Author's notes: Sorry for the delay; this is a longer chapter, so I hope that will make up for it. Also, the rating changes to T in this chapter, and will soon become an M, so if you're not subscribed to the story, remember to adjust your filters, or it will disappear. Finally, Sharon's daughter's name changes in this chapter, which is a reflection of what we learned from Major Crimes. Yes, I started writing this that long ago.
Warning: sloppy editing job ahead.
Film Studies 201: The One About the Guy with the Birds
The film: Birdman of Alcatraz (dir. John Frankenheimer, 1962)
1.
Sharon had not been joking: her brother was much younger, maybe twenty years or so. Brenda, who prided herself on never forgetting a face, recognized him as the man from one of the photos in Sharon's condo. The blonde wasn't sure why this piqued her curiosity so: a large age gap between siblings was somewhat unusual, but it wasn't a scandal. But she still knew so little about Sharon's history, and by this point she was fairly sure it wasn't all down to her own inability to ask the right questions. Sharon Raydor was not a woman who liked to talk about her past, and her reticence only increased Brenda's desire to know all the missing details.
Sharon did, however, like to talk about San Francisco, and had proven herself to be an excellent tour guide. Brenda had never liked being led around and told what to do. Sharon, though, was both organized and casual in her approach, incorporating as many activities as possible while leaving time to relax over a glass of wine (or soda, for the youngest member of the trio) or stroll and people-watch.
After lunch Friday afternoon, the first thing the older woman had insisted they do was walk across the Golden Gate. Brenda had been struck by how beautiful it was, and how moving, even with the towering safety railing and the constant stream of pedestrian tourists from one side of the bay to the other.
"It's better at night," Sharon had commented, looking out toward Alcatraz, which Rusty was oddly enthusiastic to visit given his experiences with law enforcement and the penal system. "Especially in the fog. More atmospheric. Like something in a Bogart movie." She had sensed Brenda appraising her and turned with a smile, asking, "What?"
"Did you grow up here?"
"Here?" The captain had looked back toward the city, and Brenda would have described her expression as wistful. "Oh, no. No. But I love the Bay Area, and of course Richard went to Stanford and stayed in Palo Alto."
Brenda's side-eye must have been quite arresting. "Ricky lives here an' you're not gonna see him?"
"Ricky lives in Palo Alto," Sharon had corrected precisely, "and he's currently in - Seoul, is it?"
"You O'Dwyers get around."
No response had been forthcoming.
"So where did you grow up?"
"Oh, north of here, mostly. Rusty, are you ready? I want you to see the redwoods."
Sharon Raydor, International Woman of Mystery. Brenda had rolled her eyes and resolved to do a little digging when she met the captain's equally mysterious brother; but that had turned out not to be necessary. Although his reserved demeanor reminded her of Sharon, Michael O'Dwyer wasn't such a tough nut to crack. Soft-spoken and serious to the point of dead-pan, he had a wickedly dry sense of humor that the blonde thought might be a genetic characteristic. Brunch with Mike and his tow-headed daughter had been enlightening, as he and Sharon casually chatted about a kinship network whose existence Brenda had never even suspected and Michael told Rusty and Brenda (tame) stories about a much younger Sharon.
Rusty, bless him, was as thrilled with a weekend in San Francisco as most American teens would have been with a visit to Paris or London, and kept forgetting to play it cool. He didn't even seem to mind having his foster mother and her friend as his companions. He had taken the meeting with Michael well, seeming to find him non-threatening; and Sharon's little niece, Elena, had obviously fallen head over heels for her new big cousin. No matter what Rusty did, wide, solemn green eyes followed his every move, and Brenda kept having to remind herself not to laugh, because those eyes were so like Sharon's. She and her brother favored, as Brenda's people down South said, both long-limbed brunettes with green eyes, although Michael's were much lighter than his big sister's.
After brunch, no one was in a hurry, and Brenda was content trailing behind the others as she watched Sharon and her brother stroll arm in arm while Elena clung to Rusty's hand and jabbered about the ocean, the birds, the artist making balloon animals, and everything else a four-year-old could think of. Brenda enjoyed the ride on the ocean-side streetcar more than she cared to admit. Sharon had been appalled when the blonde had confessed she'd never been to San Francisco.
They stood on a wide paved area near a bustling indoor shopping area, and Brenda watched the brilliant sunlight reflect off the water. She caught Sharon's eye, and the older woman, clad in a snug purple t-shirt and matching cardigan with the sleeves pushed up, smiled widely at her. Brenda felt her own eyes crinkle as she smiled back. Had she ever seen the precise captain look so nakedly happy?
