Since You Went Away - Chapter Eighteen: Send Me No Flowers
Title: Since You Went Away - Chapter Eighteen: Send Me No Flowers
Authors: i-must-go-first & UbiquitousMixie
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Rating: PG-13 (Overall M)
Word Count: 6246
Disclaimer: Not ours. Please don’t sue.
Summary: A late-night craving and a coincidental meeting lead a certain deputy chief to discover that there’s much more to the inimitable Captain Raydor than meets the eye, and to realize that her mama was right: sometimes all a single woman really needs is a good girlfriend.
Authors’ Note: Dear readers, thank you for sticking with us. We appreciate your patience between chapters. We’ve greatly enjoyed your words of encouragement and support, and we hope you love this next chapter as much as we do! Let us know what you think!
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Sharon was striding toward the LAPD’s above-ground parking deck, located an oh-so-convenient three blocks from what the top brass still referred to as the “new building,” when she heard the unmistakable clatter of kitten heels on the sidewalk behind her.
“Captain Raydor! Sharon, wait.”
A roll of emotions, of which nervous dread was the most pronounced, quickly swept over the older woman like a sudden summer thunderstorm; and yet, as she pivoted and met Brenda’s bright, anxious smile, her lips automatically curved into a matching smile, and it felt good -- it felt right. “Chief. How’s Willie Rae?”
“Oh, fine, she’s fine.” The blonde quickly licked her lips, bending one coltish leg at the knee as she shifted her weight. “Is -- Are we okay?” she blurted.
“Yes,” Sharon replied instantly on a quick rush of breath. What did it mean, this being okay? Did it mean they were going to pretend all those awkward, intimate moments of the past two weeks had never occurred, chalk them up to folie a deux? Or -- a much more stomach-twisting, delicious possibility -- did it mean that those moments were “okay,” welcome, now part of their friendship? Did it mean there might be more? For once the captain couldn’t answer; but this, too, felt right. Relief blossomed to replace the anxiety and the two women smiled at one another.
“That’s good, because I could really use some help.”
Sharon chuckled. “Of course you could.”
“I’ve completely run out of things to do with my mama.”
Predictably, the brunette’s smile melted into a smirk. “That is problematic, since it’s only Tuesday.”
“We drove around all over the place yesterday, so she’s tired of bein’ in the car; she’s seen all the Hollywood sights; there’s nothin’ on at the movies --”
“Hmm.” Sharon considered. “Does she like contemporary art?”
Brenda blinked. “About as much as most people do, I suppose.”
Amusement sparkled in those soft green eyes. “I take it that’s a no.”
“Well, I mean, I think she’d like it if it was somethin’ good, not just a big red circle on a black canvas. But I’m tryin’ to think of something to do tonight, so we can’t go to a museum.”
“I’m not talking about a museum. What about a gallery opening?”
The deputy chief considered for several seconds, her features thoughtfully scrunched together, before she nodded decisively. “A gallery openin’ -- that sounds like a glamorous, California-style evenin’. Do you actually know of such an event, or am I just supposed to go trawl the greater metropolitan area?”
Even white teeth flashed as Sharon grinned. “As amusing as it might be to see you ‘trawl’ something, yes, it just so happens that I do know of such an event, Deputy Chief Johnson. One of Daniel’s friends has a few pieces in a show that’s opening tonight in Silver Lake. I don’t know how ‘glamorous’ it’s going to be,” she cautioned. “These are students, not superstars. Instead of champagne and brie, it may be sparkling wine and cheddar.”
Brenda laughed. “That’s fine. Mama’ll prefer the cheddar, and she can still go home and tell her friends in the WMU that she went to a gallery openin’ in Los Angeles. You’re going too, aren’t you?”
“I’m having dinner with Daniel, so yes, I assume he intends to use his not-inconsiderable powers of persuasion.”
“Oh, you have dinner plans.” The younger woman bit her lip.
“Join us,” Sharon offered. She had not, in fact, invited Daniel to join the Johnson women for dinner Saturday night, but assumed her son was capable of behaving appropriately for a couple of hours.
“No, that’s okay. I have to go home and get Mama anyway; she’s probably cooked. Send me the address and we’ll meet you there.”
Sharon should have had an inkling, really, when she mentioned that Brenda was going to meet them at the gallery and Daniel’s emerald eyes took on a distinctly mischievous glimmer. “Oh, the lovely Deputy Chief Johnson. Yeah, I think the two of you will both really enjoy the exhibit -- not just Cara’s pieces.” He chuckled to himself at some private joke. The response was too much like one the captain herself would’ve made for her to stoop to the level of questioning it.
“She’s bringing her mother,” Sharon added, spearing a bite of her grilled swordfish, “so be prepared.”
Daniel had seemed to pale slightly. “Her mother,” he repeated flatly. “I’m prepared, but are you sure she is?”
Sharon’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Just be nice,” she ordered sternly.
Her son had muttered something about that not being exactly what he meant, but he’d suddenly become wholly absorbed in his short ribs.
About three-point-five seconds after their party of four stepped into the surprisingly large neighborhood gallery, Sharon realized exactly what Daniel had meant. She had no choice: she was going to have to murder him, although it would be hard on Paul to lose both of his children.
“Oh, Mama!” Brenda exclaimed as the captain desperately snagged three flutes of prosecco, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, from the tray of a passing waiter and shoved two of them at the Johnson women. “These paintings are really nice. Don’t you think so?”
Willie Rae clapped her hands in delight, sloshing some of the sparkling wine onto Sharon’s shoes. “Oh, yes! I just love the flowers. I’m quite the gardener myself, you know. Daniel, dear, do you know the artist?”
