Touchwood

  Touchwood

  Twenty-nine-year-old Rayann Germaine, betrayed by her lover, flees in grief and rage. She meets rare book dealer Louisa Thatcher, a woman many years her senior, who offers shelter and work… and soon, passion, and a loving place in her life.

  But Rayann encounters challenges to this new love - from friends who question its wisdom, from her mother who disapproves of this liaison with a woman her own contemporary, from Louisa's son who learns for the first time his mother's true sexuality.

  And there are profound differences between Rayann and Louisa themselves, two women who come from dramatically different places in the spectrum of age and life experience.

  Touching

  The trees have kept the sun in their branches. Veiled like a woman, evoking the past, Dusk goes by weeping . . . And my fingers Follow, quivering, the line of your thighs.

  My clever fingers linger with the shudders of your flesh under your soft petaled gown ... The art of touching, complex and curious, equal to the dream of perfumes, the miracle of sound.

  I follow slowly the contour of your thighs, your shoulders, your neck, your unappeased breasts. My delicate desire holds back from kisses: It grazes and swoons in the white voluptuousness.

  From Muse of the Violets (Evocations) by Renee Vivien [1877-1909]

  Translated from the French by Catharine Kroger

  Reprinted with permission

  1

  Wormwood

  Numb with shock, Rayann backed out of the bedroom.

  Look again. Maybe this is just a hallucination.

  No. The soft noises, the moaning — too real to be anything but here and now.

  She shut the front door with a faint click, then walked quickly down the stairs to the street. She didn't look back, didn't know if Michelle had seen her or heard her strangled gasp. She didn't want to know if Michelle had stopped, if Michelle would follow her, if Michelle would try to explain. Explain? No explanation, there could be no explanation.

  She heard Michelle call her name, then scream at her to come back. So she heard me... I'm surprised, since she was so intent... Rayann began to run.

  How long has this been going on? How many have there been? How many times has Michelle poised in just that way, with just that look, but not over me? She said I was the only one. Said she loved me —Market Street, finally. Sides aching from the uphill run, Rayann stumbled out of the late-afternoon chill into the Muni station, fumbling in her backpack for three quarters and a dime. Damn, not enough change. In a panic, she fed a dollar bill into the change machine but the machine rejected it. With shaking hands she smoothed the edges and unbent the corners. Why didn't I buy a Fast Pass? Because she didn't have enough cash and Michelle hadn't been to the ATM recently. Finally, a bill went in and she scrabbled her change out of the dish, then ran to the turnstiles. She didn't stop to wonder where instinct was taking her. She pushed the button for a transfer and kept running.

  Blame? She blamed the penny pinchers at the old college. They declared it wasn't sufficiently cold to waste energy on heating yet. The chill of the classroom had been too cold for extension students with only a marginal interest in wood sculpting. Too cold for the housewives who'd figured out they wouldn't have enough time to make all the Christmas presents with which they'd intended to amaze and astonish their friends. She'd hurried home through the cold, damp afternoon, reveling in the richness of the fall air, knowing Michelle was off-duty. She had wanted to sit for a while in front of a cozy fire. Wanted to surprise Michelle with extra hours together — lately there had been so few.

  The bar looked the same. The women looked the same. Her reflection in the mirror behind Jilly looked the same — wide hazel eyes, indifferent brown hair curling and brushing at her shoulders, shoulders too wide for her size-twelve frame. Maybe she was paler than usual. Her nose was red but it was probably just the cold. She ordered a Tanqueray and tonic. Jilly brought it.

  "You look tired," Jilly said.

  Rayann shrugged. She couldn't talk. She carried her glass over to the jukebox. Leaning on it, she thought of Bette Davis leaning on the piano in All About Eve. Fasten your seat belt, Rayann, it's going to be a bumpy night. She took a healthy swallow of her drink and promptly choked on it. Some Bette Davis you are — do you think if she'd caught her lover like that she would have run? Coughing, she managed another swallow, then drained the glass in three more. Gin wasn't going to solve anything, but it might ease the pressure before she exploded.

