She had waited for that encounter since Genevieve graduated and Victoria had a year to walk the grounds of Harvard Law School alone. She had imagined it a hundred different ways. They would run into each other randomly on the streets of New York, which both of them visited with some regularity, and Genevieve would profess that she was still in love with her. They would both attend some symposium on women in the law and Victoria would apologize for throwing away their relationship. She would be giving a speech at the UN and Genevieve would have attended for the sole purpose of seeing her again, and they would go out to dinner. They would reconnect over Italian food, and red wine, and chocolate dessert.
In all of these scenarios, Victoria pictured herself calm and in control. She hadn’t fantasized about her heart beating so hard that her chest hurt. In her dreams, she wasn’t having difficulty breathing and her stomach didn’t ache. In her dreams, she was forgiven.
She couldn’t believe how good Genevieve still looked. It shouldn’t have been a shock, of course. She’d seen her picture countless times. But being in the same space as her, close enough to touch her...Victoria’s eyes grew wet and her hands trembled on the steering wheel. She took a deep breath and focused on the fact that Genevieve looked equally as shaken by their run-in.
And now they couldn’t even talk to each other, with the exception of oral arguments, until the Court had issued its ruling. It was unbearable. Her head was pounding and she wanted to escape her body, escape the world until she could regain her composure and objectivity.
She recalled O’Neil’s words from the other day, the edict that had so angered her that she had sliced off half her finger. It’s not personal. Whatever history she had with Genevieve, she had a case to focus on—a case with far-reaching implications for a vast number of Americans. She had never had a problem submersing herself in her work before. And now, when it mattered most, she needed to reestablish her critical distance from the situation and concentrate on the law. Her confusing feelings for Genevieve had nothing to do with her rational interpretation of the Equal Protection Clause and DOMA and the other issues wrapped up in this case.
Her car seemed to be driving itself to Alistair’s house. She hadn’t planned on that. But the list of realities she hadn’t planned for was awfully long at this point, and she was fighting so many other impulses and emotions that she couldn’t second-guess her Volvo’s destination. A quick glance in her rearview mirror confirmed that the SC policeman on duty was right behind her.
Alistair lived in a red brick house in historic Manassas. She had been there a handful of times for parties and once for a game night with all the justices. She had wondered about the wisdom of putting nine judges with staunch ideological differences into a competitive situation, but wound up having a wonderful time. Kellen, it turned out, was very good at trivia. Jamison, unsurprisingly, said little and evidently didn‘t follow sports, watch movies, read newspapers, or care about history. He was the worst Trivial Pursuit partner imaginable, but it seemed like even he’d had a good time. Alistair just seemed to bring that out in people.
Still, when she knocked on the Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired front door, she wasn’t sure if she hoped for an answer or simply silence.
She tried to smile when Alistair opened the door. If he was surprised to find her on his front porch, he didn’t show it.
“Victoria, my dear! Please, come in. Might I interest you in a Moscow Mule? They’ve got some kick.” He winked at her.
Victoria wasn’t sure what a Moscow Mule was, but she nodded and slid off her heels just inside the door. The house was quiet, and she assumed his wife was out. She followed him into the kitchen and sat at the breakfast bar when he gestured to a stool.
“I’ve been experimenting with mixology lately. I even bought a book.” He pulled two glasses out of a cabinet, dropped a couple of ice cubes into them, and began rummaging around in the cabinets devoted to his bar. He selected a vodka, pulled two ginger beers out of the fridge, and began mixing. “I perfected mojitos last week. I even tried a strawberry one—that shut my wife up for a while. She generally doesn’t see the point of all this experimenting when there are perfectly good bottles of wine in our cellar that just need to be opened.”
“I’m inclined to agree with her.”
He stopped stirring for a moment and studied her. “Really? But you love to cook.”
She thought on that a moment. “I guess it’s not really that different, is it?”
“No sir!” He grinned proudly as he placed a glass in front of her. Raising his, he offered a toast. “To old ingredients and new combinations!”
If only you knew, my friend, she thought.
They clinked glasses and she took a drink. It was strong and refreshing, and the ginger would settle her stomach.
“So. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She took another healthy drink and contemplated her answer.
“Alistair, have you ever known a lawyer arguing a case in front of you?”
“It’s rare these days that I don’t know someone arguing in front of me. The legal community, as you well know, is small and incestuous.”
Victoria’s head jerked at the last comment. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”
He peered at her a moment. “I didn’t say you were.”
She looked away, embarrassed.
“Look, it’s a little game we play,” Alistair continued, “and everyone more or less knows the rules. Kellen runs a poker game once a month and half the lawyers in the city are involved. As soon as one of them takes a case in front of the Court, he stops coming to the game until the Court issues its ruling. Michelle plays in a tennis league in Arlington with other Columbia Law grads, half of whom have appeared before the Court. Same schtick—the lawyer plays tennis elsewhere until the ruling comes down, and then she returns to Michelle’s league. There are ways to work around these things.”
“Sure, but Jason’s wife is a pretty high-profile lawyer, and she doesn’t get to take Supreme Court cases.”
“That’s true. I think that’s an arrangement they made between themselves years ago.”
