for how distracted she was. Slowly, she set the card down and reached into her bag, rationalizing that once she called, she’d be able to focus on work again.

  “Hi, it’s Grace,” she said when she heard Megan’s voice.

  She smiled at the innuendo in Megan’s drawn-out “Hello.”

  “Everything okay with your coffee?”

  Grace turned her back to the already shut door for more privacy, easily slipping back into flirting. “If I said no, would you run some creamer over?”

  “I would. If only I wasn’t on my way to our shop in Eureka…”

  Grace let the “if only” float for a moment, imagining Megan slipping into her office, pulling Grace into an embrace, blanketing her with toasted bagel warmth before she leaned in to find her lips…She snapped herself back to the moment. “I do have a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to see you again, but I obviously can’t ask you to coffee. I’m at a loss, and it’s negatively impacting my productivity.”

  Megan laughed appreciatively. “So what’s the same speed as coffee for a first date,” she mused. “Something that can be cut short or drawn out dependi
ng on how the date is going.”

  “Exactly. What does that like coffee?”

  “Especially mine.”

  “Especially yours.” Grace wrapped both hands around her warm cup, enjoying their exchange.

  “Got it. You can meet me at the Arcata marsh tonight. Are you free by five?”

  “The marsh?”

  “You haven’t been? It’s a bird sanctuary.”

  “I’m game,” Grace quipped. She got directions and reluctantly ended the call, with no further excuse to ignore her work.

  Luckily, the poetry reading had given her an idea about collaborating with the English department on an installation combining word and image. She picked up the phone and was happy to catch the full-time photography teacher in his office. He listened to the idea, agreed that it sounded like an interesting project but begged off, listing other commitments.

  Grace sighed and prepared herself for her razzing. She used her cell for the next call. “You on campus?” she asked when Kristine picked up.

  “Sure am. I’ve got my Portraits class out on the quad learning how to use natural light.”

  “But you’re not instructing since you picked up the phone.”

  “You’re a sharp one.”

  “Stay put. I have an idea.” Taking only her office keys, she clipped across campus, heading toward the quad, part of her brain reminding her that she was headed back to the bagel shop even though Megan was no longer there. She found Kristine studying one of her students’ cameras and waited for her to finish, allowing her mind to replay and comb over her morning flirtation again.

  “What’s up?” Kristine asked, leaning comfortably against a handrail, one booted foot resting on the other.

  “Have you heard of Ruth Mountaingrove?” Grace asked.

  “Of course. She was a student of mine last semester. She took my Nature Photography. Why?” One eyebrow hitched up suspiciously.

  “I heard a few of her poems…”

  Kristine stood to her full height a gleeful expression covering her face. “You went to the poetry reading?”

  “She gave me an idea about collaborating…”

  “No, no, no you don’t. Let’s go back to you going to the lesbian den of poetry.” Kristine stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Did you go home alone?”

  “I most certainly went home alone. I’m trying to pitch an idea here.”

  “C’mon. This is big. You finally went out here in town. Did your little baby dykes see you and hit on you again?”

  “I kept my distance. I’m not trawling that crowd, I assure you. I’m not looking for anyone who furnishes their place from yard sales.”

  “They’re not that young.”

  “I’m sure there are rules about not dating students,” she said sharply.

  “And if there aren’t, you can make up something that sounds official enough to scare them all away.”

  Grace couldn’t help it. Her eyes drifted toward the campus center where she’d bought her coffee.

  “Not all away, then.” Kristine rubbed her hands together. “You did meet someone? You said no students, but surely there aren’t rules about not dating teachers. Were there cute teachers there?”

  “Can we talk about my idea now?”

  “Are you going out again?”

  “I happen to have a date tonight. That is, I might have a date if I get my work done.”

  “Fine. How can I help you with that?”

  “There’s got to be a way for a creative writing class and one of our photography classes to collaborate on a project that we could show here on campus.”

  “A Thousand Words. We give them an image, they write a thousand word story, and we call it A Thousand Words.”

  “Did you just think of that on the spot?”

  Kristine shrugged. “That’s the obvious. But you could also get them to send us something, a poem or something, and then our class could try to create an image to go with it.”

  Grace patted her pockets, wishing she’d brought her notepad.

  “You look surprised that I have ideas in my head.”

  “I’m just wishing that you were the full-time teacher. You’d be so much easier to work with.”

  “I used to think I wanted to be full-time, but with the kids, these hours suit me just fine. But let me know if you find anyone in English. I think it’d be fun to coordinate something.”

  “You’re the best.” Grace turned back in the direction of her office.

  “This is good,” Kristine called, making Grace turn back. Kristine tipped her chin to the side, studying her closely. “You’re finally here.”