It took two tries for Sharon to make Brenda understand that she was asking if they'd all like to go inside, because Brenda was distracted by just looking at her.
"This is where the design-your-own burger place is, right?" Rusty asked, perking up. He gestured past a shop touting its artisanal handmade soaps toward a sign for Taylor's Automat. "I read about it on Yelp. It's supposed to be amazing."
Sharon rolled her eyes at the burgeoning foodie. "You can't possibly be hungry again," she said, knowing full well that he could.
Elena tugged on the teenager's hand, and when he bent down, she cupped her hands and whispered in his ear. The sight of the two blonde heads bent together warmed his guardian's heart.
Rusty's features took on a sly cast as he sought Brenda's gaze. "And chocolate milkshakes," he tempted. "Please, Sharon? It's lunchtime."
They'd had brunch less than two hours before but, the captain reasoned, this was vacation. She couldn't deny either that she felt a warm glow whenever Rusty made such a simple, boyish request. She sighed and grinned, and Elena, clutching Rusty's hand, turned imperative green eyes on her father.
Mike was an even softer sell than his big sister. "Okay," he said as he reached for his wallet. "She can have the small order of sweet potato fries and a child-sized milkshake."
"It's cool - I have money." Without being asked, Rusty looked from Mike to Sharon and added, "It's probably crowded in there. I won't let her out of my sight."
"Good man," Michael replied easily.
"Hold her hand," Sharon cautioned, although she knew Rusty was the last person on earth who would abandon a child.
He smirked and looked pointedly at the little girl's death grip on his fingers. "Yeah, not a problem. Where should we meet you guys?"
"It might be nice to walk along the waterfront," Sharon suggested. Mike agreed readily. Then the older woman got a good look at Brenda's lip-biting, hangdog expression, and chuckled. "Brenda, do you need a milkshake, honey?"
"Come on, Brenda," Rusty called as he and Elena turned. "I'm buying."
The blonde stopped trying to hide her enthusiasm. "See y'all soon," she said hastily, and scurried after the young people.
Sharon smiled. "Between her and Rusty, I've been buying enough groceries lately to feed several small island nations."
"Don't act like it's all them. I've seen what you can do to a pizza."
Sharon hummed. She tucked her arm through Michael's with a proprietary air and piloted them toward the market's exit. Warm sunshine and a faint cooling breeze off the bay beckoned.
They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Mike turned, taking in the way the sunshine picked out the highlights in his sister's hair and her sunglasses didn't totally hide the fine web of laugh lines bracketing her soft green eyes.
She felt his gaze and demanded, "What? Have I got something on my face?"
"It's just really, really good to see you so happy. I know your new job has to mean constant stress, but you seem calmer, Sharon. Lighter."
Sharon thought of similar words spoken by her son, and her lips curved. She felt lighter, and she knew it wasn't just the beautiful morning and the cawing of the seagulls. "I feel… comfortable where I am," she agreed with characteristic understatement. Yes: comfortable, almost to the point of contentment. "Life is a funny thing, isn't it? The past year has brought challenges I never anticipated facing, and accepting them has given me a kind of - well, a joy I'd almost forgotten." She squinted up at her brother. "You're doing okay, really? I work too much, but I'm a phone call away. I've been there. I know what it's like to raise a child alone."
"I'm not saying it's easy, but yeah, you know. We're doing okay." Mike squinted too, an expression that brought out a spark of family resemblance. "Elena misses her mom sometimes, but not as often as I thought she would. I know that may change as she gets older. But honestly, Sofia was checked out so much that I'm not sure the kid notices that big of a difference."
Sharon nodded. She knew that dynamic all too well.
"Rusty's parents - they're not around at all?" At Sharon's short negative Mike continued, "He seems like a great kid. I'm glad I finally got to meet him. And Elena's got a serious case of hero worship."
"She could do a lot worse."
"So could you."
Her brows arched. "Come again?"
"You could do a lot worse than Brenda. I like her, Shar."
Mike watched his sister's lips purse as if she were amused. "I like her too."
"She's got a bit of the devil in her - brings it out in you. She's good for you. Rusty too. And I won't pretend I'm not as surprised as I am flattered that you invited me to meet them."
"Of course I wanted you to meet Rusty. We stayed away at Christmas because he'd been with me such a short time; we were still getting used to each other. And due to his situation, I can't take him across state lines. But you've got the wrong end of the stick when it comes to Brenda."
