Touchwood Page 4

  "Delicious," Rayann said, her mouth half full. She swallowed. "Somehow I don't think of Eleanor making scrambled eggs."

  Louisa smiled wryly. "Ill bet Eleanor Roosevelt made great scrambled eggs."

  Rayann was further distracted wondering if Eleanor Roosevelt had ever made scrambled eggs for Lorena Hickok in some stolen moment they had had together. She opened her mouth to speculate, then closed it again. Louisa seemed very reasonable. She had been at the women's center, but she hadn't put anything about wanting to rent her room to a lesbian. One just never knew. She concentrated on her eggs and then the crusty buttered toast Louisa offered.

  "These are really wonderful," Rayann said after a few minutes, indicating the eggs. "I didn't know how hungry I was."

  "Thanks." Louisa smiled and took her plate to the sink. "You don't have to tell me why you were hungry and tired and searching for Lake Merritt."

  "I was thinking." Rayann felt a stab of pain as she remembered the vision of Michelle, her face hidden by the other woman's thighs. "Wondering where I was going to end up. Thanks for renting me your room."

  "Don't mention it. Believe me, you'll feel as if you've earned it." Louisa went to the large wooden block and drew out a long, serrated knife. Turning, she came back to the table. The blade glinted.

  This is it, Rayann thought. This is where she slices me up and makes me into pies. Sweeney Louisa. She giggled. Her heart pounded.

  Louisa reached past Rayann to a basket on the table. "This banana bread is fresh — do you want a slice?"

  "No thanks," she choked out.

  "What's so funny?" Louisa carved a slice of bread, put the knife down and picked up a raisin that had fallen on the table, popping it into her mouth.

  "Too many Friday the Thirteenth movies. Even the commercials give me nightmares. Too many women chopped up."

  Louisa gave a warm, husky laugh. "Part Thirty-Nine: Louisa Takes Lake Merritt." She brandished the knife, then wiped it on a tea towel and returned it to its slot in the knife block.

  Rayann laughed, and after a moment was unable to catch her breath.

  "Hey," Louisa said, still smiling. "That joke doesn't.. ah, merit that kind of response."

  Rayann laughed harder. She looked up through the tears rapidly filling her eyes to find Louisa staring at her with an intense brown gaze.

  Louisa said in a quiet, persuasive voice, "You'll feel better if you let go."

  She flailed and crashed to the floor. What in the...

  She wasn't at home. Rubbing her knees, she realized she'd slept in a T-shirt she didn't recognize, in a sprawling room furnished with twin beds. The shirt must be Louisa's. Who is Louisa? Why...

  The past two days rushed back like a reel of film on ultra-high speed. Michelle, the other woman's body arching, her mother, BART trains, the fountain, the lake, Louisa, scrambled eggs. And finally the tears soaking into Louisa's shirt. She remembered pain mixed with the comfort of brushed cotton against her hot forehead and cheeks.

  "You'll be okay, you'll see. Trust me, you'll be all right," Louisa had said over and over. She had left Rayann to cry and fall asleep in her new bedroom while she tended to business downstairs. I must have been exhausted to have slept so long.

  Her body had urgent needs. She crept to the door, opened it slowly, and listened. Voices were barely audible from downstairs. Prom the light she would guess the time was late morning. She had slept another night through but she didn't feel rested. Not after that dream. The floor creaked beneath her feet as she found the bathroom. She remembered Louisa leading her there and mopping her face with a damp cloth. The cloth was still there. It inadequately addressed the need to feel clean, so Rayann went back to her room, opened her suitcase and collected some clothes, then returned to the bathroom and removed the T-shirt she'd slept in. She stared at herself in the mirror, remembering her vow to find another lover. Who would be interested in someone who looks like she's been kicked in the teeth?

  A door closed below her with a tinkle of bells. Then she heard the stairwell door open and close and a quick step come up the staircase.

  "Are you up?" Louisa called.

  "Yes," Rayann answered, glad of the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She kept her gaze fixed on Louisa's shoulders, unable, for the moment, to meet the deep brown eyes she remembered as penetrating.