  So what are you going to do about it? Fight for her? Rayann pictured herself as a female Gary Cooper, facing some nameless blonde interloper who stood framing her womanhood at the end of a long, dusty street. Rayann started to giggle, realized she wouldn't stop once she started and went to the bar for another drink. She ignored the puzzled look Jilly gave her as she went back to lean on the jukebox again.

  A young couple came in, a blonde and a redhead, hugging each other, holding hands, making lovesick eyes — so young and in love it hurt Rayann to watch them. She doubted either of them had said goodbye to their teens, and noticed Jilly doubted it too, though she didn't kick them out. Jilly gave them a stern look as she brought them club sodas, her eyes daring them to try to order anything else. Rayann remembered that look when it had been directed at her a long, long time ago.

  The baby blonde danced by herself over to the jukebox. The redhead's eyes never left her — the gaze was proud and indulgent and proprietary. The blonde looked Rayann over and Rayann wondered if she were assessing Rayann's hands or her mouth, thinking maybe she wasn't too bad for Pushing Thirty.

  The blonde scanned the record list. "Wow, it's got Melissa," she said. Her fashionably tousled curls looked as if she had just come from bed. The half-dozen earrings piercing her delicate lobe winked at Rayann. "Half these people I never heard of. Like what are Vandellas, anyway? But I love Melissa. She's been there, you know."

  Been where? What do you know about anything but here and now? Just wait until three years of your life melt away in less than a heartbeat. Rayann was at most only twelve years older, but she felt as if she had as much in common with this woman as she did with an infant.

  The child-woman dropped in a quarter, pushed some buttons and danced back across the floor to her waiting partner. The redhead glanced briefly at Rayann, then away with a shrug of her leather-clad shoulder. She knew Rayann was no threat.

  Three years with Michelle and Rayann had forgotten all about the games. For three years she had spent most of her time at a table-for-two in the tea room, not in the bar. For three years there had been only one woman.

  The interminable, endlessly-only-you love song on the jukebox finally faded to a close. The records whirred, clicked, and the low beat of Melissa Etheridge pulsed against Rayann as she leaned on the jukebox and wondered how long it would be before Michelle looked for her here. She couldn't let Michelle find her. That's assuming that she cares enough to come looking. No sign of her yet, and she has a car.

  Her hands flat on the top of the jukebox, Rayann kept time with the bass, lightly slapping the beat. Melissa's whisper surged into throaty, burning agony, and the jukebox throbbed the anguish of an unfaithful lover. She has been there, or she's a real good faker. Rayann swallowed the last half of her drink as Melissa cried "Bring Me Some Water" — Rayann screamed with her in silence, beating the bass line on the jukebox with her palms, then with her fists.

  Firm hands pulled her away from the jukebox. "Stop it, stop it! What*s wrong? Ray? Look at me!" July's fingers dug into Rayann's shoulders.

  Over July's shoulder she saw the baby blonde and the redhead on the dance floor, hip-to-hip, crotch-to-crotch, frozen with hands in each other's back pockets as they stared at Rayann. Everyone was staring at Rayann.

  "Rayann, what's w
rong?" Jilly persisted.

  "A lie." She pointed at the young couple and their happy-ever-after eyes. "A goddamned lie." Jilly looked at them, and Rayann slid away from her, around the jukebox, out the door. She ran.

  Her mind and body still remembered the combination journey from the bar to the house where she'd grown up. Muni, transfer to the Noe Valley bus, then to the one that took her up to Diamond Heights. She walked slowly through the neighborhood — wide streets, stately, columned houses set back with impressive spreads of lawn between them and the world. The streets were silent and empty of cars despite the rush hour grid locking the rest of the city. Rayann could almost feel the burglar alarms monitoring each door and window.

