Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

  “Street fairs?”

  “The Castro Street Fair was last weekend, and the people-watching there was epic. I’m pretty sure Fleet Week is next week. We should go to the Marina District and check out all the pretty sailors and their little white hats.”

  “The Marina: isn’t that where all the sorority girls and frat boys live so they can keep drinking like they’re in college, only with more expensive booze they purchase with their yuppie salaries?”

  Constance laughed. “Got an ax to grind, do we?”

  “I just think: grow up and stop being so fixated on wealth.” The waiter brought their martinis, and Sam sipped expensive booze purchased with her medical school loans. She would have to eat ramen for dinner next week to stay within her budget.

  “I imagine the Marina’s a bit different during Fleet Week,” Constance said with a twinkle in her eye. “So, what have you been doing since you’ve moved here?”

  “I’ve been to a lot of farmer’s markets. I have a list of them, actually—all the ones in San Francisco—and I’m trying to go to all of them.” As soon as she said it, Sam took a healthy drink of her martini; it was definitely too soon to be this nerdy around a beautiful woman.

  “Well, I’m not that into farmer’s markets, but I have always wanted to eat at all the taco trucks in the city.”

  The implied invitation made Sam’s skin tingle. “I love tacos.”

  “Something else we have in common,” Constance said as the waitress brought their salad.

  While Constance split the salad across their plates, Sam asked, “Have you heard of El Rio? It’s not too far from here. That’s about the only other interesting place I’ve been to in the city yet. They have an amazing bloody Mary bar on Sundays.”

  Constance grinned. “I do always say the perfect way to start a Sunday is with a bloody Mary.”

  Sam adored her accent, and found herself fascinated by the way Constance’s lips formed words. It was different from how Americans’ mouths moved. Unlike the lazy way most people in this country talked, Constance’s lips seemed to have more muscles, which made it difficult to concentrate on the words she said.

  Neither of them mentioned that Thursday nights at El Rio were “Mango” parties—a women’s only event that was quite the pick-up scene—but something passed between them in the smile they shared that indicated Constance had been there before.

  “So, you live in Palo Alto?” Her question was refreshingly devoid of the judgment most San Francisco dwellers had for anyone who lived elsewhere.

  “I’ve got a studio in California Avenue.”

  “I hear those are nice. Hardwood floors, Victorian molding, the works.”

  Sam nodded. “Even a claw-foot tub. Although, truthfully, those aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. They’re kind of awkward to get into and completely lack shelf space for shampoo.”

  Constance’s eyes sparkled. “That’s a shame.”

  “About the shelf space? I don’t use that many products, so, it’s fine.”

  “No, that you don’t like claw-foot tubs. Since I have one.” Sam no longer wondered if this was a date. Constance’s knee brushed against hers as she recrossed her legs.

  Dinner lasted hours as they continued to order courses at a lazy pace and nurse martinis. At the end of the night, on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Constance linked her arm through Sam’s. When she said, “Walk me home,” she managed to make it sound like both a question and an order.

  Sam gave the only possible answer: “Which way?”

  Constance led them down Guerrero Street to Cesar Chavez, stopping at a warehouse converted into lofts. The exterior of the building looked industrial, but Sam suspected Constance’s particular unit would be warm and lushly appointed. “This is me,” Constance said, stopping in front of the door and unhooking their arms.

  “Nice neighborhood.” Studying the surrounding buildings seemed safer than looking at Constance, now that their date was ending.

  “I’m not sure it’s exactly a neighborhood. It’s sort of between the Mission and Noe, which is probably why I can afford it.” Constance planted her feet as if daring Sam to make the first move.

  “Easy access to everything, though.”

  “Including the highway to Palo Alto.” Constance paused. “I had a nice time tonight.”

  “Me too.”

  She stepped closer to Sam. “So, Fleet week. Let’s scope it out next weekend.”