"Have I?" he asked, and she heard the same skeptical note that drove people crazy in her voice.
"We worked together for several years. - I say together. You don't really work with anyone when you're Internal Affairs. I have her old job, actually. And we've become friends over the last few months. But that is all, Michael. Friends."
"Then you should seriously reevaluate the situation. Life is short, Sharon. I've never understood why you stay married to Jack. I know it's none of my business, but I think you've let that marriage malinger so long from some sense of misplaced guilt that you've forgotten what a good relationship can be like - and this from the recently divorced guy. Have you honestly not seen the way she looks at you? Or the way you look at her?"
His sister frowned. She didn't look at the other woman any special way. "I've seen Brenda's type, and I am definitely not it."
"You mean she's not into stubborn tight-ass brainiacs?" Sharon drew her arm away to smack him lightly, and he continued, "Or do you mean women in general? Who gives a damn? You were married to a man - you are married to a man. Maybe she doesn't know what her type is. Maybe she doesn't have a type."
Sharon was glad for the shield of the oversized sunglasses. "You mean well, but please stop. This is… very personal."
Mike was quiet.
"My reasons for remaining married to Jackson are complex, and they're my own. And my friendship with Brenda is my own as well. I'm happy with the way things are."
He still said nothing - the stubborn familial refusal to speak - and Sharon fretted that it sounded like she was trying to convince herself. Was she trying to convince herself?
"I didn't offend you, did I?"
"Of course not. You know I like a straight shooter, Michael."
"I do indeed." He kissed the top of her head, a move reminiscent of the sloppy affection with which he'd lavished her when he was a toddler and she would come home on breaks from college. "It's probably time to go fetch the young 'uns. Wanna come?"
"No, I'll wait here."
Her brother walked away, and the bright smile the captain had flashed at him ebbed. She looked out at the sunlight dazzling on the water and thought about his words. Mike was right in a sense: she was involved with Brenda. That was true of any friendship, even to an extent of any working relationship. Over the past few months, however, her life had become intertwined with Brenda's to a degree that was - highly unusual, to say the least. Especially for Sharon, who was a fairly solitary person by nature, a content introvert. Sharon's idea of an ordinary evening had expanded to include Brenda seated beside her on her living room sofa as they paged through paperwork or bickered over what to watch on TV. It had become the rule rather than the exception. Sitting back, viewing it from a distance as she viewed the seals now sunning themselves on the rocks, Sharon clearly saw how big a part of her and Rusty's daily lives Brenda had become, and how difficult it would be to extricate her if circumstances or events should render it necessary.
It would happen, in all likelihood. Probably soon. Brenda would find a new place to live, and once the Marriott wasn't her home base, she wouldn't need to seek refuge at Sharon's. And she wasn't the type to remain single for long; she would meet someone else with whom to spend evenings and take vacations.
Sharon saw all this. She saw how Brenda could overturn the comfortable routine of her existence, and why the precarious situation should make someone like Sharon profoundly uneasy.
Having seen all this, she continued to gaze out at the ocean with the same light, almost euphoric feeling she'd had all weekend. Her foolhardy lack of trepidation finally brought the first small flutter of unease.
Instinctively, she folded an arm over her stomach, hugging herself as if to ward off the darker feelings. They'd had a wonderful weekend so far beneath the golden San Francisco sun; and if this trip was to be a last hurrah of sorts, that was all the more reason for her to enjoy it.
Brenda picked up her pace as she approached Sharon, outdistancing Mike and the kids. Her beaming smile lit up her whole face, and she looked glorious. She literally took Sharon's breath away, and the older woman felt a sharp, keen pang. Her answering smile was only half natural, half forced.
"Here." Brenda held out a small paper cup with a straw in it. "You have to try this. Missin' out would be a serious miscalculation on your part."
"You're sharing your chocolate?" Sharon teased.
"No, that one's for you. You know I don't share. Now go on, you have to drink it. None of that talk about how you shouldn't. We're gonna walk about ten miles today, so you'll burn it all off anyway." Dark eyes twinkled, and the captain frowned a little, scrutinizing them. Brenda didn't look at her any special way either, did she?
In retrospect, Sharon could admit to herself that she had been attracted to Brenda Leigh Johnson almost as long as she had known her; and over the summer she'd grown used to acknowledging that attraction. It was a background presence, like the hum of telephone wires, but it wasn't doing any harm, and she could easily live with it. Never in her wildest dreams had she contemplated acting on it. But the suggestion that Brenda might be experiencing something similar invited Sharon to view their relationship from a whole new perspective. She couldn't decide yet whether or not she liked this new angle, but she had a feeling she wasn't going to be able to switch back.
