Chapter 19 #2
With a rush of heat that was honestly ludicrous, Anne fumbled her phone.
Would Sadie’s praise ever not make her heart beat more rapidly?
There was nothing in the world like unconditional approval from the person whose opinion she cared about most. But she couldn’t tell Sadie that, not now.
Not yet. Some things had to stay private until—Anne would avoid the conditional—they’d had the talk they needed.
Yes. Some things would be private for now.
Quickly, unable to help it, Anne glanced at her bedside table, where two recent deliveries waited: one small bottle of silicone-based lubricant—absolutely essential at her age—next to a four-inch pink vibrator with a white handle.
Her face warmed, remembering what she’d done with that vibrator just that morning, and the previous night, too; how she’d fucked herself and fucked herself and still, she’d wanted more.
Anne picked up her phone from the floor, shook her head to clear it, and began typing again.
Might want to hold off on any praise until you try the Kool-Aid pickles.
You know, I don’t know if you’re joking or not
And frankly I don’t think I want clarification
It’s a lot more fun that way
Look, Sam just called me for dinner, and if I don’t get in there fast he’ll inhale most of the brisket, so I’ve got to sign off
Enjoy dinner.
What an empty, worthless phrase, with none of what Anne really felt in it.
If she hadn’t been holding back, she would’ve told Sadie any number of truths, the kind of honesty that, just a week ago, would’ve embarrassed her horribly.
Don’t go. Stay in my phone. Come home. I think I can do anything, as long as you believe in me.
Her phone buzzed. She looked down at it.
I miss you very much. I don’t know a better way to say it. I miss you.
That was all. Anne waited with little breaths, just in case Sadie elaborated, but no more came. For a poet, it was shockingly plain.
But maybe that was the point. Sadie, holding out to Anne the simple core of all her pretty words. Reaching across the miles with what mattered most.
* * *
Sandwiched between a deli and a bank, the featureless building had clearly seen better days, its tan stucco peeling and badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. Inside it, the only furniture in the front office was a desk arrayed with scattered papers.
Children’s drawings decorated the walls, and a large quilt made from various flags—Anne didn’t recognize any of them but the rainbow one—hung behind the desk. Light from ocean-facing windows poured into the small room, illuminating the small sign that read Santa Monica LGBTQ Community Center.
A woman sat behind the desk, focused on the papers in front of her.
“Hello,” Anne began, trying not to let her nerves jangle the greeting into a question. “I’m looking for Julia. Julia Ramirez? The director?”
At the sound of Anne’s voice, the woman looked up, adjusting her glasses. She was relatively masculine—was “butch” still a word people used?—and heavyset, with cropped silver-and-black hair. “Oh. Yes, that’s me. Hi there. I’m Julie.”
“We spoke on the phone yesterday. About volunteer opportunities? You told me to come down when I had some free time. And I have time today.” That was an understatement. Anne had nothing on her calendar for Friday other than not drinking. “So here I am.”
“And you are?”
“I’m a lesbian,” Anne said.
Julie’s eyes widened, and she let out a loud and generous laugh that filled the room.
Anne’s cheeks scalded with fresh embarrassment. Wrong answer, apparently. She gripped her purse strap.
“Me, too,” Julie informed her, smiling kindly.
Oh, that was—Anne felt it. Something inside her chest squeezed hard in recognition.
“But that’s not what I meant. What’s your name?”
“Anne Lowell.”
“Anne Lowell.” Julie’s voice had a lilt to it, a note of delight. Yet, despite that, Anne didn’t feel she was being mocked. “Welcome to the center. How’d you hear about us?”
“From one of your volunteers. Arthur Emmerman? He’s my—well, ‘friend’ isn’t really accurate, although I guess we’re sort of—he’s my ex-husband’s husband.
I got divorced after my husband came out.
Although I didn’t know I was gay then.” Anne pressed her lips together.
“God. I have no idea why I’m just telling you all this. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, you’re family.” Julie waved a hand in cheerful dismissal. “Family can’t be strangers. Take a seat, why don’t you? The chair on the right’s better. The other one, you’ve got about a twenty- maybe thirty-percent chance one of the legs is gonna give right out. I wouldn’t risk it.”
Anne complied, taking the recommended chair. “I take it ‘family’ means something besides the usual definition. Do we—” She’d said it: we. “Do we use that term differently?”
Julie peered at her over the desk. “How long have you been out, Anne? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Almost a week,” Anne admitted. It sounded a little better than “since last Monday.”
A low whistle. “Wow. And you’re already jumping right into volunteering. Well, you’re a woman who doesn’t like to waste any time, aren’t you?”
“I’ve already wasted plenty of time. That’s over with.”
Julie didn’t answer. As she looked at Anne, she blinked a bit too fast, long lashes beating.
Anne knew that look. Countless men, innumerable times. Only now it was on the face of a woman who had to be, what, ten years younger than Anne? That was different. Gratifying, honestly.
“So,” Anne said after a long pause, “will you tell me what ‘family’ means, or do I have to throw myself on Google’s fickle mercy?”
“Right, right,” Julie said, still staring. “No, yeah, sorry, of course. Family means you’re one of us. Part of the community. Means you belong.”
Just like that? No questions asked? All Anne had to do was walk into a room, and suddenly she was part of a family?
“I don’t know you,” she blurted out. “And you don’t know me.
I don’t belong here. I’m an outsider. I’m sixty years old, I’ve lived my entire life acting like a straight person, and I don’t even know how to be a lesbian.