  "It sounded as if you fell out of bed," Louisa said.

  "I did," Rayann admitted, and laughed. "I'm not used to twins..." The laughter faded.

  "No, I don't suppose you are," Louisa said, her expression unchanged. "You have a shower and I'll make some lunch."

  Blissfully Rayann turned the hot water up till she felt her skin tingle and come alive. She slid into her clean clothes, feeling stronger and more awake. She used the blow dryer which hung from a hook next to the mirror. Fortunately her hair was thick enough to stay neat. Unfortunately it was still mouse-brown. But she looked like a human being again. She might even start feeling like a real person sometime soon. She padded barefoot from the bathroom and heard voices from downstairs, then the tinkle of bells. Again, Louisa's steps were quick and firm as she hurried up to the living quarters.

  "You look as if you're going to make it," Louisa said, assessing Rayann as she had the night before with a piercing gaze.

  "Did you think I wouldn't?"

  "I had moments of doubt," Louisa said, and she released Rayann from her brown stare. "When I first saw you I thought you were a ghost. But a good night's sleep will cure a great many ailments."

  "I think I’ll probably need a few more," Rayann said. The memory of waking in Michelle's arms after a good night's sleep suddenly stabbed at her. She couldn't meet Louisa's eyes again — they were too intense — so she studied instead an excellent reproduction of Edward Hopper's Nighthawks that hung over the low etagere that held the television and stereo. The clean lines and clear colors of the painting suited Louisa's air of independence and solitude.

  "You must be starved. Do you eat ham?"

  "Sure." Rayann found herself agreeing to ham and swiss with lettuce, no mayo, extra mustard, chips on the side and a large glass of apple juice. They ate in silence.

  By the time Rayann finished her sandwich, she felt fortified.

  "You run a good restaurant, Louisa," she said, wondering how she would repay Louisa for her generosity.

  "I've had practice. When my son was in high school it felt like I spent all day making food which disappeared the moment it was made. You are undemanding and far more polite by comparison."

  Rayann filed away the information that Louisa had a son. "I've had practice. I spent my high school years learning the finer points of etiquette and deportment for girls. At fancy dinner parties, which I attend frequently — one every twenty years or so — I know which fork is for what food." She smiled and added wryly, "Now if only fork-choosing was a marketable skill."

  Louisa returned her smile, then reached across the table to take Rayann's hand, turning it palm up. "I'm not doubting your fork-choosing ability, but your hands say you don't spend all your time at dinner parties. These callouses aren't just for show, are they?"

  Rayann nervously withdrew her hand from Louisa's warm touch. She thought her hands unattractive, with nails down to the quick and scars from splinters. Michelle had been after her lately to get a manicure.

  "No, I would definitely say they weren't for show," Rayann said quickly, trying to turn her mind away from Michelle by studying Louisa's hands. Long fingers, square at the tips, adorned by short, serviceable, glossy nails.

  "Well, I know it wasn't quite what I had in mind when I said help around the store, but I have a carpentry project, and I've been putting it off because I didn't know anyone I could trust to do it right."

  "How do you know you can trust me? And that I'll do it right?"

  Louisa shrugged one shoulder. "I just do."

  There was a long silence while Rayann attempted to read Louisa's expression. Deep laugh lines were embedded around her
mouth and eyes, and her long, straight nose added to the angular planes of a lean face. There was strength in the set of her jaw and a suggestion that she'd had to be strong. Her eyes were unreadable yet familiar. Rayann searched her memory for those eyes. "What do you need?" Rayann asked at last.

  Louisa blinked and let out a breath as if she had been holding it until Rayann answered. "Do you know anything about carpentry?" she asked as if she was already dismissing the possibility.

  "Now we're entering my area of expertise," Rayann said. "I'm as happy putting up shelves as I would be shelving books. I'm not a carpenter, but I do know my way around wood. I've restored antiques, and I know how wood fits into itself and how to find the grain angle for maximum strength." She swallowed the last of her apple juice. "I'm an artist. I used to do computer-aided graphic design. I work in woods. I teach an adult ed class in carving," she finished abruptly, wondering if Louisa thought Rayann would have been better off sticking with the computers.

