Part 4 (1/2)
Taryn returned with another flannel s.h.i.+rt. She walked to Rosalind and draped it over her shoulders like a cape. When she set her hands on Rosalind's shoulders, Rosalind reached up and covered one with her own. She couldn't resist touching her. Taryn didn't move away immediately. She gave Rosalind's shoulder a faint squeeze before retreating to the counter.
”How was the show last night?” Joe asked, handing Taryn an omelet. She ate standing up, her back to the counter.
”Good. Rosalind was there, ask her,” Taryn said around a mouthful.
Joe glanced at Rosalind. ”How'd she do?”
”She was magnificent,” Rosalind said, looking at Taryn.
Joe snorted. ”I meant during the show,” he said, from the stove.
Taryn lashed out with the back of her hand, catching him in the stomach. ”b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The show was good. Egyptia was on. I want to work on a few things for next week. Maybe you can help me, after we work out,” Taryn said, polis.h.i.+ng off the omelet. She grinned at Rosalind. ”Joe's my masculine role model.”
”Like you need one. You're the poster child for butch.” The man laughed, taking the plate from her.
Taryn poured herself more coffee, then refilled Rosalind's mug. ”Where's Goblin?” she asked Joe, leaning on his shoulder as he cleaned up.
”With her dad this weekend. Laurel's at her girlfriend's. Rhea's sleeping in. Seems there was quite a racket last night, kept us up.” Rosalind choked on her coffee, felt herself blus.h.i.+ng furiously. Joe looked at her mildly. ”Some idiot left his car alarm on half the night. Didn't you hear it?”
”Must have been off by the time we came in,” Taryn said, a sly grin on her face.
Taryn strolled to the fridge and peered at a chart that was written in several bold colors of marker and held up with cat-shaped magnets. ”Rhea has me down for dishes this week?” she asked, disgust in her voice. ”I hate dishes,” she added, talking to the chart.
”It's character building. It'll help domesticate you someday,” Joe said, dropping the skillet in the sink.
”Aren't you eating?” Taryn asked him.
Joe washed his hands, then wiped them off on a towel. ”Already did. I'm gonna go wake Rhea. You want to help me with my shot first?”
Taryn looked at Rosalind, silent for moment. ”Yeah. I'll be right back,” she said, before following Joe up the back staircase.
Rosalind finished her omelet. One of the cats, a ma.s.sive calico, decided that she was interesting and came meowing across the floor. It circled around her chair, rubbing and crying, until she picked it up. The cat knocked its skull against Rosalind's knuckles, kneaded her lap with its front paws, and purred loudly. ”You are such a friendly one,” Rosalind said to the cat, as it circled in her lap, too excited to settle.
”She likes your energy.”
Rosalind looked up into the face of the woman watching her. She was in her early forties, Rosalind guessed, with thick, curly brown hair threaded with gray. It stood out in a halo around her head, like the rays of the sun. At first Rosalind thought her eyes were a shade of ebony; then at second glance, they looked pure jet, swallowing the pupils. Her face was angular, severe. She was about Rosalind's height, not much over five feet four, and very thin. She wore a blue cotton dress, the hem hanging down to bare ankles.
”You must be Rhea,” Rosalind said, her stomach knotting with apprehension. The woman hadn't smiled at her yet.
”I must be. You're Taryn's new friend.”
”Uh, yes. I think I am.” The cat left Rosalind's lap, running over to rub on Rhea's calves.
”You either are or you aren't,” Rhea said, walking to the stove. She was unnerving in her composure, in the biting way she spoke. Her voice had a strain to it, as if words were a clumsy form of communication. The fact that Taryn spoke so highly of her only added to Rosalind's nervousness. She sensed that this woman's opinion mattered to Taryn more than anyone's in the world.
”Then I am her friend,” Rosalind said, a.s.serting her right. This earned her a cool appraisal over one thin shoulder, as Rhea put a kettle on the stove.
”Joe's fed you.”
It was a statement. Rosalind nodded in confirmation.
”He's good with that. Whoever shows up, he feeds. Would you like tea, or do you drink coffee?”
”I've had coffee, thanks,” Rosalind said carefully.
Rhea made a tching noise in her throat. ”Another one. Two coffee drinkers in the house is bad enough.”
