Beggar of Love Part 33

"There was a lot of water under the bridge by the time that happened, Dawn."

They were walking from their distant parking s.p.a.ce to the notions store, and Dawn pul ed her aunt's list from her purse. Jefferson fol owed her into the shop at first, then wandered back outside. She hadn't told Dawn her whole story yet. It was too humiliating, but Dawn needed to know that Jefferson's sorrow was more complex than loss itself. Here she was, taking a chance again, risking her heart and risking Dawn's too. Sometimes she felt too damaged, too beat-up by the life she'd lived to deserve the love of this bright-eyed gamin of a woman. Sprite, imp, a woman without artifice, who seemed to sparkle from the inside out-she feared she'd sul y Dawn. Instead, when she added confessions to prior confessions, made it clear that she hadn't been only with Ginger al those years, Dawn continued to act pleased and eager to hear more stories of her big-bad-wolf days.

The street was busy with shoppers from the 'burbs and buyers from the garment shops. So much of the industry had moved overseas, but a few diehard specialty stores were apparently keeping their heads above water enough to survive. So many women. So many women to admire. Should she tel Dawn that she couldn't promise fidelity? She didn't want to make Dawn worry.

The women shoppers, always in pairs or threes, were older. She wasn't attracted to the kids. There was something so focused about the twenty- and thirty-somethings. Her peers had never been so hustle-bustle-al -about-making-money. The older women drifting by were laughing, sometimes arm in arm, happy to be out with their girlfriends. Some were real lookers. Their faces told such stories, weathered like her own. She wanted to hear the stories, to make them forget they'd ever been hurt, that they were aging, that they no longer had their whole lives ahead of them. She saw herself in bed with one -that one pa.s.sing into the store where she stood-listening to her after-lovemaking tales.

The woman held the door while Dawn exited on Jefferson's arm. She saw the woman look at them, at their linked arms, and smile as if in blessing.

Jefferson tucked Dawn's hand tighter in her own. G.o.d, she thought, spare me from myself. She'd used Dawn's touch to connect with another woman and felt al too pleased about it.

She was getting the second chance she'd heard Glad whisper about, and she knew it. But did she know how to love Dawn? What did it matter when Dawn so obviously loved her? Dawn knew what love was and Jefferson felt like she'd never known. She would give this whol y, unconditional y loved business a chance-no, more than a chance. She wouldn't let herself fight it. What if al the pleasant feelings she had toward Dawn were exactly what comprised love? She smiled at the sight of Dawn; she laughed deeply and genuinely with her. Dawn was a talented and attentive lover who seemed genuinely to revel in making love to her as wel as luxuriating, to the nth degree, in Jefferson's touch. Dawn had no hang-ups compared to most women who turned her on, and the more time they spent in bed, the more Dawn, without artifice, turned her on. Jefferson realized that Dawn was right; she'd had her doubts about getting together with a librarian, had harbored an image of a staid, dried-out kind of woman, but that had been a mistake. For al she knew she might have slept with librarians before.

Why shouldn't she end up with a decent, caring, pa.s.sionate woman who enjoyed pleasing her? Why not fal easy for once, instead of fal ing hard? Her ebul ient self was returning. They planned to stay in the city for the weekend; her parents were on a cruise. She was excited about showing Dawn where she'd lived for so many years. Tomorrow night they'd go dancing. The old Lincoln Center cream-colored vest and tie no longer fit so she'd bought a deep red s.h.i.+rt, a black silk tie, and a charcoal gray wool-front vest for the occasion.

Could she stay with Dawn? Could she stomach a life on the lake where the biggest thril was throwing a wake of white spume behind the boat into the clean lake air? Could she have a pa.s.sion for a life without the trauma and drama she'd always created for herself? Could she pledge, to herself, to hold Dawn's hand for the rest of her life, and no one else's, like this?

If she could, was it because she'd stopped drinking, because grief had beaten her down, because her erotic adventures had left her jaded? Was it because, so close to fifty, she was just tired and ready for the shelter of Dawn? She told herself that while al of this might be true, she loved everything about Dawn and would be content with her.

They were pa.s.sing Lincoln Center on their way back to the car after stopping for a supply of Manhattan Special sarsaparil a. The fountain wasn't operating. She saw her younger self dancing there with Ginger on hot summer nights. There wasn't a reason in the world she couldn't do the same with Dawn come summer, here or at the band shel on the Pipsborough green after wandering the hospital white-elephant sale, with her young bride beside her.

She ushered Dawn off the sidewalk. Despite the chil y weather, steel drummers were beating out a melody nearby. She pul ed Dawn into her arms and swung her around, then settled them into the world beat of the drums and danced around the dry fountain, which had once flowed so boisterously it had nearly drowned out the music of her life.

Dawn laughed and this time fol owed without a misstep. When they had made the circuit, they laughed their way back to the car and drove downtown without hitting one light.

Chinatown was as crowded and hectic as ever. Dawn knew the shops wel and steered Jefferson along like a little tugboat with a barge. They bought a bag of ice and put the groceries in Dawn's cooler, then drove back uptown to the new Greek restaurant Dawn's friends had raved about. She realized she'd been checking everywhere they went to see if Ginger was in sight, an old, old habit left over from when she was out with one of her flings. She'd been careful to the point of hypervigilance.

