Secret Rooms

By J. Faber Gallagher

For Gertrude, dreams play an ever-present role in her life. Some dreams were, in truth, harsh realities she would attempt to superimpose into a surreal dreamland to make them feel less real to help remove the pain. Other dreams were for a new life – one where she would be free to be her true self and to love freely those she dared to dream

• Language: English
• Publisher: JGF Productions
• Release date: Nov 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9780692586976

J. Faber Gallagher

J. Faber Gallagher was born on the south side of Chicago, Illinois in 1932. She lived a precarious life as a child, always in search of a new experience and the next best thing. As an adult, J. Faber lived a complex and yet vibrant life. Her independent and questioning nature took her everywhere from pursuing a career in the convent to that of a local news reporter. The mother of five, she completed her BA in Social Science and an MFA in creative writing in her mid forties. In her fifties, J. Faber openly embraced her gay life choice and began anew living with her life partner until her death in 2009. This novel was completed just six months prior to her death and sought to bring healing and hope to the many women seeking to break free from the pain of the past and to embrace the freedom of self-expression awaiting them.

Book preview

Chapter 1

THE DREAM I

Ilie on my side, facing the wall, yet I know I’m not alone in the bed. Warm breath on the back of my neck, the weight of someone pressed up against me, the faint smell of soap tells me I’m not alone.

Who is it? If I lie perfectly still will he go away? I want him to go away! My lips are dry, my teeth clench, my throat tightens and refuses to release my scream.

A whisper brushes my neck, You’re so lovely. You know I love you. His hand caresses my hip through my pink nightie. Who is it? Who is touching me like this? Please go away, I agonize but can’t speak. The whisper comes again, it tickles my ear, You are truly a beauty! I lie mute. I am stone.

His hand moves downward and caresses my thigh. Slowly, gently, up and down, back and forth, my nightie rises with the motion. I stare at the red roses on the wallpaper. Petals like big red lips, wanting to speak, wanting to explode!

I’m not really here, I tell myself. The next whisper cancels the last thought. I am here. Remember we do our love play because we love each other, sweetheart. It’s our own special secret. Remember, too, that if you tell anyone our secret you’ll be guilty of a mortal sin and go to hell! He always says that and I know what’ll happen next. I hold my breath; tighten my muscles. Why can’t I die now? Would anyone be sad if I died?

His next whisper is a hiss. You won’t say it but I know you love me and the fun we have together. I have so much to teach you. I’m too scared to learn anything–to love anyone. I start to cry. He ignores my tears and rambles on. It’s okay, sweetness, I know you love me. The whisper quivers as the hand moves upward between my legs. They touch my private place.

I feel a tingling, low in my belly. The feeling increases the shame. Two wet fingers separate my flesh and move inside. Ooh, feel that, sweetie? It’s lovely, so good.

Knowing pain is coming, I want to yell, Don’t hurt me, please stop! Don’t hurt me! Tightening my muscles, I try to yell, Just go away! Instead, I hear myself loudly pass gas. The sound and my smell embarrass and anger me! I moan.

Hush, my darling, it’s alright. You’re beautiful and I still love and want you.

I relax a little, my muscles are sore from squeezing them. That’s it my love. Now spread your legs, show me how much you love me. His grabby hands pull my legs apart. Soon a hard, stick-like thing begins poking my butt cheeks. Slippery wet, it won’t stop poking, pushing. I can’t make it stop. I hate it! I can’t stop him! Can’t stop him by myself!

I scream, Mama! Mama! Help me!

Chapter 2

THE UNEXPECTED

My scream wakes me. Sitting up, teeth chattering, I look around. Alone! It’s that goddamn dream again! It’s always the same. God, I’m dripping with sweat! I can smell myself! Bolting from bed to bathroom, splashing my face with cold water isn’t enough. I turn the shower on full force, step in, close the curtain. Hot! Cleansing hot! Will it wash away the vileness this time? Christ! How long will it go on? I’m getting too damn old for this crap!

