FOL Fiction
Title: The Yacht Club
Rating: PG
A/N: Just a fairly short one shot that has been living in my hard drive for a while.
“It’s the culmination of the summer season. Practically the raison d’etre of the entire Yacht Club. Of course you’re escorting me.”
“Blair, get real. I mean, I admit, on the whole people have been pretty cool about…y’know, but c’mon they don’t want to see the two us waltzing around the Summer Cotillion in front of all the baby debs. It could scar them for life.”
“You know, Jo, for someone who purports not to care what people think-- witness the flannel number you were sporting at Mother's luncheon yesterday-- you are surprisingly timid when it comes to public displays of…our relationship.”
“I don’t care what they think about me. I do care what they think about you. Your family has been summering here for a long time. You are, as you constantly point out, a scion of the community.”
“It's pronounced si- on not skee-on, but nice try. And it is precisely because of my position that I can do what I please. Warners are trendsetters. And if I wish to bring my…my…”
Jo wondered what term Blair would come up with. The blonde maintained that “girlfriend” was too juvenile, “lover” too graphic and “partner” too corporate.
“My paramour to the event, then I will.”
“Jo Polniaczek, paramour. I can just see my Uncle Sal, spitting up his beer.”
“Well, thank you for that image. Anyway, I don’t understand your reluctance. You’ve been coming up here for years. People are used to you, like they’re used to the dead fish smell by the town docks.”
“Blair, they’re used to me as your scruffy school friend, your little Bronx accessory. Lesbian lover is a different kettle of dead fish. I just think we should be discreet.”
“The housekeeper keeps the beds in our room pushed together and makes them up as a king. Mother always knocks before entering--which, trust me, is a change-- and no one is pushing me to invite their sons for dinner. I think people have gotten the idea.”
“Maybe so, but it’s another thing to flaunt it right in the heart of Yacht Club Cotillion. Particularly when it’s also Mrs. Galliard’s eightieth birthday celebration. The Dragon Lady isn’t going to want to deal with our little deviancy in the midst of all the bowing and scraping.”
“Deviancy!? Is that what you really think?” Blair gasped.
“No, of course, not,” Jo reassured her. “I was kidding,” she added, recoiling at Blair’s glare. Time for some damage control. She put her arms around the blonde. “Babe, the fact you want to be with me is incredible and what we have is amazing. I just don’t want to make things harder for you, that’s all.” Jo gave her a kiss.
Blair looked placated. “All right. I’ll call James and inform him that he can escort me. Cousin Chipper can be your date.”
“Cousin Chipper?” Jo groaned. “He snorts. And c’mon, how many Dungeons and Dragon conversations can you really have?”
“I’ll guess you’ll find out,” Blair announced. “It was your choice.”
********
“So the Elf of Ravenloft had to decipher the code. There was pressure. I mean, the Dark Lord was going insane. So I told Sir Garth that….”
“Great Chipper, just great,” Jo interjected. “Listen, excuse me for a second. I’m going to hit the ladies room. “
“OK. Um, when you get back, um…do you want to dance or something?”
Jo glared at him. “Not in this lifetime.”
Chipper looked relieved.
The brunette stood up from the table, and walked towards the doors leading to the clubhouse porch. She spied Blair on the dance floor, fanning James after a particularly intricate swing number. They were laughing and the other couples were giving them a small round of applause. They wouldn’t be applauding us if we danced, Jo thought, a little resentfully.
Jo went onto the verandah and looked out on the moonlight reflecting on the water. She mused about the summer. How great it had been. How much fun they had had. Maybe she could have been a little braver about being out. Still a little residual Catholic guilt, she guessed. She would have to work on it.
“Excuse me, young lady.”
A voice from the shadows startled her
“Uh, who’s that?” Jo peered as a figure of an old woman approached into the light of the tiki torches. “Mrs. Galliard? Is that you?”
“That is correct, young lady. It is I,” the woman pronounced regally.
“Are you all right? Do you need something?”
“Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Um, are you here by yourself? Do you want to go back inside?” Jo asked carefully.
“If I wanted to go back inside, I would go back inside. I’m eighty, not an imbecile,” Mrs. Galliard snapped.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Mrs. Galliard regarded the brunette with a severe look. “It’s Joanna, isn’t it? Blair Warner’s friend?”
“Yes, though people call me Jo,” Jo said, wondering how Mrs. Galliard even knew her real name.
“I don’t,” Mrs. Galliard replied curtly.
All righty then. “Um, OK.” They lapsed into silence.
“Why are you out here?” the old woman asked suspiciously. “Up to no good, I imagine. You’re from New York City, aren’t you? Let me tell you, young lady. If you’re here to partake in some kind of cannabis inhalation, this is hardly the appropriate venue.”