  "Can you really build and reinforce shelves?" Louisa asked eagerly.

  "I picked up extra money in college putting up shelves in frat and sorority bedrooms. Two dollars a shelf plus materials," she reminisced. "I did great business right at the start of each semester." The years at Cal were a pleasant memory. She'd been independent of her mother, and had supported herself before Michelle gave her financial freedom that now appeared to have had a high price. I'll have to start calling them "the good ol' days."

  "This is almost too good to be true," Louisa said. She smiled widely. "There's a set of shelves that need to be replaced." Louisa glanced down. "I don't really know how to go about it, and I've been getting out of shape for that sort of thing."

  "You could have fooled me," Rayann said impulsively. Louisa was neither slender nor fleshy. Her waist appeared trim, especially in contrast to her broad shoulders and generous bust.

  Louisa looked up at her again, crow's feet at each temple deepening as she smiled. "If you tackle the shelving project I'd waive the rent — that's what I was going to use the rent money for. Once the big project is done, you could help me shelve the used books. I'm way behind. I'm not ready for the Christmas rush. Not that the Christmas rush is all that different from the rest of the year. There aren't too many customers." Louisa frowned as if she had just realized Rayann might find the absence of customers a problem. "But the regulars are pretty interesting."

  "I don't think I could cope with crowds right now. Maybe later," Rayann said.

  "You'd have all the books in the world you'd want to read."

  "I love reading. And books."

  "And a wide selection of magazines. But I don't stock People" Louisa added, frowning again.

  "I hate People.'

  "You'd be cooped up with me all day."

  "I've already accepted the room. And I'll accept all the work you throw my way." She smiled and saw her relief mirrored in Louisa's eyes.

  3

  The Old Veneer

  Rayann's superficial impressions of the bookstore from the day before deepened as she followed Louisa down the stairs into the shop. She inhaled the smell of new paper and ink and recognized the subtle spice of older books.

  Louisa gestured with one arm, taking in the whole store. "Look around." She went to the cash register and unlocked it, reaching under the bill tray for checks. "I'm going to work on the bank deposit, such as it is."

  Rayann began her exploration to the left of the door, which was directly across from the cash register, and worked her way slowly clockwise around the store. One table held best-selling fiction, stacked in tiers, and one held best-selling nonfiction. Shelves from Rayann's knees to more than twice her height were labeled "Fiction" with titles filed alphabetically by author. Rayann checked for her favorite lesbian authors. They weren't there. But vintage editions of many classics promised eye-pleasing typography with full color plates and illustrations for the reader's enjoyment. She stepped around the sliding ladder, an elegant construction she'd only seen in movies. She visualized Betty Grable perched on it, skirt split to modestly display million-dollar legs. She pushed it along its track. It needed oil.

  The stairwell to the upper floor was encased by a wall which divided the store almost in two. Behind it the ceiling dropped to a normal eight-foot height. Rayann slowly perused nonfiction sections of Cooking, Travel, Sports, How-Tos, and Self-Help. A curry cookbook. Once I got my cooking tools, I could pay Louisa back with some gourmet meals. It was a pleasant thought, something to look forward to. Under the Women's section there weren't any books published by the small women's presses, with one or two exceptions, nor were any of the books specifically titled to attract the lesbian reader. Still, the collection of nineteenth-century feminist writings was amazingly diverse, and many of the editions here were also vintage. Rayann caressed a collection of Olive Schreiner's essays and short fiction, then studied briefly the health manual for "Ladies of Leisure and Ladies Who Go Out to Work." There were many modern feminist titles — some used copies of out-of-print classics from the ninetieth-sixties and seventies — certainly as many feminist titles as some of the gay and lesbian bookstores she'd been to. Although she hadn't been expecting to find Sapphistry, at least she wasn't confronted by penis postcards and stud photos when she turned a corner.