  She stood in the driveway of her mother's house for a moment, mentally sketching a memory of her mother standing next to the car, hollering at her to shake a leg — they were going to be late for dancing lessons. One of the last things she and her mother had done in a mother-daughter-it'll-be-fun manner was to take the dancing lessons. How ironic that Rayann had been more comfortable leading. How ironic that the boys at the country club had found it impossible to dance with her. Instead of making her more socially adept, dance lessons had underlined how out of step Rayann had been with her mother's world.

  Not long after that had been the day she had learned why the other girls' bodies intrigued and embarrassed her. The day she had seen two women holding hands as they walked and not told herself they were probably just good friends. The day she had realized why her gym teacher, a client of her mother's, an older cousin, a waitress, a Naval officer in dress blues, her mother's secretary — women in all their differing guises — attracted her with their common strength, power and grace. The day she had felt no need to look further outside herself, only within.

  Shaking herself out of pointless reverie, she walked briskly up the drive as if she belonged there. There had been several times when Rayann had wanted to throw the key to her mother's house away, or, when severely tried, actually at her mother. Now she was glad it was on her key ring where it had been since she was ten. It still fit the lock and the sound of the empty house was soothingly familiar. A warning alarm shrilled and she quickly punched in the code.

  Rayann put her backpack and keys on the entry table, then hung her coat on one of the teak pegs protruding from the wall-mounted coat rack. Smiling fondly, she traced the delicate maple leaf border on the mounting board, remembering the hours spent working out the pattern with her mother, then the time spent actually carving the teak. The task had been fun and she knew her mother loved the finished product. But the fun had been before Michelle — before the memorable evening she had brought Michelle home and said, "Mom, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

  Turning away, Rayann sighed. The gin had succeeded in making her woozy, but at least Melissa Etheridge was no longer moaning over and over in her head.

  On the refrigerator was the usual note from the housekeeper explaining what was prepared for dinner and heating instructions. Her stomach growled, and Rayann wondered if salad, curried turkey slices and fruit compote would stretch to two. She looked at the neatly wrapped containers. It might. She also looked, to no avail, for the pie or cake that had always been left in the refrigerator by all the previous housekeepers ever since Rayann was a little girl. Mom must be getting diet-conscious.

  She found some cardboard-flavored crackers and carried them with her from room to room, then up the curved staircase, munching loudly to fill the empty spaces, but making sure she left no trail of crumbs. It had been almost a year since she had been home. Excuses not to come to dinner and not to make the holidays had been easy when Michelle's schedule was so erratic to suit classes and residency.

  The thought of Michelle sent angry, despairing shivers through Rayann. What am I going to do? She sat down on her old bed, looking around the room that was unchanged from when she had lived at home. She had moved out midway through college, just after changing her major from business administration to art. Her mother had been disappointed, but after years as a marketing executive Ann Germaine was too appreciative of the powers of creative design not to encourage Rayann in her chosen field. She had only cooled her encouragement — and financial support — when Rayann had expressed a desire to make a living as a wood sculptor. Rayann had been infuriated by her mother's suggestion that she was being impractical. Damn it, another thing she was right about.

  In their last real fight, when Rayann had still cared enough about what her mother thought to argue with her, her mother had said that Rayann was too dependent on Michelle for love, support and money. She'd said something about eggs and baskets, and Rayann had been livid, retorting that if Michelle were a man, her mother would think it only too appropriate for Rayann to be completely dependent on her husband.

  It only occurred to her now, as she finished the last cracker, that she had agreed with her mother about being dependent. Gender aside, she was too dependent on Michelle. That was abundantly clear.

  What am I going to do? Michelle — who paid the rent, owned the car, bought the food, paid for the vacations — was in love with someone else, or at the very least, in lust with another woman. I've been trusting the happy-ever-after feeling and since it was expedient, I let her own everything. Rayann's own balance sheet was as devoid of value as Michelle's commitment. What kind of options did she have? Rayann rolled over on her back and decided to be rational, at least for the moment.