Rosalind stood up, conscious of the large sweatpants hanging off her body, how the T-s.h.i.+rt with its screaming message hung down to midthigh. She no longer felt comfortable and easy in the unstructured clothing. She felt ridiculous, an adult playing at being a teenager. She pushed her hair back behind her ears, then held her hand out to Rhea. Rhea took her hand and held it. The woman's hand was thin and sharp, like the blade of a knife. Rosalind could feel the bones through the skin. It was stronger than Rosalind expected, all sinew over the bone. There was no spare flesh anywhere on Rhea, and unlike Taryn, she wasn't padded with muscle. ”I'm Rosalind.”
”You're Rosalind. Well, that was inevitable,” Rhea said, dropping her hand as if burned.
”Excuse me?” Rosalind asked her, not wanting to follow the turn the conversation was taking. She had the distinct impression that Rhea did not like her, and that scared her.
Rhea looked at her levelly, the way she might look at a rat sneaking across her floor. ”I warned Taryn. But I know her. Naturally she ran right out and did the opposite.”
”I'm sorry-” Rosalind began, but Rhea cut her off.
”You never were one to take a hint. You are not welcome here.”
The sound of boots came clomping down the back stairs. Taryn galloped into the kitchen, surprise on her face. ”Hey! Just went in to wake you up,” she said, kissing Rhea on the cheek. The woman accepted the kiss, her eyes never leaving Rosalind.
”I should be going. Walk me out?” Rosalind asked. Taryn looked at her sharply, but inclined her head. Rosalind had a clear impression of Rhea's eyes following her out of the kitchen, pus.h.i.+ng her.
She took her clothing from Taryn's room and walked down the front staircase.
”Keep the sweats.”
”Thanks. Please thank Joe for me, for breakfast,” Rosalind said, not looking at Taryn. Her confusion was cutting her in half. She wanted to grab on to Taryn and never let her go. She wanted to run away from this house and the fierce woman in the kitchen, who was even now waiting for Taryn. She had been friendly but distant in the suns.h.i.+ne. It bruised Rosalind's heart. She had put a different meaning on last night.
What had been life changing for her seemed the normal course of events for Taryn. Just another weekend. She remembered Taryn talking about Colleen, how clingy she was. By Taryn's own admission, they'd slept together a few times, and Taryn didn't seem to think they were involved. Grief settled on her, killing off the joy she'd felt since waking up. Rosalind wanted to get away before she started crying. She opened the door.
Taryn took Rosalind and pulled her in, kissing her slowly and thoroughly. Rosalind resisted for a moment, then gave in, melting against her strong body, her hands closing on Taryn's arms. ”I'll see you later,” Taryn said when they broke apart.
Rosalind nodded, unable to speak. She walked gingerly down the stairs, back into her own life.
Chapter Four.
Back in her own apartment, Rosalind didn't know where to begin. She'd shed her skin overnight. She was convinced her apartment would be different when she got back. It was, stubbornly, exactly as she left it-neat to the point of museum quality, tastefully furnished with natural wood and neutral colors.
Rosalind couldn't help but compare it to the house she had just left, with its constant state of restoration, the unfinished walls and exposed beams, the kitchen big as a stable, a haven against the world. Rosalind's own kitchen was small, perfect for one person, as the landlord had said. But there was no room to sit down, no room to linger and talk.
She tried putting the bright copper kettle on her electric stove, but the sound was unsatisfying. She poured hot water over instant coffee in one of her mother's teacups, and remembered the feel of the blue enamel mug in her hands. Her state of unrest was getting worse. Rosalind drew in a deep breath and faced her own confusion. She did what the women of her family line had done for generations when under emotional stress. She did laundry.
The sorting was the best part. Everything had a place, had a specific set of instructions on how to maintain it, keep it beautiful. There was no ambiguity, no fear. This was a skill her mother had taught her, insisting on it as a civilized virtue. ”Other people may cook for you or buy you gifts, to impress you. But no one will ever care for your appearance as well as you do.” You don't wash the cashmere in the machine; you put it with the delicates. You don't put the red blanket in with the socks; the dye will bleed. And so on, until it became a meditation.
At last it was ready. Rosalind stripped out of the T-s.h.i.+rt and sweats, her hand hesitating over them. They didn't fit anywhere, exactly, but her mother's training took over. It would be civilized to wash them, set them aside. Maybe she could give them back at some point.