Chapter Eighteen
LENA - LOS ANGELES, CA
Isat at the banquet table, chewing on the rubbery chicken I’d expected to eat when I promised Marcus I would attend this event in his place.
The food was awful. No one came to the LA Bar Association dinner for the cuisine—they came for the networking.
But I wasn’t much in the mood for networking and found myself alone at the table with only one other woman seated a few chairs away.
Everyone else at our table was in the restroom, networking at other tables, or mingling by the bar.
She made eye contact, and we smiled at each other. She then moved to the seat next to me.
“I may as well come sit next to you since we’re the only two here.” Gesturing to her name tag, she said, “Hi, I’m Kate Haynes.” She thrust out her hand, grinning.
I shook it. “Nice to meet you. I’m Lena Antinori,” I said, gesturing to the name tag stuck onto my chest.
“Fabulous name. Italian?”
I smiled and nodded.
“Nice to meet you, too, Lena. What firm?” she asked.
“Not with a firm. I’m with the US Attorney’s Office, Civil Rights Division, for Central California.”
“Oh.” She pulled her head back in surprise and lifted her eyebrows. “Very cool.”
I laughed. “It is, actually. I love it.”
“Well, it’s refreshing to meet a lawyer who loves what she does.
Few of us left.” She snickered. “I’m a tax attorney.
And most people, including lawyers, hear that and think ‘Boring.’ But I love it.
It’s like a big maze I get to figure out.
I’m a numbers person and a problem solver, so it’s perfect for me. ”
“Good for you,” I said and meant it.
She was right. There were so many miserable lawyers stuck in dissatisfying careers, trapped because of high student loans or a sense that they owed the profession a chance after spending so many years training for it. And here were the two of us, happy in our unique roles.
“What’s your position there?” she asked.
“I’m one of the two deputy attorneys. We handle discrimination claims, such as age, gender, disability, sexual orientation, race. You know—the protected classes.”
“I’m impressed. Big fan of civil rights, here. Born and bred in the Midwest to parents who were 1960s hippies. You know the type.” She laughed good-naturedly.
We chatted about various subjects. I found her very easy to talk to and learned we had some shared interests and were only a few years apart in age. She’d just started running after years of doing yoga. I told her I was the opposite—a longtime runner who was trying to force myself to do yoga.
“I’m hoping yoga will help me relax more, teach me how to breathe properly.
I’m a tad high-strung.” I smiled, embarrassed to admit the truth so quickly to someone I’d just met.
But conversation with Kate was effortless compared to other people I’d met over the years at these shindigs. Her authenticity was refreshing.
She laughed heartily, throwing her head back. “Too funny. I wish I could say my motives were that deep. I’m taking up running because I need to ward off the butt spread that seems to have crept up on me the past few years.”
I laughed too. She was a hoot.
Kate continued. “But my moms warn me it’s a lost cause. They say, welcome to the midforties, my dear.”
I stopped, my antennae raised. Did she just say “moms”? As in, plural? Could she mean...?
I jerked my head up and gaped at her. “You said ‘moms,’ didn’t you?”
Kate smiled. “Yes, I did. It’s a long story, but the short version is my mother is a lesbian.
She came out when I was in high school and actually fell in love with another mother in our town.
They left their husbands for each other, so it was quite the scandal.
They’re both named Marie, and they’re still together to this day.
I call them either my moms or the Maries. ”
I was dumbstruck, trying to process what she said.
I hadn’t met anyone who had a gay or lesbian parent.
Well, at least none I knew of. And Kate’s mother had come out when Kate was in high school.
We seemed to be about the same age, so that might mean our parents were contemporaries.
I realized I was staring at Kate and still hadn’t said a word.
“It’s okay,” Kate said gently as if I needed reassuring. “We’re all doing really well, and I’m very open about it. They’ve been forgiven for their indiscretions.”
I sputtered over my words. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m... I’m just a little in shock.”
“Yes, I know it can be very shocking for people. It’s certainly an unusual background,” Kate added, lifting her eyebrows again while a playful smile spread across her lips. She seemed so at ease with this conversation.