Who raped me? Why am I still dreaming filth, the smell, the fucking shame? No answer! Never an answer to. . . The voice from that dark hole in my brain hisses:

"Answer?. . . You know the answer!. . . . . .You traded your body for pretty words. . . his words fondled your ego. . . his hands fondled your body. . . . . . seduced by sweet words. . . . . .fool. . . . . .slut!. . . . . .

I was young, a child, for God’s sake! My scream, my words lost in rushing water. I twist the faucet knob. Burning hot!

Showered, toweled off, my face and body look like a day at the beach. Lubricating my reddened flesh thoroughly with body cream, I dress in jeans, rose silk blouse and moccasins. In the mirror, I see bloodshot eyes; hah, not just blue, they’re red, white and blue. Crazy! I fluff and tousle my short, curly gray hair, apply a minimum of makeup and put on a pair of pearl earrings. Hey there, you’re lookin’ damn good fer n’ ol’ gal, Gert, I murmur and give myself a wink, hoping to lighten my mood. A second look tells me suffering the three month diet was worth it; I do look damn good!

Collecting my cosmetics, I put the small bag in my suitcase, zip it up, wheel it to the door. My cell phone beeps: Messages waiting. Must have been in the shower. I retrieve the first: This message is for Gertrude Smythe. The book requested is on hold at Lyle Public Library. Don’t delete, keep as a reminder. Second call: Mother, it’s Casey. Received your email, have time and flight number, just need definite date. Phone when it’s certain. Have fun shopping, see you at the airport, be safe, bye. Okay, delete. Well, that’s reassuring, hope he made my hotel reservation tentative. If I’m not pooped after shopping, I’ll check availability on tonight’s red eye.

God! I still feel weird, still feel on edge, like something’s going to happen. Rape is like that. God knows; I’ve spent my entire life looking over my shoulder, trusting few.

. . . . . . better keep our special secret. . . . . . better remember. . . . . . no one wants used goods. . . . . . trash. . . you’re use goods, slut. . .

For God’s sake, shut up! Get over it! I yell! You don’t have control over the goddamn dream, but you do have control when you’re awake. My voice lowers. Force your mind up and over the damn nightmare. It happened long ago, don’t let it spoil to. . .

Okay, okay! I’m hungry, how’s that? I shout! I’m damn, hungry! I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. It’s a full day, shopping, possibly taking a flight late tonight. Food, I need food! Grabbing my shoulder bag, I head for the hotel coffee shop.

It’s quiet; the lunch crowd hasn’t arrived. The hostess seats me at a table for two. The lunch menu stays unopened on the table; I know exactly what I want. Ah, the thought, the smell of food, my mouth waters. The waiter brings a glass of ice water. I order a glass of house white, BLT on rye toast, fruit cup and a pot of lemon herbal tea.

A woman sits alone at the next table. Staring at me since I arrived, I return her stare. A beautiful woman, long, raven black hair held back with a silver clip accentuates her high cheekbones. Perfectly applied makeup creates eyes dark with a hint of mystery. I guess her age: early fifties, bit younger than I. She’s well kept: classic jewelry, burgundy silk blouse a perfect match to lipstick and nails. It’s her eyes, though, that attract.

I smile; she nods, returns the smile and asks Do you enjoy lunching alone? I note a German accent.

No, do you? I return her question and catch myself. Recognizing my own instant attraction, I’m surprised and wary.

No, dear lady, there is little I prefer doing alone. Her smile broadens, she beckons, Please, join me?

I hesitate, pretend I need something; I fumble in my purse and in my thoughts. This woman certainly appears okay, but I don’t know her. Good grief, having lunch with another woman isn’t exactly sky diving. Your mourning period is over. Myrna died four years ago. You want to meet new people, make new social contacts. Here’s a possibility. If the situation isn’t to your liking, get up, walk away. What’s to lose? I really like her smile and I’m a sucker for an accent. Picking up my purse, I move to her table.

How nice, welcome, she pats my hand. My lunch hour is greatly improved!

