Page 76 of Meet Me in the Garden

She leads me into her room. Her bed’s soft and I’m enveloped by it. But I can’t trust it, my body won’t let me.It’s all right now, I tell myself.Just this once, just tonight. But some part of me won’t listen. She kisses me, pins me with her weight again. It all happens—all the things I dreamed about—but my mind is far away. I cry out, a bolt shooting through me, but when it’s over I’m left vacant. So many years, wanting and burying the want. My one chance and I couldn’t surrender to it.

It’s later still, in the early morning hours, that I wake in the dark. Light from the street filters through Ginny’s bedroom window and I stare for a long time at the perfect triangle of her shoulder blade. I’m safe, in her bed, and no one is watching. No one knows I’m here. I pull closer to her, my breasts against her back, and kiss her neck at the top of her spine. Her skin smells of salt. I kiss her again to taste it. She stirs, waking, and she turns, rises over me, her mouth warm from sleep and hungry.

I’m ready now. She gives me everything.

TWENTY-FIVE

IKEEP MY WORD.MORNINGcomes and I dress before Ginny wakes. I sit on the edge of her bed and touch her shoulder. She opens her eyes. “Let me make you coffee.”

I shake my head. “I have to go.”

At lunchtime, she watches me from across the room, saves an empty seat next to hers, but I sit with the girls instead. That’s all it takes. We go back to rarely speaking. Now, it’s not only me who averts my gaze when we’re near each other. A few days later, she’s at Lionel’s house when I drop by. She pretends to remember an appointment, leaves in a rush. I’ve hurt her. I’ve hurt myself. But also, I warned her. I thought that one night was better than never and she decided to go along.

Spring comes. A rainstorm. Headlines in the paper about Senator McCarthy and sexual deviants. “The thing is,” Claire says, “these people live in the shadows, so they’re more susceptible to blackmail. Once the Soviets find them, there’s no telling what a homosexual might do to save face.” Pressure in my chest. Nerves shot. Elise calls me one evening after the children are sleeping. Asks me how I am and I let it spill out, grateful for the darkness and the distance between us. I tell her about my night with Ginny, I tell her about Delphine—the agony of the hospital, theterror of her threat—the first time I’ve told it. Elise listens closely. Asks questions along the way.

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. I let her be dead. I never called again, just like she wanted.”

She clears her throat. Her voice is thick the next time she speaks. “I wish it could go another way for you with Ginny. But I understand it. You have your children to consider.”

“The strange thing is, I feel so guilty about Felix now. Not telling him.”

“But he sees men without telling you about them.”

“Yes. But Iknowthat he does. He’s made it clear. And I’m lying to him now when he’s never lied to me.”

“Could you tell him?”

I close my eyes. “I’m too afraid,” I say. “I believe that he wouldn’t tell anyone. But what if he did?”

“I know,” she says. “I understand. You aren’t doing a single thing wrong.” We’re quiet for a while, breathing together over the line. “Listen,” she finally says. “I called tonight because I’m inviting you to a dinner party.”

“Are you?” I ask. “You sound like you don’t really want me to come.”

“It’s just that I’m selfish,” she says. “I love having you all to myself. But I suppose it’s inevitable that I’ll need to share you at some point or another. Plus, I like my friends to know each other. That way, if I ever die suddenly, everyone will have a better time at the funeral.”

“Oh, Elise,” I say. “Don’t be morbid.” But I’m grateful for her jokes, the turn in conversation. A party. My first-ever invitation to her house. She tells me her home address, the date—a week away—and the time.

“Your actual house,” I say. “The place where youlive. I was beginning to worry you were ashamed of me. Or that you might be a spy.”

“Hopefully it won’t be terribly boring,” she says, and I laugh and she asks me if I’m okay.

“I am,” I say. “I’m better having talked about it.” And we hang up.

I wear my chartreuse dress, spend more time than usual on my face and my hair. Darken my brows, outline my lips in pink before applying lipstick. Rouge on the apples of my cheeks, a shimmer of eyeshadow, careful mascara. My hair is dark and shiny, loose waves past my shoulders. When I step back and appraise myself, I’m pleased. I scan the Thomas Guide for the intersection and open to the page. I’ll take Western through the city as though I’m going to the plant, but after I turn left on Hollywood Boulevard I’ll go right on Laurel Canyon and up into the hills.

I write myself a list of turns, climb the garden steps, rest my pumps and purse on the seat next to me, and I’m on my way.

It makes sense to me, turning onto Hollywood, how natural it was that we met at Pickwick’s—how I drove north and east from the plant, and she drove the same distance south and west. There’s an expansiveness to all of this. Driving through Los Angeles on my own on a Saturday night, heading to dinner with strangers, and the sensation intensifies as I climb the hills, and the road winds and bends, and everything’s lush up here—citrus trees and enormous palms; giant birds of paradise and old, unruly cactuses. A coyote slinks along the side of the road and, everywhere, so many birds. I climb higher, deeper, and I understand a bit more about Elise’s life now, passing the charming old houses and the sleek modern ones, the shiny, expensive cars in the drives. I knew a bit already, of course—her stacks of rings, her social calendar—but it’s now clear as can be.

I turn onto her street. It’s called Wonderland and I have to laugh. Huge, ancient agaves and willow trees, and here’s her address. I pull into her sprawling drive. A few cars are already parked here and there’s still plenty of room for mine. The house’s façade is flat and plain. I can’t see in at first and then I follow the path to the doorway and I’m met with a giant pane of glass. I ring and Elise answers. Opens the door to glass walls and wood ceilings and plush rugs, bright artwork and sleek European furniture and ceramic lamps and stacks of books.

She sets a glass of champagne in my hand and steers me to a grandcredenza behind the sofa. She’s in a black dress, effortless. “Canapés,” she says. “One is spinach and the other is crab.”

“I didn’t know you could cook like this,” I say, reaching for one.

“Oh, no, I don’t cook. We have a friend come by to cook for us a few times a week, and whenever we host.”