Chapter Sixteen

Despite the early morning fiasco with the alarm system, Eleanor’s pre-coffee giddiness lasted throughout the day. Her friends and family, meanwhile, were in shock. Not that she blamed them. They’d thought it out of character for her to pick up without warning and head out to California in the first place, let alone take a job working for Tessa Flanagan. Now the press claimed she was having an affair with the world-famous actress? Admittedly, it was a bit much to fathom, particularly given her former seemingly virtuous kindergarten teacher existence.

Midway through that first morning, she’d sent Laya back to the main house and set about returning the calls and e-mails the Kipu Falls photo had elicited. First there was her father, who had phoned “to make sure you’re okay.” Though they’d been nothing but welcoming to the girlfriends she’d brought home, he and her mother had never been comfortable discussing her love life. She could only imagine his displeasure now. Then again, he was the one who’d had a girlfriend while his wife was dying. Eleanor wasn’t sure he had the moral high ground here.

“I’m fine, Dad,” she said when she reached him at his office in downtown Newport, only a few blocks from the house she’d grown up in. “The photo wasn’t what it looks like. We were just swimming. You know how the press is—always making something out of nothing.”

“I thought that must be the case,” her father said. “You’re not the type to get caught up in all of that Hollywood nonsense. You have too good of a head on your shoulders to get involved with someone like Tessa Flanagan.”

Eleanor was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter in the carriage house, which was larger and better furnished than any of her prior residences. “Actually, Tessa is fairly intelligent herself,” she said, trying not to bristle at her father’s words. “She’s got enough books to make a pack-ox sweat.” Ama had described Tessa’s library in these terms once, and the phrase had stuck in Eleanor’s head.

“Oh,” her father said. “I didn’t mean to imply that she wasn’t intelligent. I’m sure she’d have to be to accomplish what she has. I just meant that the movie business has a reputation for sleaziness, and you are as far from sleazy as they come. If I can objectively say that about my own daughter.”

Through the window, Eleanor could see Tessa and Laya taking up residence on the patio with books and an Uno deck. She rubbed her forehead, glancing away from the tranquil scene. Her father couldn’t help that he’d been born in Vermont and had only ever moved a single state away to attend Dartmouth back when it was still an all-male bastion.

“Anyway, Dad,” she said, “I’ll let you get back to work. I have a few more calls to make this morning.”

“I imagine you do,” he said. “Thanks for checking in, honey. Take care.”

“You, too.” She was actually relieved to hang up, she realized. She didn’t seem to know how to talk to him anymore. Had he changed, or had she? They still hadn’t talked about his relationship with Emma Barnes yet, though Julia had told him she knew. Was he waiting for her to bring it up? If so, he’d be waiting a long time.

She looked out at the patio again. It was another beautiful day, still cool this early. But it was always cooler up here in the hills, with plentiful trees and a steady breeze to keep the hot air from settling the way it did down in the city. Not such a bad place to be marooned temporarily. Not such bad company, either, she thought, eyeing Tessa in her skimpy bikini. Not that Laya wasn’t a joy to be with, but Eleanor couldn’t wait to be alone with her mother again.

The other calls had gone more smoothly. Sasha had said, “Told you so,” and “Invite me to dinner when this breaks.” Eleanor had a hunch that Sasha and Tessa would like each other. She hoped so, anyway—Sasha was notoriously stingy with praise for Eleanor’s girlfriends. Not that anyone was anyone’s girlfriend, she’d reminded herself, and dialed the next number. To her sister and a handful of friends back east, she’d hedged that she wasn’t sure where she and Tessa were headed. She’d also sworn the people closest to her to secrecy, and warned that they might be contacted by reporters once the press figured out who she was.

This was accomplished by the end of that first day. Somebody somewhere let it be known that the woman in the photo was Laya’s nanny, Eleanor Chapin, a thirty-three year old school teacher from Boston. Within hours, her senior picture from Smith had made its way into the news cycle, accompanied by an article about her college years. One of her exes (though which one was unclear) had apparently come forward and claimed that Eleanor’s name had been linked romantically with more than her fair share of fellow students. In other words, the article all but stated, Eleanor was a lesbian slut who had somehow managed to worm her way into the Flanagan household and seduce her wealthy employer.

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Eleanor asked Tessa worriedly that night. They were reclining in Tessa’s bed on top of the covers, Eleanor’s laptop propped up on a cushion between them. The browser window was tuned to People.com, where the story of their alleged affair was being updated every few hours.