Oops, forgot my glass and table ware, I point to the other table.

Wait, my dear, let us allow our waiter to rearrange us. Her insouciance: definitely European.

Are you often a guest in this hotel? she asks.

Why ask me that, I wonder? I’m uncomfortable. No. I redirect the conversation. My name is Gertrude, and yours?

I am Isobel Schmidt. Often, I eat lunch here but have not seen you, thus, my question. Did you take offense?

No, perhaps I’m too careful. Do you work near here, Isobel?

Ah! Should I be careful now? She laughs, a deep, throaty laugh. "But I tease. Yes, Gertrude, I work around the corner at The Club.

Really! What do you. . . The waiter interrupts, brings our lunch,

Seeing he must rearrange our table, he frowns.

Isobel noting the scowl, speaks softly. Dear Billy, you do such a fine job, so careful to make our dining a treat instead of a necessity. Danke.

His grin is broad, his thank you emphatic; he serves lunch with a flair. I admire her finesse; Isobel knows her way around.

Hunger prompts me to take the first bite. Bacon crisp, the way I like. Fruit cup should have more berries, less melon. The wine could be better, however the tea is fragrant, hot.

Isobel pauses over her soup. You were going to ask me what I do at The Club; may I ask your interest?

Unprepared, I pause. Well, let’s see. Actually, I’m quite curious. You’re a beautiful woman. I’ll guess wise, quite competent and. . . .

She reaches across the table, pats my hand, her fingers long, tapering. I see no wedding ring. Her hand is warm, soft. Thank you, Gertrude. Your compliments to me could well be returned. Let us agree we are two astute women dining together.

Absolutely! I raise my glass, we toast and our laughter feels good.

Now, to answer your question: I own The Club. She pauses; her tongue touches the rim of her glass. I’m impressed with this woman; but is she lying, trying to impress me?

Really! Isobel, I’m intrigued. I bet you’ve quite a story to tell; unless, of course, you’re putting me on?

She stares at me, stiffens but doesn’t pause. Why would I do that, Gertrude? Such behavior is a waste of time. I devote too much time working to waste my leisure moments.

That’s why I asked you, Isobel. I don’t waste my time, either. I am, however, fascinated by other’s life stories.

There isn’t time today to tell the entire tale. But as far as The Club is concerned, I can tell that part if you wish? Put it in a nutshell as they say.

Please do, Isobel.

Earlier in my life, I was an entertainer, a dancer, at the club. In those days dancing, it all came so easy, so did the men. I was twenty and, of course, enjoyed being whistled and looked at. The nightly tips were excellent.

Isobel lifts her wine glass, sips, when she speaks she exudes nonchalance, as if speaking of someone else. Though years marked my body, my mind also matured. I knew when the time came to step down. Leaving the stage, buying the club seemed a practical move. Her index finger, wearing a brilliant sapphire, smoothes back an ebony strand of hair freed from its silver clip. Her perfume is sensual, subtle.

Curiosity speaking, Isobel, but what is an evening like at your club?

"Of course you are curious, Gertrude. Since my purchase, The Club is private and has become an American version of an eighteenth century French salon combined with an exclusive supper club. We are unique in the city. My main clientele is male, each pays a yearly membership and his past and immediate status is checked for my approval. In addition, a new member must be vouched for by a current member; no different really than an exclusive country club but with one charming difference: twelve lovely young women.

"The women I employ are beautiful, but chosen by me for their personality and intelligence. Through the years, most have been college students. They circulate among our patrons, sitting, chatting, showing interest in the gentleman; an empathetic ear for his life, his work, his troubles, his joys.

"We serve an exquisite dinner at six, reservation only. The girls put on one show three evenings each week. The entertainment is musical with singing, dancing and glib humor of the day. They run the gamut from Broadway, to politics, to sharp satire. I have a brilliant young man who not only choreographs but also writes the comedic scripts and songs needed.