  Sam enjoyed how forward Constance was with her—it was a welcome change. “I’d like that. Although, I hear the Castro movie theater has a live organist, and I’ve never been to a movie with a live organist.”

  Constance’s laughter rang in her ears like tiny bells. “Let’s do both. The Castro is devoting all next week to Greta Garbo movies.”

  Nothing like ending one date with the promise of two more. “Ninotchka, then?”

  “I’ll check what day it’s playing and let you know.” Constance’s smile, slow and playful, made Sam’s spine tingle.

  “See you there, then.” Leaning in, she lightly placed her lips on Constance’s cheek. As she pulled away, hands slid up her neck and into her hair, pulling her face back in. Soft lips captured hers. Sam’s hands went to Constance’s hips, pulling her closer. Their bodies and tongues met, and soon they were both moaning softly into each other. Sam’s hands eased up Constance’s back while Constance’s eased down her hips, then lower. Sam reached up, clutching strong shoulders as her knees grew weaker, and she swayed a little. God, those lips were so soft, and it felt divine to be engulfed in someone else’s body for once. She enjoyed leaning upwards to kiss, rather than the other way around. She broke their kiss and, looking into hooded eyes, asked, “Take me inside?”

  Constance’s heartbeat raced against her chest, and desire was etched all over her face. So Sam was momentarily taken aback when Constance took a step backward. “Not on the first date, Sam.”

  Sam swallowed, trying to calm her breathing. “Oh,” she said, feeling like a novice at a poker game showing her cards before the table had finished betting. Pulling back a little gave her perspective enough to take in Constance’s mussed hair and flushed skin; she could wait. Grabbing one of the hands still resting on her hip, Sam brought it to her lips and kissed the back of it. “I’ll see you next week, then.”

  Later that night, alone in her studio, Sam fantasized about someone other than Natalie for the first time in years.

  The reality was every bit as thrilling as her dreams. After wandering around the Marina for Fleet Week as their third date, Constance invited Sam to her loft for a drink. They didn’t get past the front door before Sam was trembling in her strong arms, her clothes opened but still mostly on, feeling exposed and dangerous and loving it.

  The next morning, Constance drove them to Mt. Tam, where they hiked a few miles until stopping at the Tourist Club for a drink and a game of chess. Reachable only by hiking, the Tourist Club sported large decks on two levels, which provided breathtaking views of the mountain and, on clear days, the Pacific. It was a rare sunny day, and both decks were littered with sweatshirts and jackets, discarded top layers that hikers toted along in the likely event of fog and chilly breezes. Although she typically wore business casual, Constance made hiking gear look more appealing than Sam thought possible.

  On the way back down the mountain, on a particularly narrow part of the path that necessitated walking single-file, Constance said, “I’m not interested in anything serious or monogamous, Sam. But if you’re comfortable with an informal arrangement, I’d like to keep dating you.”

  What does one say to that? Sure, sounds good?

  “That’s probably best for both of us,” she said as confidently as she could. But she was navigating uncharted waters. Constance talked about movies for the rest of the hike and the drive back to San Francisco, and Sam managed passable responses, c
onsidering she was trying to wrap her mind around casual dating.

  But by the time they returned to the loft, Constance erased any doubts or concerns or, hell, even thoughts Sam had.

  For the next handful of months, they saw each other at least once a week for a date that started with a Bay Area adventure and ended in one of their beds. Sometimes they played and frolicked, sometimes they grabbed each other frantically, but they never made love.

  After one particularly satisfying night in bed, when they were putting on their clothes the next morning, Sam said as casually as she could, “Hey, the Kronos Quartet is playing on campus the last day of the quarter. Do you want to go?”

  Constance pulled a sweater over her head and fluffed her hair. “Who’s that?”

  Bending over to zip up her boots allowed Sam to hide her disappointment that Constance hadn’t heard of one of her favorite musical groups. “The Kronos Quartet. There are four of them, and they play classical-crossover music. You’ve probably heard some of their music without realizing it’s them.”