“Of course not,” Tessa said, rubbing the back of Eleanor’s neck. Her voice was soft, her fingers gentle. “I asked you to come work for me, remember? If anyone’s to blame, it’s Ama and her compulsive matchmaking.”

Eleanor closed the laptop and set it aside. “No wonder you stayed in the closet. I know you said the press would be bad, but it’s really, really awful. I’m so sorry.”

“Please,” Tessa said dismissively. “I’ve had much worse said about me. It’s you I’m worried about.” She hesitated. “You know, we could make it go away pretty easily.”

“What do you mean?” Eleanor rested her chin on her upraised knee.

“Well, I could deny that anything is going on between us. You know, pretend I’m dating someone else. As in, a man. Michael and Melody tried to convince me to let them round up a beard. There are always actors willing to lend their name to the closet cause. No publicity is bad publicity, and all that.”

It hadn’t occurred to Eleanor that Tessa’s publicist and agent would try to convince her to shore up her closet walls, but of course they would. “What did you say?”

“I told them I don’t want to hide who I am anymore.” She shrugged and picked at a seam on the comforter cover. “But at the same time, this whole thing isn’t exactly fair to you. You’ve done nothing wrong and the press is already painting you as some kind of sexual predator. Me staying silent is like throwing blood in the water, and it’s only going to get worse. I would understand if you wanted it to stop.”

Silence, to Eleanor, seemed like the opposite of coming out. But not to the press, and that was apparently what mattered. She reached out and covered Tessa’s hand. “I don’t need it to stop. I’ve been out since I was eighteen, and remember, I’m a Vermonter. I can take it if you can.”

“Oh yeah?” Tessa smiled a little, turning her hand over to stroke Eleanor’s suggestively. “I think I can take it.”

The sultry tone struck an answering chord in Eleanor, and she caught Tessa’s wrist, tugging her closer. “What else can you take?” she asked. Maybe the press was right. Something about Tessa did seem to bring out the seductress in her.

Tessa pulled her wrist free and eased on top of Eleanor. “I’ll just have to show you,” she murmured, and leaned forward to nibble one of Eleanor’s earlobes.

Eleanor closed her eyes and gave herself over to the desire that shot through her at Tessa’s slightest touch. Who really cared about the press anyway? Just then, made-up stories of her past and present seemed too far away to matter.

Over the next few days, though, as the media continued to work itself into a frenzy over the first-ever outing of an A-list movie star and the stories began to pile up, Eleanor wondered if she should reconsider her initial disregard for the power of the printed word. Once the lesbian seducer angle had appeared, suddenly there were quotes from co-workers Eleanor had never met recounting stories of her near-legendary promiscuity and suggesting that perhaps she should never have been allowed near children.

This last insinuation hurt the most, probably because it touched a nerve every gay teacher she’d ever met possessed—the If you’re a sexual deviant, you must be a child molester nerve. The problem with that, of course, was the assumption that homosexuality was a form of sexual deviance, that consenting sex between adults could somehow be compared to pedophilia. She wasn’t sure who had started the horrible urban legend that a majority of pedophiles were gay (the Catholic Church? Right wing fundies?), but she did know that studies revealed conclusively that most pedophiles were in fact straight married men with wives and children of their own. Unfortunately, the media and the general public both seemed willfully ignorant of this fact.

Even more frustrating, Eleanor was powerless to respond to her detractors in the press. All she could do was write scathing letters to the editor in her head about journalistic responsibility and professional ethics. Not at all satisfying, really, and as the articles mounted up, she could feel her sense of humor threatening to go MIA. Perhaps permanently.

On day three of the siege, as she and Tessa had begun to refer to it, she brought her laptop out onto the patio after breakfast. While Laya colored and Tessa read (she was rereading Emma now too), Eleanor spent an hour skimming the latest lies and bemoaning the new unflattering photos the press had managed to unearth overnight. When she released a particularly disgusted sigh at the sight of her junior high school self in overalls, pig-tails and braces (where had they gotten that?), Tessa lowered her book.

“You have to stop doing this to yourself, Elle.”

“I’m not doing it. They are!” she said, scowling at the computer screen.

“Do you want some advice from someone who’s been there?”

Reluctantly Eleanor looked up at her. “What?”