"My girls give their best and are compensated by the house as well as gifted by gentlemen who have enjoyed themselves. Our patrons are prominent in business, the arts, in government, political punditry, and in the church. Discretion is our pledge of honor for our patrons’ evenings with us.

"My club does not deal in sex, there is plenty of that to be had elsewhere. Surprisingly, most older men of prominence love the spark but wisely avoid the flame. A life of accomplishment in today’s world can be destroyed by a media headline, a compromising photo. The shrewd gentleman truly enjoys someone to listen to him, who willingly discuss his topics of interest. It is these men who find it both comfortable and exciting to be in the company of beautiful women who speak well and listen better.

And, with their peers who find security in the company of other accomplished men.

Dating a patron is inexcusable and separation from The Club is immediate. Isobel’s coffee cup meets the saucer with an emphatic zing!

Fascinating! What a journey you’ve made, Isobel. I say, admiring her spunk, her courage in a man’s world. I know she must have many stories in her background. Can’t help but wonder if I’ll hear those stories?

A feeling, that strange interior sense that alerts or assures, whispers in my mind: Yes.

And you, Gertrude, I’d like to hear your journey. I see no wedding ring on your lovely hand. Does that mean. . . .

I interrupt. I’m separated. He and I decided to explore separate roads after retirement but we’ve remained good friends.

Excellent, my dear! It sounds like you have created a double win! Who talked who into such an affable parting?

Well, I finally realized, with all five children married, I neither needed nor wanted to manage a thirteen room house and an acre of land. My husband, however, enjoyed the status of property; it complemented his corporate life. I went to a lawyer and found out my worth. He also went to see his lawyer and found out my worth. When he received his answer, being the practical man I knew him to be, he decided it was cheaper to keep me. I then allowed him to talk me into a separation and my own golden handshake, sans lawyer of course. So a win-win for both.

Ach! What a clever woman you are Gertrude. I admire that immensely! We look into each other’s eyes as we speak. Although the flirting is well under way, I do perceive sincerity beneath the obvious compliment. I continue, Instead of ‘clever,’ I prefer ‘entitled.’ It best describes my thirty-five years of mental, physical, often difficult work. And, my determination to end up with a fair settlement for work well done.

Your words, your strength excite me, Gertrude.

"Thanks, Isobel. We both smile. A pause and we both look at our watches.

So what will the remainder of the afternoon hold for you, Gertrude?

Shopping, I suppose. I’m unenthused; Isobel is good company. I’ve an account at Nordstroms so I’ll probably go there first. Isobel is looking at me with those penetrating midnight eyes. What? I question.

I am wondering at your reaction if I ask to accompany you? My evening wardrobe for The Club needs a new gown.

I’d enjoy your company, Isobel. Oh yes, I think, I’d definitely enjoy your company! Please, feel free, I. . .

Isobel interrupts, I have heard the saying women bond when shopping. Is true, no?"

I’m sure it is, let’s pay our checks, get out of here and head for the ‘big time.’ Woo! Nordstroms here we come!

Isobel signals to our waiter then lays two twenties on the table. Starting to object to her paying my bill, she takes my arm, gives it a little squeeze and says, You pay the cab, dear Gertrude.

Stepping out to the street through the revolving door, Isobel signals a sleek black car parked at the curb. The driver leaves the wheel, and opens the rear door for us with a flourish. Ahh, Ms. Schmidt, The Club as usual.

No, not today, Werner. Today we go shopping, Nordstroms, please.

A few minutes into the taxi ride, Isobel is on her cell calling someone named Dedroux.

Ahh, this is perfect! She says after the call.

Fill me in, please, Isobel.

"Of course, Gertrude, Dedroux owns a small shop near Nordstroms.

Madam D dresses me. She expects us after three at the shop."

Smiling, I utter what I hope is a nonchalant oh good, but my mind is whirling. I’ve entered a different world!

The driver dodges traffic and in less than ten minutes we reach our destination. I remove a twenty from my wallet and hand it to the cabbie feeling five dollars a proper tip.