  Grace recalled the community she had felt at The Jambalaya and agreed. She’d lived in Arcata for almost a year, but she had only just now arrived. She felt it in her body.

  “Welcome to Humboldt County,” Kristine said, winking.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You know her?” Megan trained her eyes in the same direction across the crowded café.

  Café Mokka’s intimate and inviting atmosphere should have made it easy for Grace to pay more attention to Megan on their second date. She could tell that Megan had taken pains, her brown hair carefully framing her face. She’d worn make-up tonight and really did look good in her emerald green silk blouse and tight black jeans.

  Instead, Grace was mesmerized by something else, or rather someone else. She couldn’t see Robyn’s face, but from behind recognized the cut and texture of her distinctive black hair. Guiltily, she turned to Megan, aware of how tightly she was gripping the hot apple cider. “Not really. She took over the favor at the barn that I was telling you about,” she said reluctantly, hoping not to rekindle the topic that had dominated their first date.

  When she’d arrived at the marsh, she’d immediately seen that she wouldn’t want to walk the paths in her work heels. Thankfully she was able to exchange them for the boots she’d worn to the barn and uncharacteristically left in her trunk.

  Megan had found her there, joking that she must be a girl scout to be prepared for anything. She didn’t know if she was prepared for the level of interest Megan had expressed in her friends’ baby. Hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction, she said, “Do you know her? You must meet a lot of people working at a coffee shop.”

  “When I worked the counter, sure,” Meg agreed. “I got to know a lot of people, but I’ve always been at the Eureka store.”

  “That’s, what, seven miles away? I’d think that’s the same population.”

  Megan was quick to disagree. “Not at all. Eureka’s not all political, not all in-your-face demanding to be recognized like the people in Arcata are. In Eureka we just…are.”

  “I live in Arcata,” Grace reminded her coyly.

  “You just moved here. You didn’t know,” Megan retorted. She slipped her hand across the table to take Grace’s, her eyes dark with desire. She looked like she was about to offer to teach her more about the lesbian community when the musicians they’d come to see squeezed through the line at the counter and wove their way through the tight clusters of tables to the corner of the room.

  She smiled at Megan, though it was the sight of the violin that set her heart racing. She was happy to have Megan to sit with but was surprised by how distracted she felt thinking of what she would say to the young violinist after her set. The older man introduced Jen and himself and Jen briefly described their set list. She listened patiently as he sang, accompanying himself with impressive finger picking on his guitar. When Jen lifted the violin to her chin, Grace sat up taller, leaning forward into the stream of notes that floated from her fast-moving bow.

  Again more fiddle than classical, the notes still carried Grace away. She shut her eyes, giving herself up to the emotion of the song, Jen’s fiddle voice that sang directly to her.

  When the song ended, she opened her eyes, joining the crowd in enthusiastic applause. Megan looked at her, not at the band, and Grace was self-conscious about the mistiness she
felt. Blinking, her gaze fell on the woman from the barn again as she too brushed a tear from her cheek. The motion moved Grace, and she felt less conspicuous for getting so caught up in the song. Grace looked back to the musicians but saw that Megan was studying her focus on the woman sitting tables away. She smiled an apology and reached for Megan’s hand.

  She appreciated the warmth she found there and the way Megan ran her thumb along her skin. The small gesture made her aware of how wonderful her full hands would feel exploring more private skin. She hadn’t been touched like that in a long time, not since she’d been on the Northcoast and… She traced back in her mind. Had she been single for an entire year before she left Houston? She could still hear her friends teasing her about her all work, no play attitude, getting out mostly when they insisted but never tempted by anyone she met.

  Unexpectedly, she heard her father admonish her for being so picky. You can set your standards too high, you know? he’d told her when she’d ended one of her relationships just before the year anniversary. You’ve got this list in your head, and when the woman you’re dating doesn’t have everything you’re looking for, you give up, but you’re never going to find someone who meets all your expectations. Live like that, and you’ll inevitably be disappointed, especially when you discover you’ve let your whole life go by.

  Megan leaned across the small table, her lips brushing Grace’s ear. “It’s hot in here. Can we listen from the garden?”

  Grace looked from the violinist to her date, knowing that the correct answer was yes. Reluctantly, she nodded. They bused their cups to the front counter and exited by the back door, losing their seat to customers who had been hovering by the front entrance. Grace missed watching the musicians but smiled genuinely when she crossed the threshold from coffeehouse to a hobbitesque wooded area.

  Megan took her hand, guiding her along a lantern-illuminated path to a pond and over a tiny bridge.

  “Are these all guest houses?” Grace asked about the shingled structures, each with a fenced enclosure.