The One That Got Away (4 page)

I could hear Annalise in the background. “Tell B.D. to go to the community center and find out what film is on the program.”

“But Lisey, B.D. can get that from the community center's web site; she doesn't have to go there,” Ellen said.

Over the clatter of pots and pans, I heard Annalise say, “I want her to go there. B.D. is a dyke-in-training. She needs to check out the community center. Tell her to ask about the dances too.”

“Did you hear that?” Ellen asked me.

“Yes,” I sighed.

Entering Ozmosis had been a bit unnerving, but walking down the sidewalk to the community center's doorway was like running a gauntlet. Men and women leaned against the side of the building and clustered at the edge of the sidewalk, chatting in couples and groups, some smoking cigarettes. I wondered whether the women were looking at me, and if they were, what they were thinking.

In the lobby, people gathered around a small board propped up on the reception desk. A lanky young man with bleached hair and an inch of dark roots sat behind
the desk. A short, older woman with a tangled coif pushed her way through the crowd, the hem of her raincoat skimming the floor. “Where is the meeting?” she asked.

“Which one?” the man replied.

“The meeting. There's supposed to be a meeting here,” the woman said peevishly.

“There are several groups meeting here tonight. What is the name of your group?”

“I just want to know where the meeting is,” the woman whined. She turned to me. “Do you know where the meeting is?”

“No, I don't. I'm sorry.”

A younger woman in a tailored navy pantsuit approached the desk. “Excuse me, but what room is the adoption group in?”

“Which adoption group?” the man asked. “Lesbian Couples Committed to Each Other and Contemplating Adoption or Lesbians with Issues About Being Adopted?”

I noticed a bulletin board with lots of flyers. There was one for Lesbian Film Night. I dug around in my purse for paper and a pen to write down the information. A man with thick, curly black hair came and stood beside me. I looked up at him, and he offered his hand.

“Ahmed.”

“B.D.”

Ahmed showed me an index card with “Cook for hire” plus a phone number, and pointed to the bulletin board. “May I?”

I shrugged. “I guess so, if you can find a spare thumbtack.”

Ahmed seemed puzzled, so I just nodded my head, and he smiled. I wondered where he was from, and if he knew just where he was.

As I began jotting down the details of an upcoming dance, Ahmed read some of the other messages on the board. He tapped me on the shoulder and ran his finger underneath the words Turkish massage. “What is this?”

I pretended to knead invisible shoulders with my hands, though for all I knew hands and shoulders might not be involved, as the masseuse gave only a pager number.

Ahmed nodded and smiled. “Coffee?” He pointed to me and then to himself.

I sighed. Here I was in the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Community Center, surrounded by lesbians, and the only expression of interest had come from a man. Somehow, I knew Annalise would not approve. And I wondered what it might mean in terms of my new life as a lesbian.

Chapter 3

By the end of October, we had managed to get Nancy to narrow her choices for a bridal gown down to eight, and we were all back at Orange Blossom Thyme so she could try them on again. Bridget had apparently decided to call in some heavy artillery, for she announced, “I asked Natalie to meet us here.”

Nancy wavered between terror and reproach. “Oh, Bridget,” she whimpered.

If there'd been any traffic in the shop when Natalie came through the door, she'd have drawn the attention of the drivers away from the car in front of them. From her honeyed head that had seemingly never had a bad hair minute to her thoroughbred ankles, Natalie exuded chic.

We were a ragtag and bobtail group, greeting her. Bridget wore her usual jeans, oxford shirt, and boat mocs. The shop owner, Gloria Hewitt, looked like Cinderella before her godmother arrived, and my magenta silk blouse had creases at the elbow and waist. Only Eduardo began to approach Natalie's elegance. He took one look at her suit and whispered, “Armani,” as though he were offering up a prayer.

Natalie wasted little time on introductions before turning her attention to the gowns, arranged in a row like suspects in a police lineup. She gave each one the concentrated deliberation of a witness trying to identify the perpetrator. Eventually she pointed to Number Six and said, “Let me see that one on you.” Nancy scurried into the dressing room.

Bridget and Natalie didn't kiss or touch, but suddenly I couldn't swallow or speak. I could, however, hear the little Topo Gigio in my head sweetly asking me why Bridget had never mentioned her girlfriend.

Of course, I'd experienced selective omission before. Once, a man I'd been dating ate the entire dinner I'd prepared for him before he got around to mentioning that he was getting married to the former girlfriend he'd just returned from visiting.

While all of us waited for Nancy to emerge from the dressing room, Natalie turned her attention to me. “That color looks good on you.”