Thank you, Mrs. Shall I pick you up later, Ms Schmidt?

I think five should be fine, Werner, at Madam ‘D’? He nods, she hands him another twenty.

After he pulls away, I ask Is he your personal taxi, Isobel?

In a way, Gertrude, Werner is an independent cabbie and I like him. He knows my usual routine and shows up on time. If I need a special trip, I call him on his personal cell. I do not enjoy driving in the crazy traffic that fouls our beautiful city. Beside that, he supports a partially blind wife, three children, and a very old mother. Our arrangement benefits us both. Now, what are your needs?

That’s good of you, Isobel; I admire. . .

Shying from the complement, she interrupts, So, Gertrude, lead me. What are your needs?

Well, from the sublime to the ridiculous, Isobel. I need new underwear, a nightgown, negligee, packable cloth slippers, pantyhose–and whatever takes my eye!

Ahh, wunderbar, that last item excites me most! She winks and we both laugh! Now, it makes sense to me, dear Gertrude, that we shop your items first. Then we shall visit Madam D for my gown. Do you agree? At my nod, she takes my arm and I am whisked away to lingerie.

After choosing a nightgown and negligee, I want to try on both. With clothing made worldwide, I buy few things without trying them on first, Isobel.

As do I, Gertrude. Incidentally, if you call me after you have donned the new nightwear, I would be happy to give you my critique if needed.

Oh well. . .yes. . .I guess so. . .I’ll call you when. . .

When you are in your nightwear.

While undressing, I think about Isobel and I. Is it a brief, a chance meeting that will end when I leave town? I don’t want that. The law of attraction is powerful for me in this situation. Stop it! You just met her! You’re just lonely. . .Damn! I don’t know! She sweeps me off my feet! I. . .

Gertrude?

I’m ready Isobel, cubicle three.

Oh my, look at you! The sapphire blue fabric is a perfect match for your eyes, Gertrude. The gray lace at throat and sleeve cuff are the color of your curly hair. What is the fabric?

Removing the negligee, I check the label. Silk, Isobel. From the texture, it must be a fine quality. The nightgown must be the same; I can tell from the feel. I also can tell from the expression while inspecting me in a sheer nightgown: Isobel approves.

We stand looking at each other. I suddenly feel awkward. Isobel nods, her voice subdued, I will step out while you change, Gertrude, but be assured the nightie and gown were tailored for you.

Thank you, Isobel, I’ll be out in a few minutes.

We’ll shop the other items then walk a few blocks to Dedroux’s.

Madam Dedroux’s is a first floor, two window shop a block from Nordstrom. Madam greets us with a firm handshake for me and a hug for Isobel.

Ahh, kiss me twice, dear Isobel. Three whole months since our last visit, tsk, tsk!

Isobel laughs and kisses Madam on both cheeks. Madam then kisses Isobel on both cheeks. Okay! Thus the ‘kiss me twice’ is explained. While they chat, I look around. There are clothes, clothes of stunning design, beautiful fabric, rich color hanging on walls, racks, and draped on mannequins. One door, partially open, reveals an interior of cutting tables, sewing machines, and several women at work.

My attention returned to Madame D. and Isobel when a small woman entered from the workroom with three gowns over her arm, a tape measure around her neck and a pin pillow around her wrist. The gowns you chose for Ms. Isobel, Madam.

Ahh, Martha, hang them in number two. No! Wait! Let us show them to Ms. Isobel first and then she may choose the order in which she’ll. . .

Yes, Madam D. Here’s the red.

Martha sounds bored, but Madam twirls and swirls a crimson, low cut vee, halter top with a long, narrow, side slit skirt. Oh my, how exciting! The words are out of my mouth before I realize it. I feel a blush coming.

Really, Gertrude! You like this one? I shall try it on, Dedroux. Come with me, Gertrude, and watch the unveiling.

Shall I accompany them, Madam.

No, Martha. I will after a brief phone call.

