Jane collapsed onto her own couch with a beer some 10 hours later. Flipping on the television to the highlights of the Red Sox game, she swung her coltish legs unto the coffee table and let out a tremendous belch. Jo Friday lifted her head at the sound and gave Jane a long look before nestling back down in a tan ball.
"You spend too much time with Maura, Jo. You think you're a lady now? We're just two guys here in our bachelor pad."
She took a long swig of her Corona and belched again for emphasis.
Maura. What to do about Maura? She spent the day with her friend, doing Maura things; shopping, pedicures, yoga, trying her best to make the other woman feel cared for. Yet it was clear to Jane that the doctor was hurting and she felt like a complete idiot for not picking up on it sooner. She is a detective, for Christ's sakes, yet she had constructed an elaborate scenario of Maura going rogue with Paddy Doyle to explain her friend's change in behavior rather than face the truth. She was merely missing her best friend, her only friend.
Jane had been a shitty friend lately. She'd been a shitty colleague, sister and daughter as well. It had to stop. She had to bite the bullet, take the bull by the horns, shit or get off the pot. It was time to dredge up all those icky feelings in her gut and figure out if she was in love with Casey, if he was worth waiting for, and the reason she acted like a complete asshat to everyone else in her life when he was around.
Blech. It was too much for a lazy Saturday night and she was exhausted. She wished she had stayed at Maura's; she always slept better there on the 1,000-count sheets with the little medical examiner curled peacefully into her side. Jane smiled at the thought. The Casey question could wait until tomorrow. Tonight she would have one more beer, maybe two and fall asleep to ESPN. She'd run in the morning to clear her head and then force herself to unravel the complex knots of the Casey conundrum before Rizzoli Sunday dinner at Maura's.
There was one more thing she could do to relax. It was Saturday night and she deserved it. She slowly undid the heavy stainless steel clasp of her belt buckle and opening the top two buttons of her jeans, slid her slim hand down between the rough denim and her own softer skin. When she arched her back in release Casey Jones was the furthest thing from her mind.
The floor- to-ceiling mirror in Maura's walk-in closet (really a spare bedroom decked out to accommodate her massive shoe collection and the current season of her wardrobe) reflected its owner sitting on her plush rug, nursing an oversized goblet of deep red wine, a lovely Côtes du Rhône she had discovered on her last trip to France. Her Sunday night ritual included the careful planning of her outfits for the coming week. She had to take into account the weather forecast, scheduled meetings and her own menstrual cycle as well as prepare for the unexpected: a difficult body retrieval, messy crime scene or pop up thunder shower. To Maura, it was a convergence of mathematics and art; plug in the variables, procure a set of acceptable options and narrow those options with an aesthetic eye. It was, in many ways, her favorite part of the week. Her habits were so different from Jane's, who would wake up late, thrust her hand into her closet and pull out one of a dozen black or navy pant suits and pair it with whatever t-shirt was least wrinkled and her heavy-soled boots or Steve Madden loafers. "Oh, Jane...," Maura sighed into the empty air.
She stood finally and picked up a Marni floral print silk dress and a pair of Ferragamo platform pumps in a pale bisque, hoping the light, airy fabric and cheerful pattern would have a salubrious effect on her sagging spirits. This would be Monday's selection; she would start off the week with a soft and carefree look. The face reflected back at her in the mirror was nothing near carefree.
She tilted her head and extended her hand to her reflection, "Dr. Maura Isles, lesbian Medical Examiner. You're a big dyke, Maura Isles. Gay, gay, gay Maura. The Isles of Lesbos." She frowned slightly; that last moniker had painful associations from her school days. She took a deep, calming breath, straightened her shoulders and forced herself to meet her reflected gaze. "The truth shall set you free." The reflected Maura nodded back in agreement.
Maura picked up the phone and without hesitation dialed the international code for Switzerland followed by the digits for the Baur au Lac Hotel in Zurich.
"Guten Morgen," a clipped, professional voice answered.
"Bitte, Ich möchte mit Constance Isles sprechen." Maura replied in perfect German.
She almost hung up before her mother's voice came on the line, only the thought of Constance's fear after getting a dropped call so early in the morning kept her from slamming the receiver down and pushing her news back into the compartment in her mind, a compartment into which it no longer comfortably fit.
"Dr. Isles." came Constance's sleepy voice across the miles.
"Mother? It's Maura."
"Maura, darling," Constance sounded instantly alert, "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, Mother, just fine. I...I have some news that I wanted to share with you."
"So early?" Constance mused. "This must be something grand. A professional accolade? No, you are already at the top of your profession. Unless...did President Obama appoint you the Surgeon General of the United States?"
Maura smiled to herself. Constance was not a warm person, was rather cool and distant for all of Maura's formative years and most of her adult as well, but that her mother would think that such an appointment was within the realm of possibility for her daughter attested to maternal love and pride, deeply hidden, but there nonetheless.
"No, Mother, this is news of a rather personal nature."
Maura had been staring at her new pedicure, a pale baby blue, the most soothing color, which was why she selected it that afternoon at the salon with Jane. The shiny blue polish had mesmerized her, bringing to mind the Zürichsee, which was visible, she knew, from her mother's hotel room. This led to thoughts of Alberich Zwyssig, the composer of the Swiss Palm, Switzerland's national anthem, and all the lonely preteen hours she'd spent listening to her "National Anthems of the World" album, sitting in her dark closet, knees pulled up to her chest, headphones clamped tightly to her ears.
"Maura, Maura. Are you there?" Constance's voice brought her out of her stupor.
Looking up, Maura realized she was still standing in the middle of her closet. Taking a ceremonial step out, she announced, "Mom, I'm gay."
"I know, darling. A mother always knows these things. So, I suppose you are calling to tell me you are going to marry your detective and you would like to use the house on the Cape. Email me your prospective date and I will clear my schedule. Now let me speak with Jane. I should offer her my congratulations."
Stunned and speechless, Maura walked to her bed and placing her hand on it, as if to convince herself it was solid and present, she sat on the edge of her mattress.
"Jane, Jane, it's Constance. Are you there Jane? Maura?.." came the voice from her handset. Maura stared at the phone as if it were a strange piece of medical equipment that she had not yet been trained to use.
"Mom. Jane is straight. Well, I don't actually know that. She is probably not completely straight, but she isn't out. We're not together, though it's what I want. I'm not sure Jane is even aware that she's gay. "
Constance let out one heavy breath.
"Really, Maura. Jane is about as unaware that she's gay as I am unaware that I'm rich."
"What should I do, Mom? I love her."