Damn her interfering brother. He couldn't sort out his own personal life; what business did he have commenting on hers? It was just like an O'Dwyer, through and through. There were reasons Sharon lived hundreds of miles from her relatives.
Glancing up, Sharon took in Mike's shaggy hair, shot through with silver and in need of a cut, and the bright, serious eyes behind his glasses, and shook her head. There was no way she could remain irritated with him, the boy who had glued himself to her heels and worshipped the ground she walked on until he grew old enough to know better. (He did know better, didn't he?)
"I wish we could spend the rest of the day with you guys, but we've gotta get El back up the coast for her ballet class." His eyes met Sharon's as he grinned. "Baby, tell Aunt Sharon what you want to be when you grow up."
The girl ducked her head and clung to her father's hand, but at last whispered, "A dancer like Emily."
"Well, I think that is terrific. But do you know what the best thing about ballet class is? It's fun. So you go have a great time in class today, sweetheart."
When Sharon leaned down, the shy child peeled herself away from her father's side and dove into her aunt's arms, and Brenda smiled so hard her face hurt.
They all said their goodbyes, with promises to meet again, sooner this time. Then, rather awkwardly - that ran in the family too - Mike asked, "Shar, walk us to the car? I need to talk to you for just a minute."
Brenda and Rusty easily whiled away the interval, strolling and people-watching. When Sharon rejoined them, the blonde immediately noticed the subdued look in the taller woman's eyes and the tightness of her features, but she only asked, "What's next, tour guide?" If Sharon wanted Brenda to know what she and her brother had talked about, she would open up in time. One thing Brenda was learning was that, when it came to Sharon, prying did more harm than good.
They spent the afternoon wandering through the Mission district, taking in the murals and graffiti and decaying art deco theaters. Rusty took about a thousand photos on his iPhone, merrily snapping away as he alternately posed Brenda and Sharon or brooded for suitably artistic selfies, and Sharon resolutely did not laugh. She made sure Brenda got at least one decent photo of her with Rusty, one suitable for framing, so she could hang it on the wall amid the photos of herself with Ricky and Emily. And maybe, just maybe, she could find a place for one of the shots of herself with Brenda Leigh.
The watershed moment came around 4:00 when a dimpled redhead casually struck up a conversation with Rusty while the two of them browsed through a postcard rack. Sharon was several feet away, close enough to hear while being unobserved, as the girl responded to a question Rusty had asked.
"We're from Portland. Those are my moms over there, by one of your moms."
Sharon could've smacked her forehead like an actor in an old V8 commercial. Both she and Rusty darted glances at two women debating the merits of a Berkeley t-shirt near where Brenda was leafing through the pages of a coffee table book. Of course that was the image she, Brenda, and Rusty presented to the outside observer: a happy modern family. The assumption was completely unsurprising; so why did it bother her?
"Oh, she's not my mom, and they're not - I mean, neither of them is my mother, and they aren't - So, Portland, huh? Cool. Does it rain a lot there?"
Sharon swallowed her laughter and turned to find out what was holding Brenda's attention. A few minutes later the captain dragged Rusty away from a conversation about Portland's independent coffee houses (Rusty the connoisseur had, she was fairly certain, never tasted coffee in his life) to pay for his seventeen postcards, while Brenda flashed her plastic for the coffee table book depicting the neighborhood's famous murals. Everything was fine, Sharon told herself; everyone was happy. But she felt uneasy, and as much as she wanted to blame Mike's unwanted advice, she knew it wasn't his fault. Everyone, including perfect strangers, seemed to assume she and Brenda were a couple. Somehow it was making her doubt herself. She'd begun to second-guess every word, every smile, every casual touch. Was her behavior appropriate? Did she treat Brenda like her partner rather than her good friend? And, more troubling still, had Brenda noticed a difference?
At least they'd walked across the Golden Gate and had their early picnic supper among the redwoods yesterday, when Sharon hadn't been so attuned to the potential romantic undercurrents of those activities. And at least the next item on the agenda offered the opportunity for her to get out of her own head for a while. She glanced at her watch and felt a little smug. She was confident she'd timed it just right: they'd get there in time for sunset.
2.
"This really is beautiful. I see what all the postcards are about now." Brenda turned slowly, looking from the graceful column of Coit Tower looming above the two women to the panoramic view down the hillside below. "You musta been here a bunch of times, huh?"