Isobel removes her clothing, carefully hanging each piece on the wall hooks. Her flesh is lightly tanned, as smooth as satin. The impulse to touch is strong; denied, it persists. She speaks but it’s an effort to listen. All I want is to look, to watch. Isobel picks up the dress, holds it to her, looks in the mirror, smiles, Ah, it has built up cups. No need for a bra. Will you unhook me Gertrude?

My hands tremble; I’m embarrassed. I swear Isobel’s breasts, free from the bra, glow like sculpted alabaster in the subdued lighting of the dressing room.

Get a grip! I tell myself and deliberately look away to regain my composure.

Will you zip me up, dear Gertrude? Looking at her, I realize she put on the gown. Punished, I feel punished for looking away. You do not like what you see, Gertrude. You do not like looking at me unclothed? You have a problem with nudity, no? Most Americans do. It is the Puritan curse!

She laughs, I sputter, Na. . .no. . .I mean. . .absolutely no problem. You have a beautiful body, Isobel. I just didn’t want to stare and make you uncomfortable. After all, I fumble for an ending. we’ve just met and. . .

Perhaps ‘just met’ expresses your feeling, Gertrude. For me, however, it is the contrary; I have known you a long time. Deja vous. . . She speaks while she twirls, swirls around the room. I’m dizzy watching a crimson fire! Abruptly she stops in front of me and says Enough! Down with the zipper now, please my dear. She is breathless; perspiration gathers on my forehead. Unzipping Isobel is much easier for me than questioning her previous comment of ‘deja vous.’

Dedroux enters the dressing room and breaks the tension. And, now the other two gowns, Isobel?

No, my dear Dedroux, the crimson is my choice. It fits and clings in all the correct places. You may take up the hem a bit, I will wear it with a three inch wedge sandal heel. You’ll deliver this to The Club before Saturday?

Of course, Isobel. She takes the gown and leaves.

While Isobel dresses, she asks me, It is nearly five and time to meet Werner and the car.

I nod and with that nod loneliness creeps in. Gertrude, how do you feel about a light supper together? I need not be at The Club until eight-ish. Please say what you feel, Gertrude. Perhaps the day has tired you? I know that often I am too forward.

My heart leaps in my chest! Supper would be quite lovely, Isobel. Often I’m too reticent. Yes, supper! It will top off this unexpected but wonderful day! But now, right now, would you kiss me twice?

Of course! Absolutely! But why my dear Gertrude? She smiles and extends her arms. Why?

It will be a first for me and it seems so cosmopolitan.

Her smile broadens, How very dear of you, Gertrude. I fear you have lived too long in your white, puritanical ghetto. The smile becomes a deep, rich laugh; her arms hold me. She kisses each cheek. The kisses, like whispers, each send a tingle through me. There you are, Gertrude! You are now a woman of the world. Shall we step out into that new world together?

Yes! You have created a new woman, Isobel. My thanks!

Ciao, Dedroux! She shouts, again laughing that wonderful laugh. Taking my arm, we walk out to meet Werner. I feel so good, so warm and comfortable. These are feelings I’ve not had for the past several years. . .since my Myrna.

Chapter 3

OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL. . .

It’s a great day! Wow! I’m up, I’m movin’! If my singing didn’t scare me, I’d belt out a. . .

. . .live it up fool. . . . . .wait till she finds out. . . . . .what a slut you are!. . .

Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup! You won’t spoil my day! Shower water beats on my head and I shout, I’ve got a wonderful feeling, everything’s going okay! My way! My way, damnit!

Wrapping the towel around me, I sit on the toilet seat and remember how marvelous yesterday was. Isobel entered my life unannounced. We lunched, we shopped, we joked, and later we talked and listened to each other over a delicious lasagna supper and a glass of Chianti. I looked into Isobel’s eyes and she looked into mine. I saw the possiblility of friendship in those eyes; did she see friendship in mine?

Before leaving the bathroom, I drop the towel and look at my body in the mirror. Pasta means pounds but my belly doesn’t look any bigger, nor does it look any smaller. My mother use to say about her stomach: Three months after I’ve been in the grave, my belly will still be growing. Ah, so true!