If I'd had any spunk I would have said, “I know. That's why I'm wearing it,” but if the queen singles you out for a compliment, just say thank you.

Nancy left, having acquiesced to Bridal Gown Number Six, and I had the satisfaction of crossing an item off our checklist. Bridget and Natalie were scarcely out the door when Eduardo proclaimed, “When God was handing out fabulous bone structure, that one snuck back in line for second and third helpings.
¡Qué divinura!
She looks better without makeup than most of our clients after an hour and a half with a cosmetician.”

“Don't you think they make an odd couple, Eduardo?” I asked.

“In what way?”

“Well, if they were dogs, Bridget would probably be a golden retriever. With a red bandana,” I said. “And Natalie would be a champion show dog—maybe a saluki.”

“But the saluki might be weary of the show circuit, secretly craving a bit of rough and tumble with a rambunctious retriever,” Eduardo purred. “And what a thrill for the retriever—humping a high-class, beautiful bitch. I bet those two have great sex.”

It seemed a bit unfair to me that Natalie should have great bone structure and great sex too. But God does play favorites.

Eduardo looked at me. “Even though you want nothing more than to go home and eat Cherry Garcia by candlelight while you listen to torch songs, that's all the more reason for you to go out. Brooding is for hens, B.D.”

Eduardo knew me too well. I was already indexing Ben & Jerry's flavors, hearing “I Don't Stand a Ghost of a Chance with You.” When I got a break I called my friend Erica. We'd gone to art school together. Although, as I'd told Bridget, I hadn't been out to myself back then, Erica had been. I wanted to hear what she thought about the situation. “Do you have any plans for tonight?” I asked.

“Nope. What do you have in mind?”

“I thought we could do a Scotch tasting.”

“What?”

“Like a wine tasting, but with Scotch.”

“Is this some sort of event planning thing?” Erica asked.

“No. I want to go to a bar and order different kinds of Scotch.”

“I'd better go with you, if only to make sure you take a cab home. Although I'm sure the story will be interesting.”

“What story?”

“The one you're going to tell me while you're sampling Scotch.”

Erica had the placid air of a Renaissance Madonna. Even her fine, dark hair, spun from the velvety center of a black-eyed Susan, refused to succumb to static. Over the years, I'd come to appreciate the irony that lay below. I'd seen her through some dissolute days; she was more jaded than Mick Jagger.

In the bar I stared at the menu. “It's just names and years of aging,” I said. “Can't they give little descriptions, like Starbucks?”

Erica ordered two different brands for us and asked, “So B.D., what has brought you to this state?”

“I've met the woman of my dreams, and she's turned out to be someone else's reality.”

Erica nodded. “Not an uncommon problem. Is she monogamous?”

“I assume so.”

“Never assume, B.D. Ask her.”

“I can't!” I said.

“Why not?”

“She'll know I'm attracted to her.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Erica, you know that I have a lot of experience in these matters. A lot of experience. When someone finds out that I'm attracted to them, it's not exactly like the Prize Patrol has shown up at their door. It's more like they've gotten a gift they don't really want and they're trying to figure out how they can get rid of it.”

“B.D., I think you need to buck up your self-esteem a little,” Erica said. She sipped her drink. “Do you really want this woman to be your first? Don't answer right away—think about it. The first time with a new person can be unnerving for anyone, gay or straight, but you're facing a double whammy—it's not just your first time with a particular woman, but your first time with any
woman. Would you run the marathon as your first race? Think of this as an opportunity, B.D. While the woman of your dreams is hitched to her girlfriend, you can be out there getting your sexual sea legs. Then, if they break up and she's interested, you'll be ready. You could also meet someone who will make you forget about her.”

It might have been the Scotch, but I thought that Erica had made some good points.

“And if she is interested in you, knowing that other women find you sexy may increase her interest.”

Chapter 4

Nancy inquired about our special, custom-designed “trousseau tour,” which was basically a lingerie shopping excursion with a light lunch or tea included, courtesy of our company. This was something I'd put together, as I knew practically every source for lingerie in town—Madison Avenue boutiques, department stores, Victoria's Secret, plus one or two places that could be counted on to offer the truly tacky outfit I usually advised clients to buy because, as I assured them, “When it comes to lingerie, most men have limited imagination and even less taste.” No one ever challenged this statement.

In addition to outfitting Nancy for her wedding day and honeymoon, I hoped to persuade her to allow Bridget to wear a tuxedo instead of a dress.

Bridget declined to accompany us. “I've seen my sister in her underwear plenty of times.” But she agreed to meet me for a movie after the tour—the restored version of
My Fair Lady
was playing.