I looked pointedly at Kate, and then the words fell out of my mouth. “Not as unusual as you might think. My father is gay. He came out when I was in middle school.”
“Wow,” Kate said, eyes wide. “That’s incredible.”
I nodded vigorously. “Yes, it is. What are the chances?”
“I don’t know,” Kate said. “Well, I do some volunteer accounting work for a nonprofit organization that specializes in children of gay and lesbian parents and families with same-sex partners. So I’m familiar with statistics and percentages.
Plus, like I said, I’m a numbers person.
But I’ll tell you what—I don’t meet many people my age with a gay or lesbian parent. Or at least many who admit it.”
Heat rose in my neck and face. “I rarely admit it. In fact... I’ve hardly told anyone besides my husband.
” This revelation made me tingle. This closely held secret that I’d guarded for so long.
.. I thought of all the people I hadn’t told.
Not my high school friends, as most were too sheltered or judgmental—though some might have cheered me on and been in my corner—nor my college roommate, who probably would have been supportive.
And not even my colleagues at work, most of whom were allies and advocates of the LGBTQ community.
Kate leaned back in her chair and looked at me carefully. “Well, I’m honored. I’ve never actually kept it a secret myself. I felt like there were enough secrets and hiding to last a lifetime. So I decided to just be very open about it.”
I nodded. “My brother was the same way. He told a few of his closest friends, and if they were okay with it, great. If they weren’t, then he figured he didn’t want them in his life.
” I shook my head, remembering how angry my mom had been.
“My mother wasn’t happy about that. She wanted us to keep it quiet.
I can’t say I blame her, given all the circumstances and the era.
” I didn’t need to rattle the issues off for Kate, sure that she was familiar with them—societal stigma, religious doctrine, lack of legal protections.
Kate frowned. “That’s tough. I’m sure she did what she thought was best. People have different ways of dealing with it. There’s no one right path. Being the spouse or kid of a closeted gay or lesbian parent doesn’t come with a rule book. Especially back in those days.”
I felt my emotions rise to the surface. “She basically instituted an Antinori gag order. We all abided by it out of respect for her.”
Kate studied me. “Lena, I’m glad you told me. It must be very lonely not really having anyone in your life you can confide in besides your family.”
I felt wetness on my cheeks and quickly lifted my hand to wipe my tears. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Please don’t be sorry. I’m so glad we met.
I think this is going to be the beginning of a very special friendship.
We have lots of other things in common—our legal careers, our ages, and apparently, attempting to learn a new form of exercise and failing at it miserably.
” She smiled. “But our shared experience about our parents is something special.”
The rush of affection I felt for someone I’d just met surprised me. I didn’t realize I needed this so badly—to meet someone around my age with a closeted gay parent who came out when they were a kid. It felt strangely like peering at a mirror image of myself.
As I opened the door, a thrilled Atticus greeted me, wagging his tail so forcefully it could do damage. The house smelled delicious, and I heard notes of jazz playing. Kevin was humming along, busy at the stove. I put down my bag, kicked off my shoes, and gave Atticus a few pets.
“Hey, babe,” Kevin said as I walked over and gave him a kiss hello.
The scent of him, warm and familiar, sent pleasure signals to my brain.
I leaned into him, nuzzling his neck, breathing him in.
He swept away a curl that had fallen on my face.
I had the kind of curly hair that looked great one day and horrible the next.
In New York, I often looked like the character Roseanne Roseannadanna from Saturday Night Live.
But fortunately, in the dry heat of California, most days were good-hair days—one of the many reasons I was happy that I’d met Kevin after I moved out to the West Coast.
He held out a spoon. “Taste this.”
I licked the spoon to taste whatever deliciousness he’d been cooking up. “Mmm, that’s so good.” I hummed with pleasure.
Kevin turned off the burner under the pan. “All ready to go. That’s the extra sauce for the stuffed mushrooms. Your mom’s recipe, of course.” He smiled brightly as he gathered our plates and started serving dinner.
“Yum. I love her stuffed-mushrooms recipe. And you make it so well.”
“I do now. Didn’t go so well the first time around.” He chortled.