Three of Dawn's friends were already seated at the restaurant, giggly on late-lunch wine and the rest of the afternoon off. Jefferson felt like a rooster in a henhouse. In front of her, one of them said, "Your friend is utterly charming, Dawn."

"Try these, Jef," Dawn urged. Dawn reached across the table and held a fat, purplish olive on a fork out to Jefferson. The waiter had brought a bowl of them to the table. "Kalamata olives are incredible."

She waved it away with a smile, saying, "I'm not into olives." But Dawn insisted and she worked it off the fork. Wil ie Nelson's "To Al the Girls I've Loved Before" was being performed up-tempo on Greek musak.

Dawn's friend Francesca, who worked at the Brooklyn Col ege library, rushed in late. Francesca, in a floppy green beret, laughed as they were introduced, her eyes holding Jefferson's. As she bent to her seat she displayed enticing cleavage and removed the beret. Down fel a cascade of dark red hair onto her shoulders. Jefferson was caught with her mouth open, about to bite into the stil -dripping back olive that she held between her thumb and index fingers. Her hands tingled, grew warm. She popped the salty, oiled olive into her mouth. She laughed now too, feeling the ebul ience again, feeling her butch power swel inside her. She'd never tasted olives like these. Were they fresh off some tree in Greece? Would Francesca go with her to some hot Greek isle? Or was there another woman like this one already on that island, waiting to feed her ripe olives? Dawn need never know; it wasn't as if she'd leave her now. For that matter, nothing was stopping her from moving back to the city, a city in which she would now be homeless, jobless, and more loveless than ever, no matter how many Francescas she bedded.

She felt Dawn's eyes on her and looked up. Dawn looked from her to Francesca, then back again. Briefly, Dawn's eyes turned wide and horrified.

Then they went calm and she smiled. There was no question in Dawn's eyes and no hesitation as she got up and moved around the table to sit by Jefferson's side. She didn't say a word to Jefferson, but kept up her part of the conversation with the other librarians. Jefferson felt a rush of air beneath her, as if the floor had opened up and she was fal ing, as she had in her childhood nightmare, fal ing beyond safety, with no loving arms to catch her. Then Dawn set her drink on the table and laid one hand on Jefferson's forearm, fingers and thumb curved as if to stil a live beast. Her message of possession was clear.

Jefferson pul ed her chair closer to Dawn. When she put her arm around Dawn's slight shoulders, the feeling of fal ing stopped.

This sort of claiming was new to her. Ginger never had and, as long as she had been with Ginger, no one else would. Dawn, pleasantly, good- humoredly, was chal enging Francesca. Dawn was, incredibly, tel ing the world that Jefferson belonged to her and no one was to get between them.

Jefferson felt a quiver of excitement in her bel y and another between her legs. At age forty-nine, she was too big for the restaurant. Her shoulders seemed to have broadened in a moment and her hands, her hands could shape mountains. She sat tal , until she feared the b.u.t.tons on her s.h.i.+rt would pop off.

Dawn's protectiveness had awakened her own and she curled a hand around Dawn's shoulder. When their eyes met, she smiled. This feeling of safety actual y aroused her. Dawn might be as much s.e.xual adventure as she needed. Stil chatting with her friends, Dawn slipped a hand under the tablecloth and kneaded the inside of Jefferson's thigh, high up. It felt great. She felt great. She and Dawn would go to the apartment as soon as they got out of here and they'd make it theirs.

Lounging back in her chair, she surveyed the friends, but thought of her Dawn. They would add on to the cottage, raise the kittens, cruise the lake on summer nights, ice-skate in winter. Had she learned enough about love from six kittens? She would trust that she would not leave Dawn, that Dawn would not leave her. Dawn had claimed her; Jefferson was no longer a beggar and only had to surrender to the terrific force inside her that was love.

She looked from Dawn to Francesca. G.o.d, this was hard. Then she looked back to Dawn.

About the Author.

Lee Lynch has been writing about lesbian life and lesbians from the time she came out, almost fifty years ago. She was first published in The Ladder in the 1960s. In 1983 Naiad Press published her first books, including Toothpick House and Old d.y.k.e Tales. Her novel The Swashbuckler was presented in New York City as a play scripted by Sarah Schulman. Lynch's play, Getting Into Life, caused consternation when performed in Tucson, Arizona, due to its realistic portrayal of lesbians. She is working on her next novel, Rainbow Gap. Her recent short stories can be found in Romantic Interludes 2: Secrets (Bold Strokes Books) and in Read These Lips, at www.readtheselips.com. She has twice been nominated for Lambda Literary Awards and her novel Sweet Creek was a Golden Crown Literary Society Award finalist. Her reviews and feature articles appeared in The Lambda Book Report and many other publications.

Lynch's syndicated column, The Amazon Trail, runs in venues such as boldstrokesbooks.com, womenscommunityconnection.com, and camprehoboth.com. She is a recipient of the Alice B. Reader Award for Lesbian Fiction and the GCLS Trailblazer Award, and has been inducted into the Saints and Sinners Literary Hal of Fame.

Her other books are available from Bold Strokes Books. She lives in rural Florida with her sweetheart Elaine Mul igan and their furry ruffians.

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