  The store was well-equipped for general interest, but it looked as if Rayann would have to go elsewhere if she wanted the latest lesbian books. She stole a glance at Louisa, who was bent over some papers. Most of what she owned at Michelle's were books. How would she move them, and what would Louisa's reaction be if she saw Lesbian Bedtime Stories and Beyond Stonewall

  The bells on the door tinkled and two elderly women came in. They were outfitted in tweed overcoats, thick stockings, sturdy gloves and hats — not caps, hats. Two very proper ladies.

  "I'm so glad you came in today," Louisa greeted them. "I just received the copy of the Ken Follett you wanted, and I want you to meet the woman who's renting my spare room. She's going to get the Poetry Corner back in shape."

  Rayann walked to the counter and shook hands properly with the Misses Greta and Hazel Schoernsson, who lived in the retirement complex up the street.

  "How lovely you're here to keep Louisa company," Hazel said as Louisa went in search of their book.

  "She's been alone five or six years." Greta opened her purse.

  "Seven years," Hazel said adamantly. "Since Christina's unfortunate accident, may she rest in peace."

  "Whatever you say," Greta said. "I know better than to argue with your memory."

  Greta spoke with a straight face, but Rayann found herself grinning at the look of suspicion that Hazel gave Greta. Greta blinked innocently. Louisa emerged from a room behind the counter, book in hand. Greta paid while Hazel tucked it into her mesh satchel.

  "We were wondering if you thought we would like Tom Clancy," Greta asked.

  Louisa smiled again and shrugged. "He's not LeCarre, but you might."

  "Yes," Hazel broke in, "but doesn't Clancy glorify military weaponry and extol a jingoistic approach to American foreign policy?"

  Rayann blinked, trying to sort through Hazel's statement.

  Louisa laughed and said, "I think Clancy may not be the writer for you."

  "If only there were more spies like George Smiley," Greta said, shaking her head sadly. "With his fine existential sense..."

  Rayann was out of her league. Louisa and the Misses Schoernsson discussed several authors Rayann had heard of, but none she had actually read. She'd never been interested in intrigue and espionage — boys' games weren't her taste. Realizing the other women wouldn't miss her, she wandered over to Fiction and drew an old copy of A Room of One's Own out of the extensive Virginia Woolf collection and opened it, savoring the old-fashioned type and the gilt-edged pages. She replaced it and glanced around her. The store felt safe and comfortable.

  For the first time, she noticed the large needlepoint sampler stretched over a colonial-style frame which hung above the door. The
fabric was elaborately worked with the letters of the alphabet in blue, numbers zero through nine in mauve, all framing an open book stitched in ecru and beige with black letters. The book pages read: "The Common Reader." Rayann glanced at the cash register and saw a sign: "Make checks payable to The Common Reader." Well, it certainly was an appropriate name and explained why there were several copies each of The Common Reader and The Common Reader II along with all Virginia Woolfs other books on the shelves.

  An older man, evidently well-known to the Misses Schoernsson, walked in and immediately entered the discussion. Louisa left them and. joined Rayann in front of Fiction U-Z.

  "Every Friday they meet here to argue," Louisa said. "They're all three staunch liberals and have decided they're better off hiding out here than talking politics at Merritt Park — that's the retirement center. Apparently they were all run out of the rec room during a debate at the last election." Louisa gestured at the trio, whose conversation was growing more animated by the minute. "They really started trouble by suggesting that this year the huge nativity scene in front of the retirement center should be put in the chapel where religious symbols belong, not out where non-Christian people have to look at it. Apparently they've been called anti-Christs and told they might be happier elsewhere. It blew over when one of the male residents was seen buying condoms."

  Rayann laughed. "I suppose it's like living in a small town," she said. She'd never actually wondered what retirement centers were like.

  "Hazel said it was a juicy scandal that lasted four or five days. But they still spend a lot of time here because they don't seem to fit in there. I've been wanting to put in a few chairs for them in the Poetry Corner."

  "Why haven't you?" Rayann asked, looking over at the shelves. The books were tightly packed.

  "It needs to be fixed first. Go ahead," Louisa said, leading the way to a particularly tight shelf. "Pull out a book — the Dickinson collection would be a good start — and you'll be well on your way in your first project. The books are the only thing holding those shelves up. I've already bought replacements, but I just didn't think I could undertake the entire project."