"Many times, yes. But you never forget your first."
Brenda chuckled. "So they say. You're my first, Sharon." The brunette's eyebrows rose, and the blonde hastily amended, "I mean, I've never been here before, and it's nice, comin' with you."
Sharon snorted, and then looked back out at the landscape again. They stood quietly for a few minutes, and when Brenda looked over again Sharon wore a dreamy, far-away smile that aroused Brenda's curiosity, but she didn't wait for the younger woman to ask. "I came to the city for the first time one weekend in college with a group of friends - at that age when it still feels terribly grown-up to travel without parental supervision, you know?" Brenda nodded, smiling encouragement. "It was the seventies, well after the height of Haight-Ashbury's glory days, but you could still find plenty of ways to get high if you wanted to. Instead one of the other girls and I walked across the Golden Gate, and then we took the streetcar, and came up here before twilight. Just this time of day, in fact. I've always remembered." Sharon's fingers closed firmly around the iron railing. "I stood here, looking down…"
When it became clear that the captain wasn't going to say anything else, Brenda murmured, "I can see why you remembered. The sunset is gorgeous from up here." She glanced at a young couple several feet away who had paused to kiss between snapping photos. "Romantic, too."
Sharon's smile blended wistfulness and humor. "We thought so, or at least I did. It was October, chilly, misty - the fog was rolling in from the bay. We both had long, long hair, and Jackie kept brushing mine back from my face. I remember -"
This time Sharon stopped abruptly and cut her eyes at Brenda. A flush crept over her cheeks.
"You remember what?" Brenda coaxed, touching Sharon's arm below the sleeve of her t-shirt. "Go on, tell me."
"I remember how desperately I wanted to kiss her," the older woman admitted, still blushing, and smiling at herself. "I'd never felt anything like that, so distinctly, and I was overwhelmed. Paralyzed."
"So did you?" Brenda asked softly, edging a little closer.
Sharon's laugh was breathless. "Are you kidding? No. I was terrified." Her hair glistened in the sunlight as she shook her head. "I told her we should get back down before dark. It's funny, isn't it, to think how one little moment like that might have changed my life? How differently things might have gone if I'd kissed my friend instead of running down the hill and buying a coffee."
"Different how?"
"Oh, I meant -" Freeing one hand from the railing, the brunette gestured vaguely. "If I'd been able to admit to myself at nineteen that my attraction to other women was something real and meaningful, I might not have had to wait another twenty-five years to kiss a girl. And I might not have my two lovely children." Her smile turned into a grin as she angled her upper body toward her friend. "Even forty years later, I'm still almost positive Jacqueline wanted me to kiss her," she confided, and laughed.
Brenda knew she needed to offer some sort of appropriate response, and she knew she was staring and probably making Sharon uncomfortable; but she could neither loosen her tongue nor unglue her eyes. Knowledge had come upon her all at once, with the grace and subtlety of a ton of bricks.
"I'm sure she did." She responded without thinking, breathless.
Their eyes locked. The brunette didn't move. Brenda's hands came to rest near Sharon's on the guardrail, fingers turning a livid white as they squeezed spasmodically. She could feel the other woman's body heat, the appealing scent of sunshine and sweat mingling with her soap and shampoo.
I want you to, Brenda thought, suddenly certain.
Sharon drew a quick, sharp breath through parted lips. Her eyes had widened and darkened, and the look in them - one Brenda had never seen before - made the blonde flush with a liquid heat that had nothing to do with the setting sun or physical exertion.
The captain lifted a hand and tucked a stray curl behind Brenda's ear, her fingertips grazing her cheek and lingering. Her touch trembled.
Kiss me, Brenda pleaded silently. She wasn't usually the type to wait to be kissed, but somehow it felt important that the older woman be the one to initiate the contact. Kiss me, kiss me -
Sharon leaned in a fraction, and they were standing so close already that it wouldn't take much, just a few more inches. Her eyes fell to Brenda's mouth, and the blonde barely contained a whimper. Elation and panic flooded through her. It was going to happen. Sharon Raydor was going to -
"Hey, Sharon, do you have change for a bottle of water? The guy won't take a twenty."
Rusty seemed oblivious to what he had almost interrupted. Brenda's heart thundered, unspent adrenaline making her fingers and toes tingle unpleasantly. Sharon turned away, but not before Brenda saw the color staining her pale cheeks or the way her teeth had sunk into her lower lip. Brenda shivered violently, glad Rusty was distracted by jokingly complaining about having to drink after his foster mother as she handed him her own bottle of water rather than forking out for another.