“Sometimes the best way to handle this situation is to institute a media ban. Just ignore it. They’re going to say whatever they want and there’s nothing you can do about it—except choose not to listen.”

Eleanor wasn’t sure she could stick to such a plan, or even that she wanted to. The photos and articles were like a car wreck she couldn’t help staring at as she passed. “What does a ‘media ban’ entail, exactly?”

Until the entertainment press tide shifted, Tessa told her, she should read only books and non-current magazines and watch only DVDs and the occasional pre-screened episode of Ellen, Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert, their mutually favorite television shows. Other than that, she could check her e-mail but not any online news sites.

Eleanor pursed her lips. Maybe being out of the loop would be better than finding out just how low ET or Star could sink. Tessa had been a Hollywood star for a long time. Surely she knew what she was talking about.

She closed her computer. “Okay, I’ll try it. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You monitor the news and let me know if there’s anything I absolutely have to know about—you know, like peace in the Middle East or a cure for cancer.”

“Deal,” Tessa said, and held out her hand.

Eleanor shook it, holding on to her fingers longer than was necessary. They shared an intimate smile over Laya’s head, and Eleanor felt her mouth go dry at the look in Tessa’s eyes. So far, she had yet to sleep in the carriage house, a trend she was more than happy to continue.

With the media prohibition in place, their days took on a comfortable routine. Each morning they rose and made breakfast and checked to see if the piranhas were still circling the estate. They always were, so the next step was to set a plan for another day at home. She and Tessa actively worked to tire Laya out so that she wouldn’t be bored being stuck at home, with the added bonus that their evenings could be about them. Unfortunately, swimming and playing soccer and riding bikes in the driveway tired them out too, so they ended up falling asleep after making love and dragging themselves out of bed early each morning to keep Laya in the dark about their relationship. Or, at least, Eleanor dragged herself out of bed and out of the house. She didn’t forget the alarm again.

In the middle of the day, when Laya took her naps, or sometimes when she was paddling happily around the shallow end of the pool or otherwise entertaining herself, Eleanor and Tessa talked. Conversation flowed easily, and they rarely broached the same topic twice. It was as if the finite amount of time they had to spend together meant that they had to learn everything they could about each other while they had the chance.

“Can I ask you something?” Eleanor said one day as they strolled through the garden, Laya running ahead to climb her favorite eucalyptus tree.

“Sure.”

She checked to make sure Laya was out of earshot. She was. “Were any of the stories about your supposed relationships true?”

“No,” Tessa said, “unless you’re talking about Nadine Simmons.”

Eleanor sat down on a bench near the koi pond, one eye on Laya hanging from a tree branch a little ways away. “Never heard of her.”

“Her father is Bradley Simmons, the producer.”

“Him I’ve heard of. So you and she were together?”

“For a little while, right before I had Laya.”

“What does that mean if you were in the closet? What kinds of things could you do? Other than the obvious,” she added, frowning as Tessa lifted an eyebrow suggestively.

“We double-dated sometimes with Will and whatever guy he happened to be dating. And sometimes we went to parties for closeted Hollywood people, thrown by other closeted Hollywood people. Those were fun. Everyone signed NDAs, but there was still this sense of danger, even if it was basically a mirage.”

“Wait, like in the L Word?” Eleanor asked. “Like when Tasha and Alice went to that party at the producer’s house and Alice took the picture of the NBA point guard on her phone?”

“Right. Only in reality, that never would have happened. The parties I went to all had a security checkpoint. You had to leave your electronics at home or check them at the door.”

“You’re kidding,” Eleanor said. “That is so crazy.”

“L.A. is its own worst nightmare,” Tessa said, then winced suddenly.

Eleanor followed her gaze to see Laya hanging upside down from the branch by her knees. “Careful,” she heard Tessa murmur under her breath, but she stayed where she was, letting her daughter explore her limits. Eleanor admired her restraint. Not all parents were able to rein themselves in. Would she be able to do so herself if she were to have a baby? She pictured an infant with her eyes and Tessa’s hair, then blinked the image away. Not even biologically possible, just to begin with.

“Did you ever date any other actresses?” she asked, returning to the subject of Tessa’s romantic history.

“Occasionally, but probably not anyone you would know,” Tessa said, much too vaguely for Eleanor’s taste. “By the way, most women in Hollywood prefer the term actor. You know, levels the playing field. As if that’s how the movie business works.” She shook her head. “The sad thing is, the casting couch stereotype is still alive and kicking. Or blowing, as the case may be.”