  She stole a glance at Constance, who was studying her. “Sounds fun,” she said, hesitantly. “And like a date. Are you sure there’s not someone else—someone who might be more “girlfriend” material—that you want to take?”

  No one could ever accuse Constance of sending mixed messages. Sam stood and walked over to her. Taking Constance’s hands in hers, and meeting her gaze without wavering, she said, “I get it. This isn’t a long-term, serious relationship. But that doesn’t mean we can’t go on a couple of dates together. So, is this something you’d like to do?”

  After giving her a brief kiss, Constance smiled. “Sure. Looking forward to it. But we’re going to be late for our lab unless we leave now.” She grabbed her car keys and headed toward the door.

  As they pulled out of Constance’s parking space and started the long drive from San Francisco to campus, an awkward silence descended on them. By the time they had left the city limits, Sam couldn’t take the quiet any longer, so she pulled out her phone and played one of the Kronos Quartet’s performances of “Requiem for a Dream.”

  Turns out Constance had, in fact, heard some of their music without realizing.

  Sam had survived her first quarter of medical school. According to some of her professors, she’d done more than survive. After all that hard work, she was looking forward to a dark auditorium and hearing some of her favorite music live.

  It was a bit jarring to go from examining cadavers to a romantic dinner, but a quick change of clothes in Sam’s apartment helped ease the transition. While Constance put the finishing touches on her makeup, Sam checked her e-mail and smiled to find a note from Dr. West.

  Dear Samantha,

  I trust your first quarter at Stanford was as brilliant as you are. I hope you’ve settled in there, and are happy you chose an M.D./Ph.D. program. Please do reach out to Dean Randall—she enjoyed meeting you at dinner last year and will happily serve as a mentor to you during your time there.

  And, as always, I’m but a phone call or e-mail away. Keep in touch.

  Best,

  Jeremiah

  It was the perfect ending to a perfect fall term, and Sam made a mental note to write him back first thing in the morning.

  Right now, she had more immediate matters to attend to. Constance stood in front of Sam’s mirror, putting in dangly earrings. She wore a black and white wrap dress and knee-high boots, and looked utterly delicious. Sam came up behind her and rested hands on her hips, kissing her shoulder and murmuring, “you’ll be the most beautiful women in the entire auditorium tonight.”

  Constance laughed and took her hand. “You’re sweet. Shall we?”

  Their first stop was Il Fornio’s happy hour, where they enjoyed red wine and house-made gnocchi. They held hands on the drive through downtown Palo Alto, onto campus, and toward the auditorium. After nearly running over two bikers and a jogger, and mentally cursing how frustrating it was to drive on campus, she parked the car and they walked toward the moderately sized Memorial Hall, a building that housed a 1200-seat auditorium and featured the signature Mission-Revival architecture for which Stanford was known. Skirting around a fountain, they climbed a handful of steps in front of the entrance to find the folding table marked Will Call: J-M. They claimed their tickets and headed into the lobby when Sam felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to find familiar green eyes gazing at her.

  “Hi,” Natalie said, her voice barely audible.

  Sam’s heart raced and she stared, awkwardly. “What are you doing here?”

  Natalie shuffled her feet but maintained eye contact as if it were a contest and she wasn’t about to lose. “It’s the Kronos Quartet. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’ve been looking forward to this concert all semester.”

  “Oh.” It was obvious, really, and Sam chastised herself for not anticipating exactly this encounter.

  “I was sort of wondering if I might see you here,” Natalie said, biting her lip.

  Feeling at a complete loss, Sam stared, struggling to stay afloat as a sea of emotions roiled through her. She summoned the wherewithal to respond and opened her mouth, but a warm hand slid around her waist and settled on her hip, stopping her.

  “Hi, I’m Constance. And you are?” Constance’s voice sounded like a purr, and she pulled Sam closer.

  “Uh, Natalie. Hi.” As their hands met, Sam imagined she could see the way Constance’s squeeze sent shivers up Natalie’s arm.