I’ve never been a part of a community. Any community.
Look, Julie, you seem like a nice person who doesn’t need to hear all of this, and I really did come in here just to get some more information on volunteering, so maybe we could—”
“Lemme ask you something,” Julie interrupted. “When you were in high school, or maybe college, did you have a close friend? Another girl. Someone different from your other friends, someone you wanted to be around all the time, someone who made your stomach do flip-flops whenever she looked at you?”
Anne felt it on her left cheek: the warm press of Missy Campbell’s mouth, the puff of breath, the soft slide of her lipstick. “Yes,” she said, startled. “I did, but—”
“Was there ever an older woman you admired? A teacher, maybe? You thought about her a lot, couldn’t wait to see her every day, wanted her to think you were more special than all the other girls?”
Miss Fields. The apple. “I’ve never told anyone about—”
“When the other girls talked about boys they liked, you had to think about it really hard, right? I bet you had a name all ready to go in case they asked you. Someone acceptable.”
Five minutes. It had been five minutes, maybe a few more, and this unfamiliar woman was pulling out bits of Anne’s past with the confidence of someone who’d watched her closely since childhood. “How the hell could you know all of that?”
“Because,” Julie said softly, “you aren’t alone.”
Anne opened her mouth. Closed it again.
All those years. All those years of feelings that stayed below until they couldn’t and became spills she’d cleaned up fast before they could stain her with the truth.
She’d always felt so goddamned alone.
“Family,” she managed. “Right. I see.”
“So, you wanted to talk about volunteering. There’s an orientation in a couple of weeks, and we’ve got to fingerprint you first before you can start, but what’s your cup of tea?
Pride Month’s almost here, so there’s plenty to do.
We’re prepping the AIDS Walk, the fundraising team’s about to launch their second quarter campaign, our elder initiative is just getting off the ground, and the poetry writing class needs a new instructor. Any of that sound interesting?”
Still reeling a little, Anne heard herself ask, “A poetry instructor?”
“Yeah. You interested?”
“Oh God, no. But—I know a poet who teaches. My, ah, best friend.”
“Your best friend?” Julie repeated, lifting her eyebrows.
“You should read Sadie’s work, it’s—well, I haven’t read a lot of it”—she winced, embarrassed—“but she’s extremely talented.
She sees potential everywhere, even when it doesn’t see her.
She pays attention to things you’d never even notice.
Somehow, she knows how to pick out just the right detail and show it to you in a way that makes you see it differently. Or for the first time.”
“Sounds pretty amazing,” Julie said gently, “this Sadie.”
“Yes.” It was all Anne could get out.
“Are you—?”
The unfinished question hung between them. How many different ways could Julie end it? Attracted to her? With her? In love with her?
It didn’t matter. The answer was the same. “I am,” Anne said.
Julie nodded just once, a firm downward tilt of her head, punctuating a sentence that never started.
Anne swallowed. “So,” she said, looking around.
“Have you ever thought about what flowers could do for this space? Some tasteful arrangements would really brighten it up. Not just for events, but for classes, envelope-stuffing sessions, that sort of thing. Flowers have a significant impact on mental health, you know. Just being around them makes people happier and more motivated.”
“Flowers?” Julie looked startled. “Well, no, I hadn’t thought about that. I love flowers, and you’re right, they’d really add a lot, but they tend to be pretty expensive, and there are bigger priorities. We’ve got a tight budget.”
Anne wouldn’t tell Julie, but after Arthur had mentioned the center the other day, she’d spent a few hours doing some research; the center’s financial statements were available on their website, hidden underneath layers of menus.
Julie was right—they didn’t have much money—but what they did have, they appeared to use judiciously.
“And if you had some financial support from a new volunteer and a cost-reducing partnership with a local shop? I’ve used Purple Poppy in Calabasas for years, and they have a Pride flag in their store window.
I bet they’d like to help. I could reach out. ”
Possibilities unfolded in front of Anne like fresh, clean clothes.
If she didn’t ask for payment—God knew she didn’t need it—maybe Purple Poppy would be willing to let Anne help with preparation and arrangement as part of a deal with the center.
Anne’s hands understood flowers like little else; underneath them, blooms preened in combinations her guests raved over.
But this would be better than that. This would be for a community.
Her community.
“Anne Lowell,” Julie said with wonder in her voice. She grinned. “I’ve been waiting for years for someone like you to walk into this place.”
They chatted for a little longer about the fundraising campaign before Anne reached out to shake Julie’s hand, promising to return soon. Maybe it was Anne’s imagination, but Julie seemed to hold on just a second longer than absolutely necessary.
“Your best friend.” Julie pulled back her hand. “Sadie. She’s a very lucky woman. Assuming she’s smart enough to know what she’s got. And if she isn’t—” Julie’s cheeks were pink. “The maple-bacon donuts over at Glitz and Glaze, around the corner? They come in twos.”
Anne hid a smile. “I’m spoken for. But thank you. Really.”
There wouldn’t be maple-bacon donuts for two, not with Julie. But in another life, one where Sadie didn’t exist, those donuts could have been in her future, if Anne had wanted them to be.
It wasn’t about Julie. Just the remarkable realization that Anne was starting to build a life with options—new opportunities to do something worthwhile, new alliances and possibilities—that was what caught her breath.
Family: a too-tight word she’d never been able to wear without feeling constricted.
Maybe now it might be big enough, comfortable enough, to let her slip inside.