A Love that Leads to Home

by Ronica Black

  For some reason, Carla wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. But Janice couldn’t see what could come in telling her her deepest truth. If Carla was offering to lend an ear as a caring friend and only a caring friend, then she couldn’t tell her. That might jeopardize their friendship. If she was offering to lend an ear as someone more than a friend, as someone who sensed and shared in Janice’s feelings of attraction, she couldn’t tell her then either. Carla had said she wasn’t looking for love. She wasn’t interested in another relationship.

  Janice’s suspicions of Carla’s mutual attraction didn’t matter. If Carla wasn’t interested in love or relationships, then her interest in Janice was probably strictly physical. Merely sexual. And Janice wasn’t sure she could have a casual affair with her, as wildly passionate as she presumed it would be, and then be perfectly fine when she left. She was highly doubtful she could, and she didn’t know what that kind of heart break would do to her.

  Carla wanting her like that though, looking at her the way she sometimes did, did things to Janice that kept her up most nights. Carla desiring her had seemed so farfetched not that long ago and to think it might be happening seemed absolutely surreal.

  Was Carla really the type who could engage in casual affairs?

  Janice had no way of knowing, no experience in any sort of relationship outside of her marriage. But there was a tiny twinge in the back of her mind that told her that wasn’t who Carla was.

  If that were true, then what would that imply about Carla’s attraction to her?

  She glanced back up at the cardinal, curious to see if had finally settled.

  He was gone.

  “Good morning,” Carla said smoothly as she slid in next to her at the sink scooting her over. She, like Janice, was fresh from the shower and she smelled so good Janice’s legs weakened.

  “Morning.”

  Carla took the washed coffee mug from her and rinsed it. She smiled over at her with eyes that looked like liquid sunshine.

  “You’re not going to try to shoo me away from the sink, are you? Because I’ll fight. Tooth and nail. I ain’t scared of you no more. Well, not as scared as I was anyway.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “Is it now? You prefer me fearing you?”

  Janice laughed. “It has its advantages.”

  “Such as?”

  “It keeps you in line. And you do as I say.”

  “Oh, I see. You like bossing me around. Making me do what you want.”

  Oh, dear Lord, the thoughts I’m having.

  Janice dropped a plate, splashing soap bubbles onto her forearms and shirt. She could feel Carla watching her as she continued to wash, trying to appear unaffected.

  “Did I ever thank you for dinner last night?” Carla teased her, changing the subject. “Because it was spectacular.”

  “Numerous times.”

  “Well, tack on another.”

  “I guess you weren’t kidding about your love for Mexican food.”

  “More like my need. Love has been bypassed.” She grinned. “Anyway, thank you. I was having withdrawals.”

  “It was no trouble. I’m glad you liked it.”

  “You went out of your way to make those enchiladas for me. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  “I may have felt a little bad for you,” Janice said, passing her another dish. “So, I thought I’d give it a try to see if that would make you feel less homesick.”

  “You succeeded. And someday, when you come to Phoenix…” she paused and seemed to search for words. “If you ever come, I’ll do the same for you.” She cleared her throat and Janice was relieved she’d put the topic to rest. Reliving that conversation was not something she wished to do at the moment, and she’d been grateful when Carla hadn’t broached the subject again.

  Janice fumbled with a saucer.

  “You’re a really good cook,” Carla said. “I love that. I love a lot of things about you.” Her voice once again trailed off. She stared out the window and Janice wondered if she’d meant to say what she had. She spoke again and sounded playful.

  “You’re probably the most interesting person I’ve ever met.” She nudged her.

  Janice laughed. “You’re laying it on thick now, Sims.”

  “No, I’m serious. I can talk to you about anything and everything and you somehow understand. If you don’t, you’re still empathetic and willing to listen. You’re just so open-minded and you’re willing and able to look at all sides to things and to try and understand from different viewpoints. That’s brilliant, Janice. And I love it. Why do you think I sit and talk your ear off and ask you a million questions? I want to know what you know. I want to know your mind. I want to know you.” She smiled. “I don’t feel that way about many people.”