  “It’s nice to meet you Natalie. My girlfriend and I are going to take our seats now. Enjoy the concert.” Gently but firmly, she guided Sam away.

  Sam followed meekly until they got far enough away to be out of earshot. “You don’t need to—” but Constance just squeezed her tighter. They took their seats, and Constance’s arm immediately slid around Sam’s shoulders in a very public, very proprietary way.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Sam muttered.

  “Like hell. Are you okay?”

  “I need a drink.”

  With her free hand, Constance reached into her purse and pulled out a flask. “When the lights go down,” she said.

  Sam’s guffaw drew a lot of attention, and she quickly put her hands around the flask to hide it. Only Constance would bring a flask to a concert like this.

  “Who broke up with whom?” Constance whispered.

  “I don’t think it counts as a break up if we were never really together.”

  Constance glanced over her shoulder and said, her lips an inch from Sam’s ear, “She’s two rows behind us. She’s staring at you.”

  Sam sighed. Once a week since she’d moved to the Bay Area, Natalie had left her a voicemail asking if she wanted to go to the Roller Derby, or a Giants game, or an improv show. In October she asked if Sam would join her as a volunteer for Project Homeless Connect. It was particularly challenging to delete that message. After Natalie had made so many overtures at reconnection, bushing her off like this seemed immature. That didn’t mean she was ready to rekindle their friendship though.

  “Did I do the right thing?” Constance asked, and for the first time since they’d met, there was doubt in her eyes.

  Gazing at Constance’s beautiful, open face, Sam said, “I honestly don’t know, but it means the world that you would ask.”

  Constance rewarded her with a gentle kiss as the lights in the theater dimmed and the din around them faded.

  Despite months spent eagerly awaiting the chance to hear some of her favorite music live, Sam couldn’t focus on the concert. Was Natalie looking at her? Sam hadn’t seen anyone with her—was she there alone? Would she try to talk to Sam again after the concert?

  Did Sam want her to?

  When they started playing from their “Nuevo” album, which Sam and Natalie had listened to on their way to Stowe for Thanksgiving, Sam clenched her fists and fo
ught back tears. God, this was supposed to be a nice, fun night—a reward for spending weeks dissecting cadavers. A time to be very grown up and on a date with someone she was just “seeing,” not having tortured emotional reactions to.

  When the lights came up, she turned and glanced over her shoulder, but Natalie’s seat was vacant.

  FIRST YEAR MED SCHOOL:

  SPRING 2008

  Sam walked into her apartment and unceremoniously dumped her satchel and keys on the table just inside the door. It had been another long day of studying cadavers, and she guzzled down a juice from the fridge, looking forward to dropping into bed, pulling the comforter over her head, and blissfully ignoring the world for a few hours. She’d forgotten her cell at home, and as she started to rip open the envelopes that had been stuffed into her mailbox, she dialed her voicemail and put the cell on speakerphone. The first message was from Claire, who had moved into an apartment in North Beach with Dustin, and was teaching science at a grade school in Marin. Although still set on getting a Ph.D. and going into medical research, Claire had decided to take a couple of years off and “live in the world” before rejoining the rat race of graduate school. She asked if they could meet for coffee sometime soon to catch up.

  Sam dropped the envelope in her hand when the second message began and she heard an unfamiliar male voice. “Ms. Latham, it’s Wednesday, April 11, and I’m a nurse at Fletcher Allen Hospital in Burlington. I wanted to let you know that we’ve just admitted your mother into the ER. It appears she’s had a stroke. I don’t have a lot of information just yet, but you are the ‘in case of emergency’ contact in her phone. Please call the hospital at your earliest convenience.” Sam scrambled for a pen, trying to memorize the number as she searched for paper. “Why do people always say the phone number so fast? It’s the most important information in the damn message,” she muttered. Dialing with one hand, she opened her laptop and started searching for flights with the other.