Part 5 (1/2)

The justice turned to Lisa. ”Repeat after me. aI...'”

Lisa's eyes s.h.i.+mmered with tears. Ani surrept.i.tiously took a photo, which turned out to be a good thing because Lisa opened her mouth and no sound came out. Then she burst into full-on, chin-quivering, drop-spurting tears.

It took several tries before Lisa even got ”I, Lisa” out of her mouth, then she sobbed her way through her vows as the justice patiently waited. Tan looked as if she was about to cry as well, and Eve was sniffling almost as loud as Lisa. Their emotions were already infecting the wedding party that was waiting to use the room next, with the grandmothers and mothers involved dabbing madly at their eyes while the groom cleared his throat and kept his gaze on his feet.

Don't cry, Ani thought, because if you do somehow it'll be your fault. So she didn't cry and in spite of the incredible temptation, she didn't take a photo of Lisa's mascara smeared face and smudged lipstick. She wanted to, real bad. Would she ever get some credit for her restraint? Unlikely.

They'd chosen a lesbian-owned cafe in Waltham for an early dinner, planning to move on to a nightclub that was hosting a girls' dance party for the final Sat.u.r.day of Spring Break. At the cafe door they were greeted by the smiling chef-owner. When Lisa began to explain the reason for their attire and celebration, the owner just smiled and led them to a sequestered table for four.

Lisa stopped dead at the sight of pale blue and deep purple ribbons twined together and draped over the chairs. A lovely bouquet of irises and baby blue carnations graced the table.

”Oh my goodness,” she said. She immediately turned to Eve. ”This was your doing, I just know it.”

”Ani's idea,” Eve said.

”Yeah,” Ani said. ”I'm good for something, you know.”

Lisa gave her a nonplussed look, then broke into a grin and enveloped her in a big hug. ”Okay, I love you. Don't know what I'd do without you.”

Tan coughed.

Very pleased by the hug, Ani gave her a push toward Tan. ”She's stuck with you now.”

Tan, ever unflappable, nodded solemnly. ”She is stuck with me too.”

Ani ushered Eve into her chair and planted a small kiss behind her left ear, right in that warm, tender spot that wasn't quite neck and not really throat. It was so delicious she did it on the other side as well. ”Stuck with me?”

A dancing look of desire and promise was the answer she got, and Ani was glad Tan and Lisa were retiring for the night to a fancy hotel, leaving the cottage to her and Eve. She was certain they would find a way to pa.s.s the time. And sometime after sunrise Eve would roll over to snuggle into her arms and say, ”Good morning.”

And her day would start, the way it should always start, in Eve's arms.

Wild Things.

Published: 1995.

Characters: Faith Fitzgerald, professor and historical biographer Sydney Van Allen, lawyer and politician Setting: Chicago, Illinois.

The Sixth is Serendipity.

Losing Faith.

(15 years).

It is quite one thing to be a professor of history and quite another to be history, I wrote in my journal. I paused to look out at the darkening sky and rising lights, pondering the view from the top floor of the Omni Park West.

It was beautiful and ethereal. But it had been chosen because there was no direct line of sight from any other structure in Manhattan into this or the other rooms that shared this side of this floor. It had been three days since I'd ceased to see the view for its wonder. Instead, when I looked, I heard in my head the Secret Service p.r.o.nouncement: sniper safe.

The wall was open between the Presidential Suite and the Junior Presidential Suite, where I was. The immense combined common s.p.a.ce was crammed with folding tables that were in turn encrusted with laptops. Every chair was occupied with a frazzled aide and they were all talking on their cell phones. The conversation was nothing but fragments. In this world, no one ever finished a sentence unless they were being recorded.

For once, the press detail had been sequestered. There was heavy politicking going on.

”But if Jefferson won't see us tonight, that means we're screwed and the old-”

”I don't care what your poll says, our polls are national, not regional, and there's no question that-”

”Look here, you can't just ask for confirmation and not tell me who's asking, I won't-”

The voices overlapped in a fury of purpose. Just past this fountain of energy sat my lover, Sydney Van Allen, looking every inch the Ice Queen she'd been dubbed many years ago. Not caring to mimic the red jacket trend for female political candidates she was as usual dressed in cream and ivory tones, from fitted linen trousers to the cashmere sweater that was also threaded with a bright aquamarine. Her much discussed shoes were today cla.s.sic, elegant Magli pumps as faithfully reported on sydneyss...o...b..og.com.

I knew she heard it all, but she reacted to nothing. Like everyone else she was waiting on Senator Randall Mayhurst Jefferson's decision. Who could blame Jefferson for savoring his role as one of the most powerful men in the world-if only for a few hours?

I heard someone ask, ”Is Faith here?”

I turned, gestured. The frantic aide rushed up. I recognized her-she was the one a.s.signed to wardrobe. I got the usual question.

”Has the candidate finalized her attire for the convention's afternoon session tomorrow?”

”Senator Van Allen knows.”

Wide eyes. ”I can't ask her.”

I pointed. ”She's right over there. She doesn't look busy.” Use your eyes, I wanted to say, and ask yourself if that woman needs my help dressing. Sydney had impeccable taste that came with inherited wealth. Some pundits used photos of her closet, bills from boutiques in Milan and the shoe blog mania to portray her as a silver-spoon elitist. She had inherited hundreds of millions. Wearing Wal-Mart jeans would be patronizing, which the same pundits would then also criticize. So she kept her style, and donned safety gear over it in factories and mines. Workers did give her a wide berth-at first. But when she listened to them with her whole being, asked questions that said she understood the limitations of wages and worker safety regulations, the people she talked to walked away feeling as if they'd been heard by someone who both cared and had a chance to do something about their concerns. I'd seen it happen many times-it was her magic.

The aide tiptoed across the crowded, noisy room and I went back to my journal.

I am doubtful that male spouses of female candidates are asked to keep track of their wives' clothing, but this is a tediously routine request for my attention, and one area that Sydney and I have specifically agreed would never be my purview. I am a professor; we are not a species known for our fas.h.i.+on sense.

Resting my wrists on the keyboard support pad, I paused to wonder if my journal was becoming a record of whining. I truly believed that Sydney had an unlimited political capacity, and that she would be an amazing, motivating, galvanizing vice president, should her running mate prevail at tomorrow evening's voting, and the general public's only ten weeks from now. She was the only woman in contention for the job of vice president among any of the political parties this election. If she was sworn in little baby lesbians everywhere would know they too could be a heartbeat from the highest office in the United States.

We'd not spent more than a night in our Chicago apartment in over four months.

We'd not been alone together in over eight months-but then my definition of alone meant no security posted directly outside our hotel room door. Not yet a candidate for high office, Sydney's security detail was still private, but they had been receiving advice from the Secret Service ever since the first ”routine” death threats. I was supposed to be used to it by now.

As a historian, I had promised myself I would not censor my journal. Someday it could be part of a presidential archive. Someday, some historian much younger than me would read it. It should not be prettied up, it should not reflect only my best thoughts. If I allowed that to happen I owed a number of students better grades than I had given them.

I was about to resume typing when the scent of Sydney's cologne tickled at my nose. It was custom-made for her and always made me think of suns.h.i.+ne on warm linen.

Leaning back in my chair, I stretched my hand over my shoulder, wiggling my fingers in greeting. She took them in her hand and turned me to face her.

”You look so solemn.” Her brown eyes, velvet eyes, wrapped me in affection.

”Recording for posterity the inappropriateness of being asked about your wardrobe plans.”

”I've told her time and again to always ask me. I'm sorry they see you as the typical wife.”