  Janice’s heart pounded. She was so moved she could do nothing but stare down at her soapy hands.

  “Did I upset you?” Carla asked.

  “No,” Janice said softly. “You didn’t—”

  “I always seem to upset you.”

  Janice could see the regret come over her face.

  She struggled to explain. “You don’t upset me, Carla. You…”

  “What?”

  “Move me. You make me…feel.”

  Carla slowly took the dish from her hand and rinsed it.

  “Is that so bad?”

  Janice dipped the last of the dinner dishes from the night before in the water and began to wash.

  “No. It’s…just different. No one has ever had that much interest in me, much less made me feel.”

  “Well, fuck them then.” She nudged her again. Softly. “Isn’t that what you said to me at the funeral?”

  “I believe I did, yes.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, do I. Because as far as I’m concerned, Janice, anyone who’s passed you by or let you get away is a fucking fool.”

  Janice dropped the bowl, this time while passing it to Carla, and it hit the center divider of the sink before it splashed into the water, causing a loud raucous.

  “Shit, sorry.” She went to retrieve it, but Carla stopped her by gently taking hold of her wrist. Neither of them moved and Janice’s pulse became a hard, thudding one that caused her to tremble. Carla had to have felt it.

  Oh, God. Will she pull away?

  Would they continue on with this palpable unspoken attraction?

  Carla answered her by slowly sliding her hand downward where her wet fingers glided into her palm. The move was so deliberate and profound, its eroticism was almost lost. Almost. But Janice definitely felt the tingle of her fingers along her sensitive palm. Every nerve ending in her hand stirred to life in the wake of her touch, and Janice couldn’t help but gasp. Carla’s delicate stroke feeling as if it were occurring some place far more intimate.

  Carla had to know. She had to know exactly what she was doing. This touching, this careful sliding of her hand in hers? This was not the touch of a novice. And it was not a mishap or an accidental collision. This was the touch of a woman who knew women. It was being done with thought and purpose.

  Carla wanted her.

  There was no mistaking it now.

  Oh, God, yes, Carla.

  Take me.

  Fucking take me.

  “Carla,” Janice whispered, desperate to say those words aloud. She looked at her, hoping she could see her need in her face.

  But Carla’s eyes were closed, and Janice watched her body shake as she exhaled.

  Oh, dear God, she’s as turned on as I am. She’s feeling it too. Both of us wanting it so badly we’re shaking.

  “Carla.”

  “Just…give me a second. Just, please.”

  She slid her fingers up into Janice’s where they weaved and caressed the sensitive inner edges, teasing and arousing. Janice clenched her eyes as a ravenous desire began to beat between her legs.

  She couldn’t take anymore. Her legs were failing
her, and it was taking everything she had not to throw herself at Carla and beg for the mercy of her touch.

  She tried to tell her. “Carla—”

  “Forgive me,” she said, stilling her hand.

  Janice waited, listening to them both breathe, convinced she could hear both their heartbeats in the air between them until Carla spoke again.

  “I—just wanted to know what your hand would feel like in mine.”

  Her words reached in and caressed her heart just like she’d managed to do with her hand. Romantics, poets, artists…nothing any of them had ever spoken or created compared to what she’d just heard from this woman.

  “Carla,” she said, trying to squeeze her hand.

  “I better get going,” she said, easing her hand from Janice and opening her eyes. The gold in her eyes was ablaze now. Glowing and burning. “I’ll be—” Her words fell as she dropped her gaze to Janice’s mouth, and allowed it to linger for a split second more. “Back this evening.”

  Janice wanted to reach out for her, take her in her arms and kiss her passionately. But Carla would resist her right now, she knew it. She could see it. As much as she obviously wanted Janice, there was something holding her back. Something that felt an awful lot like heartbreak and perhaps the fear of another one.

  I’m not the only one who’s scared.

  That somehow made Janice less afraid.

  Carla was vulnerable, unsure of acting on her feelings.

  They were one and the same.