“What?” Jo sputtered. “I don’t do drugs.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain,” Jo snapped, offended.
“That seems odd for someone of your age and background,” Mrs. Galliard mused. “You aren’t some kind of religious zealot, are you?”
“Um, no.”
“Good. Young people today. They are so extreme. Either blithering addicts or Puritans. In my day a little vice in moderation was perfectly acceptable. Showed you were alive. Had survived the War. And that’s World War I, young lady.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Jo replied dryly.
“Ah, sarcasm. An admirable trait…although not with your elders,” Mrs. Galliard added darkly. She narrowed her eyes. ”So if you aren’t partaking of the Maryjane, why aren’t you inside with your friend Blair?”
“Uh, I needed some fresh air and she’s dancing with her date, James.”
“That Nancy boy?” Mrs. Galliard snorted. “They’re not fooling anybody. All well, I suppose it keeps up appearances.”
Nancy boy? “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Jo offered warily.
“Really? Hmm, I hadn’t taken you for slow. Those fancy schools haven’t taught you much, have they? But I imagine that Warner girl has you pretty well tamed. She does tend to get her way. She always has.”
“I’m not tamed,” Jo objected.
“Hmphh. Of course you are. Well, I don’t blame you. She’s a saucy one. And she fills out her sweater nicely, doesn’t she?”
How weird is this? Jo thought. “I guess,” she said uncomfortably.
Mrs. Galliard looked out to the shadows of sailboats bobbing on the water. “You know, I had a special friend once. A school friend, like the two of you.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“Yes, it was in England, between the wars. My parents sent me there for, how did they put it, polishing.” Mrs. Galliard chuckled. “It didn’t work. But I did meet Vanessa. That made it worth it.”
“So you roomed together?” Jo offered.
“More than that, young lady. We were inseparable. The relationship was, to put it mildly, intense.”
Something in Mrs. Galliard’s voice piqued Jo’s curiosity. “So what happened to her? Are you still in touch?”
After a moment, Mrs. Galliard said softly, “No, we’re not. She’s been dead for years.”
“I’m sorry,” Jo said.
“Don’t be maudlin. When you’re eighty, that’s the norm.”
There was a pause. “You know, it was sixty years ago tonight,” Mrs. Galliard suddenly said. “Another dance at a club by the sea. My twentieth birthday. Oh, it was wonderful. Vanessa looked just…. well the young men flocked around her. You know, she taught me to waltz. We used to practice in the school common room. I became an excellent dancer. I still am. But I suppose you know nothing about that,” the old woman declared, eyeing Jo appraisingly
“In fact, I do know how to waltz. I took lessons.”
“Hogwash. I don’t believe it. Anyway, all that evening, I kept hoping we could dance together. Show off our steps, if you will. But we never did. She never asked me.” Mrs. Galliard sighed. “We had such plans. To live together in Paris. I was going to write a novel. She wanted to paint.” Mrs. Galliard trailed off.
For a moment all Jo could hear was the soft clanging of the rigging on the boats.
“So did you?” Jo asked.
Mrs. Galliard started.
“What?”
“Live in Paris with Vanessa?”
Mrs. Galliard glared at her. “Of course not. I came home and met Mr. Galliard and had three children and eight grandchildren who are all inside supposedly celebrating my eighty years on this earth, while actually scheming over who’s getting the silver.”
“That’s a little cynical.”
“Is it? Well, I’m entitled. Oh, don’t look so shocked. Of course my family has been a blessing but sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d had a little more courage, if…if …”
“If what?”
Mrs. Galliard gave Jo a look. “If I’d asked her to dance.” The old woman shrugged her shoulders. “Well enough of this. It does no good to wallow in the past, young lady. Nostalgia is a very dangerous thing. Now I suppose I must go back and endure the sycophants. Don’t steal anything,” she added, turning away and heading for the porch doors.
“Hey, I’m not going to steal…” but the matriarch was already out of hearing. Jo shook her head. “That was surreal,” she spoke aloud. Jo looked back through the windows, watching as the orchestra stopped and the crowd turned and lifted their glasses to Mrs. Galliard, standing sternly by her family. Jo then spotted Blair, surrounded by six slavering prepsters in their blazers and ties. The blonde was scanning the area. She’s looking for me, Jo thought happily. Blair’s looking for me.
The music started up again. It was a waltz. Jo made a decision. She walked in from the porch and strode confidently across the room to approach the elegantly dressed woman. The woman’s entourage all turned to give her an inquiring look.
“Ahem, excuse me?” Jo coughed.
“Yes?” the woman replied.
Jo stretched out her hand. “Mrs. Galliard, may I have this dance?”
The End