In the pause that followed, she could tell that Alistair was refraining from asking why she was pursuing this line of questioning.
“Alistair, what have you given up for your career?”
He glanced down at her empty glass and his own mostly-consumed drink. “I think we need seconds.” After fussing with ingredients for a bit, he answered, “I suppose that’s a tricky question, isn’t it? I don’t know. One can never know what one doesn’t have.”
“Okay, that’s true existentially. But I’m sure there have been moments in your life when you had to decide between two things, when you knew what you were sacrificing.”
“Seems to me you’re talking about regret. That’s no way to live, Victoria. You have to live in the present—too much backward or forward thinking will drive a person nuts.”
“Ah, is that your clinical diagnosis?”
“Yep. And I prescribe Moscow Mules as medication.” He presented her with a second drink and they clinked glasses. “I noticed you have a shadow tailing you.”
Victoria turned toward the door in alarm.
“Relax, I meant the cop.”
“Oh, him. Yes. Well, I’ve been accosted by too many reporters and the Supreme Court Police got involved. They’re rather conspicuous, huh?”
“I think that’s the point. Have any inconsiderate reporters approached you since you’ve acquired your escort?”
She thought about that for a moment. “No, actually. I guess it’s working.”
“Sleeping better at night?”
“I doubt I’ll get a good night’s sleep for a while,” she said with a wry smile.
“And again, I prescribe Moscow Mules.”
She laughed and shook her head at him. “You’re nothing if not consistent.”
As the conversation moved to his garden and the fall vegetables he hoped to harvest, Victoria felt some
of the tension leave her shoulders. Her breathing grew slower and deeper, and her fingers stopped trembling. She still felt fluttery, but her visceral response to seeing Genevieve had faded substantially.
She made a mental note to buy Alistair a bottle of top-shelf vodka.
Chapter Two
She’d only been home five minutes when it hit. Part of her was surprised it waited until she had removed her shoes and earrings. Memories flooded through her, and all she could do was sit down and hold on and relive some of the most bittersweet moments of her life.
Harvard Law School, 1989
After spending June through August in DC working for the Attorney General’s office, Victoria returned to Cambridge and her cramped quarters in Gropius for her second year of law school. She found the small space oddly comforting in its familiarity. She had acquitted herself well in DC, but the cutthroat attitude that permeated every interaction, every building, even the very cobblestones of the district, was exhausting. She had a lifetime in front of her filled with posturing, eleventh-hour position changes, and social events that were more about work than mingling. For now, she could simply focus on studying the law in its many nuances. As she unpacked her suits and hung them up in her small closet, in order from light to dark, she hummed a George Michael song and thought of Genevieve.
She knew from their intermittent phone calls during the summer that Genevieve was upgrading her living situation in Cambridge. She claimed that two years was long enough to endure the depressing dorms of Gropius, and she deserved hardwood floors and Victorian molding and space. In July, she’d contacted another rising third-year, a woman named Bethany who had similarly tired of dorm life, and suggested that the two share an apartment. Bethany had remained in Cambridge for the summer as a research assistant for their admin law professor. She scouted apartments and when she called to say she’d located a charming and affordable two-bedroom in Porter Square, Genevieve mailed her a check.
Victoria heard all this through the telephone with a rising feeling of trepidation. She wasn’t exactly friends with Bethany. Truth be told, she found the blonde Texan with the big hair to be a bit of a pill. Bethany talked incessantly, about anything and everything. She could latch onto the most insignificant detail of a conversation and talk it to death. Victoria wondered at Genevieve’s choice.
And, if she was being honest with herself, she felt anxious about sharing Genevieve. She preferred it when it was just the two of them.
She tried to shake off any proprietary feelings she was having toward Genevieve and headed back to the car for another load. After a brutally humid summer in DC, she was enjoying the light, cool drizzle in Cambridge as she finished unpacking the car. The mist turned into fat raindrops when she returned from the grocery store with items for her mini-fridge and makeshift pantry. By the time she carried home her books for the upcoming semester, a full-on thunderstorm was in effect.
She slid open the two small windows in her corner bedroom and studied the rain for a long minute before pulling her hair into a messy ponytail. She longed for Genevieve, longed to hear about her summer in Chicago at the ACLU and her plans for this upcoming semester—anything, really, just to hear her voice. Her voice was thrilling. Rich and musical, like slow jazz.
She thought about calling. They had both been back in Cambridge for about six hours. She had waited long enough, right?
But it wasn’t just Genevieve’s voice that she missed. Calling wouldn’t suffice. She scooped up the slip of paper on which she had scrawled Genevieve’s new address and slipped it into her purse. There must be some shopping she needed to do in Porter Square just then. In the middle of a thunderstorm. She grabbed an umbrella on her way out the door.
A mile separated her from Genevieve’s apartment, and she spent the walk doing the same thing she’d done all summer: overanalyzing their friendship. She picked apart small gestures, insignificant touches, glances she might have imagined. They were both so circumspect in their word choice, but she still found moments when she thought they dropped their guards and truly connected.
She loathed speaking in code, and she suspected that Genevieve had tired of it as well. Maybe she should attempt a more explicit conversation about their relationship and what she hoped for.