  Option One. Forgive and forget. Impossible. She would never forget the sight of Michelle's arms around another woman's body, her mouth wet with another woman's passion. The artist in her had caught that image permanently. Someday, as therapy, her artist self might sketch it. Then the non-artist self would burn it or throw darts at it or stick pins in it. No, forgetting was out.

  Option Two. Just forgive. Rayann studied the muted geometric pattern of the wallpaper as she considered this option. She might be able to forgive, if Michelle promised to be true. Rayann laughed harshly, startling herself as her voice broke the stillness of the room. Get real. She was doing it with another woman in YOUR bed, on YOUR favorite sheets. Don't get angry, not yet. Think! She rolled over onto her stomach with a groan. Thinking was so hard. So, can I forgive Michelle? Forgiving would be hard, if not impossible.

  Option Three. Leave her. Even as Rayann considered the idea, she was amazed at how her mind had divided into pieces, all objectively examining different options. One part wanted to run back to the apartment and throw a couple of dishes around, while her logic said violence would help nothing. Another part wanted to plead for understanding and forgiveness, though her anger reminded her that Michelle was the one who ought to beg. Yet another part of her wanted to step back and make a concrete plan, think things through, concluding with a sound decision based on all the facts available. She was going down on another woman in your bed on your favorite sheets. That's a little beyond heavy petting. What more do you need to know?

  Another part of her brain told her to aspire to something better while the small part that kept track of mundane details remembered her empty savings account. She needed a place to live (not to mention a reason), which would require a job. She was not destitute, or homeless — for which she was thankful — but at the age of twenty-nine it was not pleasant to discover that she had no foundation to build on. Most of the people I went to college with are probably invested in pension plans by now.

  Knowing that Michelle was more than able to meet the rent, Rayann had given up her budding career in commercial art and graphic design to be a full-time artist, with Michelle's encouragement and approval. It would give them more time together, they had agreed. It would strengthen their relationship, they had said.

  Deep inside, where her mind would not go, a raw hurt pulsed. She wanted to give in to it and cry. She wanted to feel the pain and have a grand catharsis of weeping and wailing, tear her hair and beat her breast.

  She heard the whir of the garage door opening, then her mother's key in
the lock. Instantly the house seemed filled with sound and energy. The quick click of heels tapped through the kitchen, then stopped in the foyer.

  "Rayann? Where are you?" Her mother's modulated voice did not sound surprised. But then again it rarely did.

  "In my room." It is my room, isn't it? I wonder why she didn't turn it into a sewing room or a guest room? Though they were muffled by the thick carpeting, Rayann could make out the rapid footsteps as her mother ran up the stairs. Her mother always ran up stairs. Rayann sat up and smoothed her hair, aware that she would be unkempt and far too casual by her mother's standards. As she had expected, her mother was wearing a designer suit, tailored perfectly for her petite frame.

  "Hi," Ann Germaine said. She studied Rayann for a moment, then said, "Want to have some dinner? Feel like going out?"

  "What about the dinner in the 'fridge?" Rayann surprised herself by laughing as they agreed on pizza.

  Her mother slid off her jacket. Even after a day at the office her jacquard silk blouse was crisp and fresh — a look Rayann couldn't achieve at any time of the day. "Pepperoni and mushroom?"

  Rayann nodded, then followed her mother to her bedroom and stretched out on the bed while her mother called the pizza parlor — the number was programmed to speed-dial, Rayann noted — and then changed into designer sweats that nevertheless appeared comfortable and practical. Rayann felt as if she were in high school again while her mother chatted about clients and potential accounts.

  After three pieces of pizza her mother finally relaxed in her chair at the dining room table and studied Rayann without speaking. Rayann slipped forward in time again. She was not in high school anymore and she couldn't go on pretending everything was normal.

  "I caught her with someone else, Mom."

  "Oh, honey," her mother said. She leaned forward to pat Rayann's hand. "Are you sure? Are you sure it was her?"

  "Oh yes. I got home early. In flagrante delecto I believe is the phrase."