"We'd better head down." To Brenda's ears Sharon's voice sounded thready. "We don't want to miss our dinner reservation."
And then, for the second time in her life, instead of kissing the girl, Sharon Raydor turned tail and ran.
3.
Brenda Leigh Johnson was taking a shower, and Sharon Raydor was quietly losing her mind.
The sound of the shower running seemed to grow so loud that it left no room for any other thoughts. Sitting primly on the edge of the bed, Sharon clasped her hands between her stocking-clad knees, squeezing them together until her cuticles grew a shocking white and her fingers trembled. It didn't help. She surged to her feet, paced a few steps, and stopped. Her arms fell limply to her sides. She had gotten ready too quickly, needing something to keep her occupied, and now she was at a loss. They didn't need to leave for forty-five minutes. Or so she had told Brenda. That really meant they had an hour.
The thought of kissing Brenda, wrapping her arms around her narrow shoulders and pressing her slick, wet body against her own clinging silk dress, consumed the brunette. Her heart pounded, the combination of desire and terror making her dizzy and sick to her stomach. Her clit throbbed and she let out a sound like a stifled sob, pressing her hands to her head.
There was no point trying to convince herself this was the result of too much self-induced celibacy. This wasn't about wanting a woman; it was about wanting the woman. Sharon had chosen not to see it, and instead it had smacked her between the eyes today.
Brenda had wanted Sharon to kiss her that afternoon. Her heavy-lidded brown eyes and slightly parted lips had encouraged; the blonde had probably even expected it.
The captain couldn't strip off her clothes and fling herself under the shower spray with Brenda Leigh. Neither could she wait there, aching with lust, for the other woman to emerge clad in a tiny towel. Berating herself for being a dozen different kinds of coward, Sharon seized her keycard from the dresser and fled through the connecting door.
From his lounging position on the bed Rusty looked up, startled by her sudden appearance. She pasted on a smile. "I thought you might need a hand with your tie." She looked automatically at the television. "What are you watching?"
"I don't know. It's about this guy and all these birds."
Sharon raised an eyebrow. "The Birds? Alfred Hitchcock, Tippi Hedren -"
"Not unless that's Tippi - who?" Rusty inclined his head toward the screen, and Sharon gratefully sank down on the foot of the bed to watch with him.
"Oh, no. That's Burt Lancaster, and this is Birdman of Alcatraz. Fitting, hmm?"
Rusty hummed his assent.
"I got the tickets for tomorrow at ten. The weather is supposed to hold. It's a fascinating place." They watched in silence for a few moments. Rusty seemed absorbed in the story of the murderer in solitary confinement whose only friends were the birds on the tiny island.
"If you're going to shower before dinner, you should do that soon."
"Uh - about that -" His gaze fell and he picked at a thread on the bedspread. "Do you think maybe I could stay here instead?"
The captain's forehead crinkled. "Why? It's a wonderful restaurant." She couldn't imagine who her brother knew that had managed to pull strings and get them a table at the last minute; the waiting list was several months long, and it wasn't unusual for diners to reserve a year in advance.
"But it's fancy, right? Like, I have to wear a suit."
"Oh, don't let that scare you," Sharon reassured. She paused, keeping her face neutral. Was Rusty remembering the last time he'd worn a suit? That fateful first dinner with his biological father. This was not usually an area in which Sharon would have indulged one of her children: if the adults were going out for a proper sit-down meal with fine linen and real silverware, then Richard and Emily were expected to go along, mind their ps and qs, and be on their best behavior. And it wasn't as if Rusty was a child.
But… but Rusty was special.
"We can cancel the reservation and go somewhere else. There are lots of great places nearby where we can all wear jeans and be comfortable. How about that?"
"But you're looking forward to it."
She had been, but so what? This was part of parenting, and she truly didn't mind giving up a little bit of pleasure for the greater joy of seeing her son happy. (She ignored the voice that always pointed out that Rusty wasn't really hers; she was in no mood for semantics.) She smiled as she stood. "I'll call now."
Physical contact between them was rare enough that his hand on her wrist made her jump. "Wait. Um…"
He trailed off. She waited a moment, and then realized he needed prompting. "Tell me what's on your mind."