  Carla turned to walk away just as Janice reached for her.

  “Wait, don’t go.” Not now. We should talk. Share. Confess.

  Love.

  Carla paused. “I need to, Janice. I can’t stay here with you right now. I know you won’t be able to understand why. Maybe someday you’ll be able to.” She headed for the doorway. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  She disappeared and Janice heard the front door open and close. She dropped her hand and leaned back against the sink. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, once again feeling like that crazy little cardinal.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  Should she put her feelings on the back burner and just focus on keeping Carla comfortable and supporting her as best she could until she left?

  Or should she carry on as is with her emotions and desires going up and down and all over the place with each and every encounter, with no promise of stability or rational end in sight?

  To an outsider looking in, the choice would seem obvious. But she wasn’t an observer in this situation, she was the one living it, feeling it.

  And while putting her feelings for Carla on the back burner sounded like the wise thing to do, she knew, with what had just transpired, it would be absolutely impossible.

  Because she felt more alive and aroused now, standing barefoot in the middle of her kitchen on an everyday average morning, than she ever had in her entire life.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Carla stood on Maurine’s front porch balancing tomatoes in her arms while debating whether to knock or open the door and call out as she’d done for years. She never would’ve predicted she’d have to consider such a silly thing, but it was her new reality and at the moment, it felt like a vital choice.

  She’d just come from Mr. Freeman’s office and she’d been mulling over what he’d said.

  Your grandmother didn’t make this decision lightly, Carla. She trusted you implicitly and she had every faith that you would handle things properly and fairly. Your aunt and uncles, they’ve been through tough times, and she wasn’t sure what the circumstances would be at the time of her death. She didn’t do this to cause trouble, Carla, she did this to prevent it.

  Those words were the reason why she’d decided to turn toward Maurine’s for an impromptu visit. Her aunt and uncles hadn’t had much to do with her recently and she wasn’t sure if they’d even give her the time of day. But she had to try.

  She took a deep breath, shifted the tomatoes, and knocked. Maurine’s potted plants and flowers still outlined the porch, along with a ceramic dalmatian that had been passed down for decades and would no doubt continue to be. The bench swing she used to play on back when Great-uncle Lloyd lived in the house, squeaked as it swayed in the godsend of a breeze. She used to stand on it, hold the chains, and swing as hard and as high as she could, ignoring the warnings from her elders about the danger. She’d obeyed when they’d told her to stop, but as soon as they’d disappeared, she’d been right back at it, until one day she’d pushed a little too far and she and the swing had flipped, dumping her headfirst on the edge of the concrete porch and onto the grass a few feet below. She hadn’t cried until she’d touched her head and saw all the blood. By the time Uncle Lloyd had reached her it was cascading down her forehead and face. That little escapade had resulted in seven stitches and several licks from a hickory switch. But she still liked to think that all the fun she’d had riding that swing had been worth it.

  She smiled to herself as the breeze brought a hint of another afternoon thunderstorm. The thought of Janice and of being alone with her again in the dark during a storm, possibly even tonight, helped to keep her current anxieties at bay.

  The door opened cautiously, and Maurine looked at her through the flimsy screen door. The door, like the swing, were things Maurine had yet to update on the old house and Carla was somewhat grateful. She liked coming back and finding things to be exactly like they were when she left. Like now, she wished things with Maurine were like they used to be. But in taking just a quick glance at her, Carla could see that they weren’t. Her eyes were distant beneath a faded Myrtle Beach ball cap. Carla surmised she’d been sunning on the red wood deck by the purple bikini top and cutoff jeans she wore. It didn’t take long for the scent of suntan lotion to come through the screen.

  “Hey,” Carla said softly.

  “Hey.” She sounded tired, and her face was drawn and void of any emotion, like she had lost the energy to battle or to even feel for that matter. The fight and fire she’d always had seemed to be gone, leaving her soul vacant. It struck Carla hard.

  She swallowed down tears.

  “I, uh, picked your ripe tomatoes for you. Your plants were pretty weighed down.”

