The One That Got Away (9 page)

If it had been up to me, I would have kept Jean in bed the whole week, but after all, it was her vacation.

On the night we had dinner in a tiny Middle Eastern restaurant, we looked at each other so intensely our silence seemed almost a siren, and I was surprised the other patrons didn't stare.

On the day I called in sick, we took a round trip on the Staten Island ferry. I loved the view coming back toward Manhattan. The buildings seemed all pressed together, without space. I told Jean it reminded me of a scene in an illuminated manuscript. Then we went shopping in the Village. Jean bought me a t-shirt and I bought her a ring she'd admired—a plain, silver band inlaid with a black enamel triangle.

On Jean's last day in New York, we sat on a bench in Riverside Park and watched the Hudson River flow by. Jean kissed me, and even as some small part of me worried we might be attacked, a much bigger part of
me, stocking up for the cold time ahead, wanted to have as much of her as possible.

Jean cried first, smearing tears over her cheeks with the back of her hand.

That was all I needed to set me off. “I'm afraid no one will ever love me,” I sobbed.

“B.D. you'll always be my baby dyke.”

I liked the sound of that. It wasn't like my mother saying I would always be her baby when I was no longer a baby, either physically or mentally. But Jean would always be my first time and later lovers would not change that.

Chapter 8

Bridget and Natalie had just returned from celebrating their third anniversary, and Bridget had asked me to meet them for brunch. Natalie had invited Maxine. Although Bridget and Natalie had been dating for three years, this was their first trip together, for Bridget preferred to go to places where there was at least the possibility of a coup d'état, while Natalie sought the coup of a bargain. Rarely, if ever, did these objectives coincide in one location. Finally they compromised, which meant, I gathered, that Bridget had acceded to Natalie's wishes this time with the understanding that at some unspecified future point Natalie would proffer some sort of quid pro quo. And, as a practical matter, retail is easier to get to than revolution, especially if all you have is a long weekend.

“So what did you do up in Maine?” I asked.

“I dared Natalie to try the lobster at McDonald's. And she shopped for shirts for me at the L.L.Bean store after she tore my favorite one,” Bridget said. She turned to Natalie. “I would have taken it off if you asked. You didn't have to rip it.”

I forced myself to swallow a bit of Belgian waffle while
I digested the implications of what Bridget had just said. There is no trouble that cannot be cured by a Belgian waffle.

“I told you I'd buy you a new shirt to replace it and I did,” Natalie said.

“But it had been washed to just the right amount of softness,” Bridget said. “The new shirts will be scratchy and I'll have to start all over again.”

“Who took care of your cats?” I asked.

“My friend Dana. Alice B. coughed up a really huge hairball on the bathroom floor, and Dana stepped on it when she got up to pee in the middle of the night.”

“You had quite a few hairballs too,” Natalie said, smirking at Bridget, who blushed and frowned, shaking her head.

I imagined grinding Natalie's face into her eggs Benedict. “How was the weather?” I asked, and glanced up from my plate across the table.

Maxine didn't seem to have much of an appetite. Slumped in her chair, she was sculpting her scrambled eggs with her fork.

“We have more important things to discuss than the weather, B.D. I hear you finally got some,” Bridget said.

“Where did you hear that?” I suddenly felt quite shy about Jean. But since I continually speculated about Bridget's sex life, it seemed only fair to allow her to inquire about mine.

“The lesbian community is like those tribes that live hundreds of miles apart, with no apparent means of communication, yet somehow they know everything that's going on with each other,” Bridget said.

“We ran into Eduardo on Christopher Street,” Natalie told me.

When I'd returned to work after my first night with Jean, Eduardo had looked at me, put his hands on his
hips and declared, “B.D., I'm glad to see you finally have that W.L.L.”

“What?”

“Well Laid Look. It's clear what you did last night.”

I didn't have to say anything; my flaming face said it all.

Now, at the brunch table, I felt my face go red again.

“Come on, B.D.,” Bridget said. “Spill. Who is she? Where did you meet her? What does she look like? And when do I get to meet her?”

“You won't be able to,” I said. “She's already gone back to England.”

“I've found an ocean to be very useful in terms of managing a relationship,” Maxine remarked.

I ignored her. “Her name is Jean,” I said. “She lives in London, and was here on vacation. I met her in the subway.”

“You picked up someone in the subway?” Clearly, Natalie did not approve.

“Actually, Jean picked me up,” I said.

“B.D., I'm very happy for you,” Bridget said. “It's a shame that it was just a fling.”

“Why?” Maxine asked. “What's wrong with a fling? I have them all the time.”

“That's fine for you,” Bridget said. “but I'd like to see B.D. with someone who will stick around.”

I thought I knew why. Bridget assumed that if I were involved with someone, my crush on her would disappear. She was wrong, of course. My experience with Jean made me want Bridget all the more. As Erica had suggested the night of our Scotch-tasting adventure, I was in training, preparing myself for the marathon that really mattered. Jean had been a sprint; I was ready for a longer race.

Chapter 9

The white limousine stopped in front of the McKnight house. It wasn't the home Bridget had left when she was seventeen; the McKnights had moved since then. Eduardo and I walked up the cement path to the door with its fake forsythia wreath. Mrs. McKnight opened it before we could ring the bell. “Nancy can't decide which earrings to wear,” she said, ushering us inside.

“I thought we all agreed on the diamonds,” I said.

“Yes, but last night at the rehearsal dinner her grandmother gave her a pair of pearl earrings.”

I caught a glimpse of a porcelain figurine-filled living room as I started up the stairs to the second floor. It could have passed for a Lladro museum.

“Hurry up, B.D.,” Eduardo muttered. He loathed Lladro.