"It's not - it's stupid." She gave him that look of hers, the one like Eleanore Roosevelt coming up from the coal mines, and he sighed. "This trip has been really great. Like, so great, Sharon, and I'm so grateful for everything that you've -" Her hand on his knee cut off the flow of thanksgiving, and because he now knew her well enough to know that all that gratitude made her uncomfortable, he got to the point. "Since I got that letter, practically the only time I've had to myself is, like, when I'm in the bathroom. And I get it. I do. But we're safe here, right?"
She cautiously inclined her head.
"So I thought maybe I could stay here." She opened her mouth, and he rushed on, "I would keep the doors locked. I wouldn't go anywhere, not even to the soda machine. I'll just hang here and, uh, watch the bird movie."
The captain swallowed her surge of fear and instead asked, "What about dinner?"
"I have one of those granola bars left, and some cashews."
She rolled her eyes. "That's not dinner," she said, and before she could give herself time to change her mind, she plucked the room service menu from the desk and presented it to the teenager. "Choose what you want, and call down to order it. I want the food here before Brenda and I leave, and then you will not open that door again under any circumstances."
"Seriously? The only time I've ever had room service was when - I mean, um -" He meant when he'd been 'working' and one of his low-life clients had taken him to a hotel. Sharon refused to let him see the raw pain she felt, lest he mistake it for shame. "When I was with my mom, we never stayed in any place this nice."
She forced a smile. "Don't forget dessert," she admonished, and swept back into her own room before he could see her blink away the sheen of tears. Oh, God, this boy, her boy, this young man, intelligent and perceptive, damaged in so many ways - As she did a hundred times a day, she closed her eyes and asked God for the strength to provide the care and stability he needed.
"You okay, Shar?"
She started, and was relieved to see that Brenda was already dressed. She wore a form-fitting red dress that looked absolutely sinful on her incredible body. Instead of answering, the captain said, "The only person allowed to call me that is Michael."
Sharon felt Brenda's gaze sweep slowly over her from head to foot and back again. She wasn't imagining the glimmer of heat in those dark eyes, and she prayed Brenda wouldn't notice the flush that immediately spread over her chest. "Well, cap'n, you look amazin'."
The word spoken in Brenda's drawl melted over the older woman like warm honey, thick and sensual, and now she knew she was blushing. Nice, pretty, even beautiful would have been bad enough, but "amazin'" felt like a slow caress.
"What, this old thing?" Sharon heard the huskiness in her voice, felt her hand come to rest on one cocked hip. The dress was black, not revealing, tasteful - the wide neckline graced the edges of her shoulders and dipped down into a gentle vee, almost like a cowl, showing a modest amount of cleavage. Her arms were bare. The straight skirt stopped several inches above her knees, showing off the one feature other than her hair about which she was truly vain. Her black heels were, to put it eloquently, killer. She knew she looked good. Not as good as Brenda, in her opinion, but still good. Her eyes met Brenda's and she allowed herself to smirk, lowering her lashes just a little. "Thank you, chief. I could say the same about you, although I think the word I would choose is 'stunning'."
Mother Mary, Sharon, you are flirting so hard you might strain something.
Brenda had swept her hair up into a twist. Sharon preferred it down, but like this it revealed the smooth, vulnerable curve of her neck. It looked unbearably delicate. Would her skin be cool there beneath the press of Sharon's lips, or would it be warm, pulsing in time with her heartbeat?
The captain whirled and darted into the bathroom.
"Hey, what're you doin'?"
"I'm just…" Her gaze fell upon the small cosmetics case on the vanity. "Finishing my makeup."
Her makeup was finished, but she reached into the bag and removed the tube of black liquid eyeliner. Her hand was shaking. She waited for it to stop, and then automatically began to go over the outline of her left lid, darkening it. She couldn't think. She realized when she leaned forward like this, the amount of cleavage on display was considerable - enough to have embarrassed Rusty. She realized she would be leaning over like this at the dinner table, probably with candlelight flickering between herself and the blonde.
The heavy eyeliner looked odd with the rest of her neutral makeup, and she cursed herself. With a practiced hand, she began to apply smoky grey eyeshadow, lightening her touch as she drew the applicator out and up along the line of her wide green eyes. She glowered critically at the result. It was undeniably sexy, and a little dangerous.
Oh, wonderful. I look like I'm begging for it.
"Wow," Brenda breathed from the doorway behind her, and Sharon was glad she'd put the tiny makeup brush down, because otherwise she would surely have stabbed herself in the eye. She met Brenda's eyes in the mirror, and her throat closed for a second. The younger woman was looking at her with naked appreciation. "Think you could teach me to do that?"
"Brown would look better on you." Did Brenda notice the tremor in her voice?