Eleanor recoiled slightly, her Puritan New England upbringing raising its ugly head.

“Sorry,” Tessa said. “I didn’t mean to be so crude.”

“That’s okay, I didn’t mean to be such a prude.”

“I would hardly call you a prude,” Tessa said, her voice low and sexy.

Eleanor felt her face grow warm. Naturally, Laya picked that moment to run over, an orange in hand. “Look what I picked,” she said, and wormed her way between them on the bench. “Mom, can you peel it for me?”

“Sure,” Tessa said, still smiling slyly at Eleanor.

Tessa was enjoying this, Eleanor thought, and tilted her head against the back of the bench, squinting at the sunlight cutting through the trees. Then again, so was she. This was paradise, despite the very public assassination of her character currently taking place in the world beyond the walls encircling the estate. Soon enough the press would lose interest, Tessa kept assuring her, and they could go back to normal life. The thing was, Eleanor wasn’t sure what normal life looked like anymore. Would she have to go back to Sasha’s when the paparazzi decamped from Tessa’s driveway?

She closed her eyes and listened to Laya and Tessa chatting beside her. She was in trouble, exceedingly pleasurable trouble that had little to do with the lies being spread about her in the real world.

Whenever the press decided to invade her personal life, Tessa usually felt trapped, immobilized by the reach of camera lenses and bloggers’ posts. But this particular scandal afforded her the opportunity to extend her vacation with Eleanor and Laya. Not that they told Laya the real reason they were holed up at home. Laya seemed so happy to have them to herself that the fuzzy reason they offered her for the photographers’ encampment—that someone had told a lie about Tessa and Eleanor and the photographers were there trying to find out if it was true—seemed to suffice.

Tessa had rarely had a chance to spend this much quality time with her daughter, not since the first year of Laya’s life. As a new mother, she’d been enamored with every move her baby made, lulled by the rhythm of new life when all she had to think about was food and sleep and poop and food and more sleep. This time, though, instead of hanging out with her newborn child, Tessa was being given the opportunity to get to know Eleanor better.

One afternoon while Laya took her daily nap, the two women lay together on the couch in the family room. Tessa was remembering the previous night’s activities. Eleanor certainly knew what she was doing when it came to a woman’s body. But then she’d apparently had plenty of experience, judging from some of the stories she’d related.

“You came out at Smith, didn’t you?” Tessa asked, tracing the map of freckles along Eleanor’s forearm. Her skin was so soft.

“Yeah—first semester freshman year.”

“And at a women’s college. That must have been fun.”

“It was,” Eleanor admitted, smiling nostalgically. “First semester, I started to wonder about my real reasons for picking Smith when this senior field hockey player caught my eye. She was a total BDOC—Big Dyke on Campus—who lived in the house next door.”

“House?” Tessa repeated, resting her cheek against Eleanor’s shoulder.

“That’s what they call dorms at Smith. Anyway, so Becca, this field hockey player, notices me mooning over her at a house party the second week of school and invites me upstairs to her single for a backrub.”

“Smooth.”

“That’s what I thought. She put Enya on the stereo and started rubbing my back. But then she stops and says it would be better if I took my shirt off.”

Tessa snickered. “And you fell for that?”

“Honestly, I didn’t know what she had in mind until she asked if she could kiss me. I was like, ‘Um, okay.’ And then I was in heaven for the next two weeks, until she ditched me for a soccer player.”

“Poor girl,” Tessa said, nibbling her ear and trying to dispel the image of Eleanor being seduced by a faceless field hockey player with muscular thighs and a plaid kilt.

“Sucked at the time,” Eleanor said, slipping her hand around to stroke the edge of Tessa’s breast. “But it was pretty typical for Smith.”

“What do you mean?” Tessa moved Eleanor’s hand to a less provocative spot. Laya had been asleep for a while already, and all they needed was for her to sneak up on them and ask what they were doing.

“Everyone knew Smith’s reputation,” Eleanor explained, “which meant that everything you did was seen through this lens of sexuality. Not that I minded. But there was just so much gossip, especially about anyone who was openly gay.”

Sounded like Hollywood. Tessa hesitated, then plowed ahead with the question that had been on her mind all week. “Have you dated a lot?”

Eleanor cast her a sideways glance. “Depends on what you mean by a lot.”