Yeah, and maybe she should drop out of law school and learn to fly planes. She was the most risk-averse person she had ever met. If she were ever to be truly happy, she realized, she would need to take a chance on someone, to open up and reveal who she really was under the layers of masks. She wasn’t sure Genevieve Fornier was that person.
Genevieve was so infuriatingly sure of herself! And so easily sensual. She turned heads everywhere, whether they were walking around campus or climbing at the gym. She must know, Victoria thought. She had heard hints that Genevieve was something of a player, but not once since they had begun writing their parody together had Victoria heard of her engaging in any kind of liaison with anyone.
She knew she could be dense about these things. Of course Genevieve had been with people during their almost year-long friendship. She must have just missed the signs. And if she had missed those signs, what other signs had she missed? Or misinterpreted. Maybe she should just ask Genevieve about her love life.
Like she would even know how to begin that conversation.
She looked up to find that she was standing in front of the door to Genevieve’s apartment building. Without giving herself time to change her mind, she rang the buzzer next to the label marked Fornier.
“Speak,” Genevieve’s voice instructed.
God, she knew how to be direct. Why can’t I be that direct? Victoria wondered.
“Hi, stranger. It’s Victoria,” she began.
Before she could say anything else, the door buzzed and she was granted entry. As she climbed the stairs, she glanced at the closed umbrella in her hand. She’d forgotten it was there. She’d forgotten it was raining. Great, she thought, brushing her wet hair back from her forehead. That’s a way to make an impression.
She rounded the corner on the second floor and the door at the end of the hallway was thrown open. “Jesus, come inside! You know they make these things called umbrellas—”
Victoria cut off her speech by engulfing her in a soaking wet hug. “Missed you,” she said into Genevieve’s dark hair, and congratulated herself on her directness before she felt Genevieve shiver. Embarrassed by her display and the fact that she’d gotten Genevieve’s clothes wet, she tried to pull back.
But Genevieve clung to her tighter, refusing to let her go. “Missed you back,” she whispered.
Victoria pulled away enough to look into brilliant blue eyes, which were smiling.
“You look good,” Genevieve said. “Drenched, but good. And now you’ve gotten me drenched too. C’mon.” She ushered Victoria into the apartment and through her bedroom door, closing it behind them.
Victoria stood a few paces past the door, dripping on the hardwood floor, oddly still except for the trembling.
Genevieve approached her and slid off her trench coat, warm fingertips brushing against chilled skin. Victoria’s eyelids fluttered as she tried not to imagine Genevieve continuing to undress her.
The rain had seeped through the coat’s thin material, leaving her blouse wet.
“Why don’t you take that off? You can borrow something.” Genevieve glanced down at her own attire, which was marked by big wet splotches. “Guess I should change, too.”
Victoria continued to stand there, silent. She couldn’t seem to get any parts of her—brain or body—to function. All she could think about was the way Genevieve’s mouth moved when she spoke.
Genevieve began to unbutton her own shirt and Victoria’s mouth went dry. She kept telling herself to look away, but her eyes trailed down the curves of Genevieve’s back as she turned and walked toward her closet, throwing open the accordion doors.
“How was your summer? Chicago was hot. But I made some good contacts there, and I think if I want to, I’ll
be able to return to the ACLU after a couple of years in the private sector.”
Victoria couldn’t understand how Genevieve could be speaking so casually when she seemed to be simultaneously turning to ice and engulfed in flames.
Genevieve selected two sweaters from the top shelf of her closet and returned to stand in front of Victoria, who tried in vain to hide her distress. All she succeeded in doing was staring at the naked, sculpted stomach in front of her. Genevieve held out one of the sweaters, but Victoria couldn’t lift her hand to take it.
“You okay, Tor?”
Victoria nodded slightly. She dragged her gaze up Genevieve’s chest until she finally met her eyes. “I missed you,” she repeated. She reached out a hand, and with the faintest of touches, caressed Genevieve’s cheek. “God, you’re so beautiful I can’t breathe.”
Genevieve’s eyes grew and she dropped her outstretched arm, stunned.
Victoria’s fingertips trailed from her cheek down her neck and across her collarbone. She felt Genevieve’s heartbeat quicken and reminded herself to breathe. Staring at the many shades of blue in Genevieve’s eyes, she whispered, “I’m in love with you.” At least, she thought she whispered it. She wasn’t sure. She was shaking and she couldn’t tell where her fear ended and her hope began.
She barely heard Genevieve say, “Thank God.”
In an instant, they were kissing. Genevieve’s lips felt so good. Soft and sweet. Like cotton candy, substance that melted away to nothing. Or maybe it was never there to begin with, and she was imagining everything.
Genevieve’s hands threaded through her hair and their bodies melded together. Victoria wanted to crawl inside her, to wrap herself around her, to run her tongue over every inch of her. Nothing made sense and everything made sense and she thought she might faint. She pushed them backward until Genevieve was trapped against the bedroom door. Genevieve’s hands were everywhere and Victoria’s skin was humming every place they made contact. She kissed Genevieve’s shoulder, but it wasn’t enough, so she bit her too.
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