  Maurine pushed open the screen.

  “Thanks.” She took the tomatoes.

  Carla hesitated with the hopes of being invited inside. When she wasn’t, her nervousness grew and she had the urge to flee, the fear of facing another rejection all too reminiscent. But she’d come to talk, and Nadine was right, running wasn’t going to solve anything.

  “I see you’ve still got your green thumb,” Carla said looking back at the thriving flower pots and numerous plants. It was a silly thing to say, but Carla was desperate to keep her engaged.

  She shrugged. “I reckon.”

  Carla shifted, the wait for the invite driving her mad.

  “Uh, would it be all right if I came in?” She slid her hands into the back pockets of her knee length denim shorts and rocked on her heels.

  Maurine didn’t hesitate very long before she shrugged again. “Yeah.” She edged the door open farther and Carla entered and followed her through the house to Maurine’s carefully decorated country kitchen. Gooseflesh erupted on her skin from the powerful cold of the windowed air conditioner wedged above the sink. Maurine didn’t seem bothered by it as she rinsed the tomatoes and placed them on a paper towel to dry.

  Carla’s close assessment of her revealed a slack to her normally strong posture. The skin below her eyes appeared dark and sunken. She’d also lost weight. Her shorts hung lower on her already thin frame, and the shoulder straps to her bikini kept slipping down her arms, evidently irritating her. She cussed under her breath every time she had to push them back up. Her fair skin was pink from the sun, especially along her shoulders and cheeks, which was the only color to her pallor. Maurine didn’t have the olive skin tone Carla and Betty had, so when she was depressed or down, she paled considerably. Ma
ybe that was why she was risking sunburn to lounge in the sun. To give herself some color. That would be the only reason Carla could come up with as to why Maurine would forego protecting her creamy skin.

  “Mind if I get a drink?” Carla asked as Maurine sliced into a juicy tomato.

  “Help yourself.”

  Carla yanked open the old fridge and retrieved two cans of Pepsi. She shook her head and smiled. She could always count on Maurine to have two things in her kitchen. Pepsi and peanut butter. The main staples of their childhood. A twelve-pack of Pepsi was chilling in the fridge and Carla figured a jar of Peter Pan peanut butter would surely be in the pantry. She had the urge to check and see, seeking some sort of nostalgic comfort to dull the nerves of the moment. She resisted and set a can of Pepsi down for Maurine, who eyed it but continued to cut the tomato. Carla slurped her soda and retrieved the Duke’s mayonnaise and loaf of white bread and set them next to Maurine’s drink. Maurine promptly dug out four pieces of bread, spread mayonnaise on all of them, and then carefully added the tomato slices. She salted the slices generously before finishing off the sandwiches with a press of her palm to the bread tops.

  She handed Carla her sandwich on a paper plate and quickly cleaned up.

  “Thank you.” Carla knew she shouldn’t be surprised at her silent generosity, but she was. The gesture stirred more tears, but she managed to hold them down.

  Maurine took her plate and drink and walked to the back door. Carla followed and they stepped into the thick heat onto the deck. She sat across from Maurine in a flower-patterned lounge chair, slid down her shades from their position atop her head, and bit into her sandwich. Maurine did the same. They were under the cover of two oversized patio umbrellas that Maurine had most likely recently positioned for a refuge from the sun. An old radio with a wayward antenna was next to her chair, promising thirty minutes of uninterrupted hit songs from the eighties. The music, along with the coconut scent of the sun screen, brought back summers from long ago when Carla used to lie out on the deck with Maurine and Janice. She’d felt so special, so grown up. They’d always included her when she’d asked and sometimes, she didn’t even have to. She recalled Janice, stretched out on her chair in a black bikini, the Wayfarers she’d saved her money for looking stylish on her face, while Maurine read fashion magazines under the cover of the umbrella, her own hot pink designer shades on her face. Carla could remember feeling a little excited at seeing Janice in her bikini, but she hadn’t understood why. She’d just known she liked looking at her. Liked looking at every last bit of her.