“Well, how many women have you been with?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t kept track.”

Either she wasn’t being honest or she had been with too many women to count. Tessa found the latter option much more worrisome. “What are we talking—twenty, fifty, a hundred?”

“God, no!” Eleanor exclaimed. “I told you, the press was making that stuff up. I’ve probably only slept with like fifteen women, total.”

“Fifteen?” Tessa repeated. Eleanor’s libidinous adventures made her own handful of affairs seem tame.

“Your name has been linked with quite a few fellow celebrities, I’d like to point out.”

“The difference is that I wasn’t having sex with any of them, idiot.”

“Oh. Well, enough about me,” Eleanor said quickly. “What about you? When did you realize you liked girls?”

“Here in L.A.,” Tessa said, willingly changing the subject. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear more about Eleanor’s dating past. Ever. “My first year out here, I was waiting tables and taking a couple of classes at UCLA. Over the summer I met this woman, Tory, a sophomore theater major from Seattle. She’s the one who convinced me to take my first acting class.”

“So acting wasn’t your idea?”

“Never even occurred to me. But when I took that class with Tory, I realized that acting was like being invisible, only the opposite somehow.”

Eleanor stroked her hair. “And this appealed to you?”

“I seemed to be good at it.” She shrugged. “It’s easy to like something you’re good at.”

“How did you get your first big role?”

“This girl at UCLA convinced her cousin who was an agent to come to one of our school productions.” She paused, remembering the night the agent, a junior associate in Michael’s firm, had approached her backstage. Remembered, too, the incredulity in Tory’s eyes followed quickly by crushing disappointment. Acting had been her dream, not Tessa’s. “Tory couldn’t handle that I was the one getting offered the break. She left for New York after college to try to work on Broadway.”

“Wait—are you talking about Victoria Bradshaw?”

Tessa nodded. “We’re still friends. I was at her wedding last fall.”

“Wow, Victoria Bradshaw and you. If I weren’t a little jealous, I would totally think that was hot.” She shook her head. “Anyway, it sounds like if you weren’t gay, you never would have started acting.”

“I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Well, not only that.” She pulled Tessa on top of her. “What was your first time with a woman like?”

Tessa placed her hands against the couch on either side of Eleanor’s head. She could already feel her pulse rising, the flow of blood increasing to certain sensitive body parts. “Well,” she said softly, pressing her hips into Eleanor’s, “she came back to my apartment with me after class one night and we drank a bottle of wine. And then she kissed me.”

“Like this?” Eleanor asked, tugging Tessa down and covering her mouth with her own.

They kissed slowly and lingeringly, the taste and feel of Eleanor’s mouth familiar to Tessa after nearly a week of nights spent together. Yet each kiss still felt different from the last. What didn’t change was the electric effect Eleanor had on her. Tessa felt her body curving willingly against Eleanor’s, yielding to her.

“Then what?” Eleanor whispered against her mouth.

Tessa tried to catch her breath. “Then she lifted my shirt over my head…”

“Like this?” Eleanor tugged at the hem of her tank top.

But as the thin material slid upward, Tessa pictured Laya’s face. “We can’t,” she said, holding her shirt in place. “Laya—”

“—is asleep, and if she gets up, we’ll hear it on the monitor,” Eleanor said, reaching for the zipper on Tessa’s capris.

With supreme effort, she pulled herself out of Eleanor’s arms and stood up, running a hand across her hair. “I told you, I don’t want to risk her finding out like that.”

Eleanor sat up, rubbing her eyes. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. I just get next to you and… Well, you know.”

“I do.” Tessa dropped down beside her on the couch again, careful not to sit too close. “Tell you what. Tonight we’ll send Laya to bed early and I’ll make it up to you. Sound good?”

“Better than good. In the meantime, I think I’d better cool off.” She pecked her on the cheek chastely and retreated.

As Eleanor disappeared through the patio doors, Tessa remained where she was on the couch, staring into space. Eleanor had led such a different life. Close-knit family, elite Eastern college, a plethora of girlfriends and a ten-year teaching career. What would she think if she knew what kind of background Tessa came from?

I can’t tell her, she thought. There was too much at stake. But keeping her past a secret was starting to feel like a burden she might not want to carry much longer.

Outside she heard a splash. Rising, she walked out onto the patio and watched as Eleanor cut a clean swath through the pool, arms and legs churning steadily.

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 673