I hear my cell ringing in the bedroom. Digging it from the pit of my purse, breathless, I answer. Hello, Gertrude Smythe speaking.

Hi Casey, how’s my handsome son on this beautiful. . .?

Mom, are you drinking this early in the day?

No darling, I’m getting ready for a lunch date with a great gal I met and spent most of the day, yesterday. She invited me to spend another day and lunch with her–maybe supper too! Why, Casey?

Why? Why? Mother you’re suppose to be on your way here to celebrate my birthday and my new position at the university. That’s why! Are you coming or not?

That edge in your voice, Casey, is unnecessary. Of course, I’m on my way. I have an open ticket, no date, call and arrange the flight when ready. Our celebration isn’t until the weekend when your father is due to arrive. Of course I’ll be there! I promise. Meantime, I want to enjoy this person I met. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend, a person I can. . .

Alright, alright, Mother, just call and let me know when you’ve got a date, okay? You’re sure you’re sober?

Yes darling! Stop that! You’re so bad! Okay, so I’ll call either later tonight or tomorrow. Either way, the red-eye with early six a.m. arrival is definite. Make sure you’re sober! See you soon.

Oh Lord, it’s eleven; where did this morning go? We’re meeting in the lobby at half past. Hurriedly I slip into black slacks, choose the French blue, tailored blouse with onyx cuff links, black leather belt and wedgie sandals. Onyx earrings and necklace dress me up a bit. My black suede jacket is in the bottom of the suitcase and it takes me precious minutes to lift the top layers and retrieve the jacket although I probably won’t need it. Purse, key card, sun glasses and I’m out of here.

The lobby is mobbed; a tour is checking in, but a quick look tells me Isobel hasn’t arrived. I decide to wait outdoors. The air is fresh, the sun playing hide and seek with clouds. Mirroring myself in the hotel’s window, I check me out, pretty damn. . . She’s there beside me. Isobel, you’re here!

Yes, I am dear lady and am moved to tell you, Tres chic, madam! She slips her arm through mine. And, how is Gertrude this beautiful day?"

I’m a happy person today and glad to see you! Where shall we lunch?

Do you like seafood, Gertrude? If so, I know some charming shacks down by the ferry docks.

Sounds great, how shall we go to. . .

Ah, do you not see Werner lurking back there at the curb. He is ready for our command.

You’re fantastic, Isobel! What a treat! Thank you!

She pauses, stares at me, her voice lowers, Thank you, Gertrude. She doesn’t move. Have I done something wrong, displeased her? Your enthusiasm, your compliments, they give me joy. Joy I rarely experience, Gertrude; I thank you for that. She touches my cheek.

Before I can answer, Isobel rapidly leads me to the car. Good morning, Ms. Gertrude! Werner grins and opens the rear cab door for me.

Werner, you will kindly take us to Louie Georgie’s at the docks.

Yes, Ms. Isobel. Great seafood, good choice! Here we go!

Werner is correct. The food is delicious; the wine is fruity yet smooth. The view of Puget Sound is familiar but always, in little ways, different. The company is also familiar, yet totally different from yesterday. Isobel is thoughtful today, tastefully asking questions that pertain to my life, my past, my choices. It’s becoming quite hot in here. No, I’m not ill at ease, just curious, curious about the change in her behavior, why so serious? But, I realize, she has sucked me in, and I find myself enjoying the questions, eager to answer. I want her to like me, really like me because I like her. God! Where did that come from? Hush! No! I absolutely like her!

. . . . . .Sure you do. . . . . . you like anyone. . . . . . anyone you can roll in the dirt with. . . . . . play your dirty sex games. . . . . . go ahead. . . . . . you’ll get caught. . . . . . slut. . .

I pinch my thigh until it hurts. When there’s a pause in conversation, I pick up my purse and excuse myself for a trip to the bathroom. Inside the stall, I check my thigh, it’s bruised.