Nancy looked very nice in the dress Natalie had selected for her. Her hair and makeup had been professionally done. After she tried on both pairs of earrings for me, I suggested that she stick with the diamonds as we had originally planned.

Bridget was already at the church. Natalie had not been invited. “My mother was freaked out when she
heard I would be wearing a tux,” Bridget had told me. “I didn't want to have to deal with her reaction if I asked to bring my girlfriend.”

When we arrived at the church, I was pleased to note that Bridget looked as good as I had imagined she would. I didn't get a chance to compliment her, for she was talking to the wedding guests.

Everyone was finally seated and the ceremony began.

Because of my job, I've been to more weddings than most people. Yet I still find the wedding itself, whether in a church or synagogue, backyard or country club, to be very moving.

When the pastor asked Nancy if she took Scott to be her lawfully wedded husband, I wasn't the only one who held my breath for what seemed to be an interminable interval. After Nancy said, “I do,” the entire bridal party, including the bride and groom, as well as the congregation, seemed more relaxed.

Chapter 10

Being subservient can get on your nerves. I closed the apartment door behind me, grateful that I'd left the rest of humanity outside. I wondered how married people managed, when they came home growling and found yet another person expecting something, needing something.

I kicked off my pumps, unzipped, then dropped my pants and rolled down my pantyhose. Within minutes I had shed my work clothes and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. Sliding my feet into a pair of rubber flip-flops, I shuffled into the kitchen.

I fed Truffle, and started boiling water for spaghetti. Then I opened a jar of sauce, spilling half of it into a pot. Sometimes I eat at the sink right out of the pot, but tonight I had junk mail to read, so I transferred the piles of paper from the table to my bed and took out a placemat.

While I waited for the water to boil, I reviewed the day. Linda Pennie's wedding was only weeks away but she had yet to select a gown, claiming she wanted to lose more weight.

The menu for the Greve-Lesser wedding was proving
to be problematic—between the bride and the groom and their immediate families, a variety of food allergies had to be addressed: lactose intolerance, wheat products, peanuts, strawberries and cherries.

The water was boiling. I stirred in a handful of spaghetti.

Then there was Alexandra Nitschke, soon to be Alexandra Nitschke-Voloch. Alexandra had amazing hair—setter red, wavy, Lady Godiva-length tresses. It was easy to picture Alexandra as a faerie queene bride, flowers twined through her rippling curls, or in a square-necked, flowing gown with sleeves that hung like icicles below her wrists, perhaps a long, hooded cape buttoned to her shoulders. A creamy brocade, with pearl and gold bead embroidery, the lining of the sleeves and cape a golden silk, and a diadem on her head in lieu of a veil. But Alexandra wanted something a little less dramatic. And though she lacked imagination in terms of her apparel, she had a unique vision of what she wanted the theme of her bridal shower to be.

“I want a tool shower,” Alexandra said.

When she announced that, Eduardo swallowed his coffee and put the cup down gently, as if there were nothing unusual about the request.

“You see, I don't wear lingerie, and my kitchen is pretty well stocked. But Eugene and I want to buy a little fixer-upper, and I don't have many tools.”

I made a note in the file: “Wrench for a wench; True Value instead of Tiffany's.” I loved the concept. I pictured the invited guests, accustomed to shopping for wineglasses and cookware, inquiring about drill bits instead. I imagined a set of screwdrivers wrapped up in paper with lacy pink parasols and a curly bow.

“Well, give us a day or two to come up with some options,” Eduardo said, rising to show Alexandra out.

When he returned I said, “You handled that very well, Eduardo.”

“Would you like to take this one on, B.D.? I think it's more in your line of experience, don't you?”

“Because I'm a lesbian? For someone who plays with gender the way you do, I think you're being a little—provincial, Eduardo.”

He started to reply, but I raised my hand. “I'll do it. Not because I'm a lesbian, but because I like the idea.”

Now I put the pasta on a plate, poured the sauce over it, sprinkled a large tablespoon full of Parmesan cheese on top, and sat down at the table, wondering if Home Depot offered a bridal registry.

I opened the invitation with Natalie's return address. I recognized the stationery as one that Eduardo and I often recommended our clients use for their thank-you notes.

The details were handwritten in what appeared to be a fountain pen. “You are invited for brunch at the home of Natalie Lamont to celebrate Bridget's birthday, April 1 at noon.”

I wondered what I would wear. Jeans seemed too casual.

I put the invitation aside and went on to the first of several mail order catalogs. Initially, they didn't look worth perusing: stained glass lamps in the shapes of a rooster and a swan; an elaborately framed still life of a violin, some sheet music, and a bunch of pink daisies; a sculpture of a leering rabbit with one bent ear. But I became intrigued by the simulated security camera, the turquoise palm tree CD holder, and the Victorian birdcage, complete with decorative bird. When I saw the lampshade with the Dallas Cowboys logo, I decided to order one for Bridget for a birthday present. According to the description, I could choose from any NFL, NBA, AL, or NL team logo.

I tried to recall the names of the New York football teams. One was the Giants, the other was—the Jets. Which would Bridget prefer? I had no idea. Then I remembered that the Jets were a gang in
West Side Story
. I figured Bridget would appreciate the Broadway tie-in.

I left the page with the lampshades open and turned to the latest Victoria's Secret catalog. I always felt a little guilty looking through one of these. Somehow it just didn't seem right for a lesbian—even a femme—to have a Victoria's Secret charge account. I felt as if I was letting lesbians all across the country down by wanting to look like the models. From puberty on, I had yearned to be a woman in a perfume ad. I tried dressing my peasant body in tiny floral print dresses, but of course it didn't work.

People kept asking me why I didn't just forget about Bridget. Her friend Dana and I had been exchanging emails, and I had come to think of Dana as she-who-explains-Bridget. Dana checked in with me on a regular basis, monitoring the status of my affections.