The last time she'd dressed this carefully she'd been going on a date.
For the third time that day, realization sucker-punched her in the gut. Oh, God. She was going on a date. To one of the most romantic restaurants in San Francisco. With a straight woman.
With Brenda.
4.
Dinner was delicious, according to Brenda. The Italian restaurant specialized in seafood, and Sharon was sure her shrimp and scallop fettucine had been delectable, although she'd barely tasted a bite.
She had been too caught up in Brenda: talking to Brenda, laughing with Brenda, looking at Brenda. Periodically she had allowed herself a casual touch of the younger woman's hand or arm; she hadn't imagined the gooseflesh that rippled up Brenda's bare skin at the contact..
Sharon hadn't finished her second glass of wine, but she felt drunk. She had it bad and, as the song says, that wasn't good.
Unless it was. As the two women walked slowly back in the direction of their hotel, having foregone a taxi for the sake of a stroll, she darted a glance at her companion. Sharon had assumed Brenda was straight; but as the captain well knew, many people made the same assumption about her, and they were wrong. She was not 100% pure unadulterated heterosexual. They had never actually discussed the subject of Brenda's sexuality, and Sharon had fetched her from a lesbian bar.
Wishful thinking, cautioned logic.
Brenda was looking right back at her. "Did you enjoy your dinner?" Sharon asked. Her chest felt tight.
"Yes. But not as much as I enjoyed the company."
Brenda was flirting with her, and that was not wishful thinking. It was the kind of comment you could make to a friend, but not in that sultry, breathless tone. Brenda was an outrageous flirt, especially when she had a couple of glasses of wine in her. It didn't necessarily mean anything.
But this was Brenda, Sharon's friend. She wouldn't toy with the older woman that way, would she? Unless she was swept up in the romance of the moment, the bay breeze, the moonlight, the unreality of being in another town...
"You're not plannin' on walkin' all night, are you?"
Snapped out of her headspace, Sharon whipped around to look at Brenda Leigh. The glow of a streetlamp revealed the petite woman's bemused expression. The captain took stock of her surroundings and realized how far they had come, past the Fairmont and the Masonic Temple. They must have been strolling in silence for twenty-five or thirty minutes.
"We don't have to go back yet, if you're not ready, but do you think we could just, uh, admire the view from here? My feet are startin' to hurt is all. These shoes weren't made for walkin'."
Brenda's tone was light, but tiny frown lines of concern marred her forehead. Sharon couldn't fault her. After the cozy, distinctly intimate tone of dinner - who was she kidding? of their date - the older woman had fallen into a deep silence, walking an arm's length from the blonde as she perambulated herself deeper and deeper into her pensive mood.
Sharon realized her feet also hurt. She realized the view of the twinkling city lights leading down to the dark bay, of which she had been vaguely aware, was spectacular. A breeze rushed across her skin, lifting a curl from her cheek, and she shivered.
"Cold?"
"No." The word came out very seriously, as serious as the gaze trained on Brenda's face, scrutinizing every centimeter of it. Brenda's eyebrows crept up slightly.
It had been a while since Sharon had been on a date, but not so long that she couldn't remember that the goodnight kiss was the measure of a successful evening.
Rationally, she knew she was crazy to contemplate it. But rationally she knew she shouldn't have flirted with Brenda throughout their meal, or worn this dress, or leaned in just so to show her cleavage to best advantage, and that hadn't stopped her. She thought of the pink tip of Brenda's tongue carefully lapping raspberry sauce from Sharon's fork, and her eyes nearly drifted shut.
And this afternoon - she had not been standing alone in the electric atmosphere at Coit Tower.
If she didn't stop debating internally, they would both be too distracted by their blistered feet to consider anything else. They weren't in a Wordsworth poem; Sharon could only walk and think for so long.
Brenda was still gazing back at her, curious but waiting patiently. How extraordinary, for Brenda Johnson to be patient.
This time the breeze blew Brenda's hair into her eyes, and Sharon automatically reached out to tuck the stray lock behind her ear. She thought of Jackie. She thought of missed opportunities.
"I don't want to make the same mistake twice," she said, and her voice was unusually husky. Brenda's eyes widened a little, but otherwise she remained still.
Decision made, Sharon leaned in, bridging the distance between their bodies but giving Brenda ample time to pull away. She didn't.
Then Sharon's lips made first contact with the blonde's, and she forgot Jacqueline and Coit Tower and sore feet. Her mind went blank, and she forgot everything but Brenda.