Squirming under his mother’s intense scrutiny as well as Willie Rae’s guileless gaze, the young man replied, “No, ma’am. My friend’s pieces are in the next room. They’re, um... portraits, I guess you could say.”
“They’re so bright and cheerful.” Brenda wandered over to examine one of the paintings in question, Willie Rae at her elbow. Sharon followed like a wind-up toy, and Daniel trudged at her heels. “They remind me a little bit of the ones by that famous artist -- What’s her name?”
Sharon swallowed hard. “Georgia O’Keefe,” she murmured unobtrusively.
“Yeah, that’s her! I just love this one, with all the purples. I wonder how much it costs? They are for sale, right?” She turned to pin Daniel with an inquisitive look. He nodded, wide-eyed. “Sharon, how do you think it would look over my sofa? Would the colors be too much?”
“Oh, no, they’re complementary,” Willie Rae piped up before Sharon could discourage her friend.
Brenda had to lean in very close to read the artist’s name without the aid of her glasses, and then stepped back again to admire the single, gorgeous, lush flower depicted. “I wonder if she just paints orchids, or if she does other flowers too?”
Daniel cleared his throat and avoided his mother’s glare. “I think they’re meant to be...interpretive. You know, not just one type of...flower.”
“They don’t all look like orchids,” Willie Rae added, lifting her glasses from where they dangled around her neck on their beaded chain. “Those over there look a little different. Let’s go see before you settle on the first one you looked at.”
“Allow me to escort you, Mrs. Johnson,” Daniel gallantly suggested, offering his elbow to the eldest woman.
Willie Rae beamed and looped her arm through his. “My husband will be so jealous that I’ve got myself such a fine young escort this evenin’. Lead the way--and do call me Willie Rae.”
He grinned at her and then cast a meaningful look at his mother. “I’m not sure the other room will exactly be to your taste. You may want to pass on that...”
Sharon closed her eyes and stifled a woeful groan, unable to imagine just what horrors would present themselves in the adjoining gallery. When she opened her eyes, Daniel had led Willie Rae across the room. Brenda, meanwhile, was still gushing about the purple painting.
“It’s called ‘Regina.’ That’s such an odd name for a paintin’ of a flower,” she mused, her eyes scanning the fluid brush strokes and bold use of color to capture the subtle delicacy of each petal.
“Brenda,” Sharon said slowly, “this isn’t a flower.”
“Of course it is. What else would it be?”
Sharon placed her hands on Brenda’s waist and encouraged her to take a few steps back, careful to remove them before she could think about having actually touched the younger woman. “Look at it again.”
Annoyed, the blonde screwed her face up in exasperated confusion. She tilted her head a little to the side for a slightly different vantage point. “I don’t know what it is you think you...” Slowly, as comprehension dawned, Brenda’s eyes widened and her pale face blossomed with color. “Oh my God.”
“Exactly.”
Brenda spun around, nearly spilling her wine all over her new purple dress. “Sharon Raydor, you brought my mother to a gallery of painted vaginas?!” The last word was shrieked in a strangled whisper.
“I swear that I had no idea.”
“I suppose Daniel wouldn’t have mentioned it to you...I bet he thought it’d be a real hoot for his own mama to be gawkin’ at lady parts.” The outrage gradually lessened in her features, replaced finally by a snort of amusement.
“That’s exactly why I’m going to kill him.”
“They really do look like flowers though,” Brenda admitted, her eyes scanning the room. “I mean, if you weren’t lookin’ for it, you might not even see it.” She let out a breath. “Oh Lord...I hope my mama doesn’t see it!”
“Something tells me that she may remain in the dark on this one...especially if my darling son values his life.”
Brenda took a long swig of her wine, hoping that the heat would leave her cheeks. “I’ll never be able to look at a flower the same way again.”
“Join the club.”
Brenda giggled, though the tone of her voice had lowered to that dangerous level that immediately worried the captain. “I wonder what it says about you that you saw it right away?”
Sharon pursed her lips. “It says absolutely nothing. It’s like that picture where you either see the old woman or the young woman. It’s a matter of perspective.”
“Why Sharon Raydor, I do believe I know just what your perspective might be these days.” The blonde’s eyes glittered suggestively.
The captain decided that she would absolutely not take the bait that the deputy chief was so clearly laying out for her. “Then you must know something I don’t. Come on, let’s find your mother before she checks out the other display. If Daniel’s friend’s work is worse than this, we may not be able to avoid the corruption of your mother’s innocent mind.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake...” Brenda sighed, following closely behind her friend. “The last thing I need is for her to run home and tell everyone that her depraved daughter brought her to a porno exhibit.”
“Hardly, Brenda. I realize this isn’t Willie Rae’s cup of tea, but it’s artwork, not some sleazy --”
Sharon stopped short, and the blonde slammed into her so forcefully that Sharon doused the front of her blazer with the remains of her drink. When she didn’t immediately begin squawking about it being dry-clean only, Brenda Leigh knew it was bad -- really bad.
Except that it wasn’t. It was really, really good.
Which was the problem.
Peeking around Sharon, Brenda gulped. “Oh,” she yelped. “Portraits, like, photography.”
Sharon swallowed. Brenda darted a quick glance at her friend and saw that the captain’s countenance was emotionless, but her eyes were wide. “Evidently.”
There were only six images -- thank the Lord, because Brenda thought she might drop dead if there were any more.
“They’re all women,” Sharon murmured.
Brenda frowned, her eyes narrowing. “No, look at that second one from the left. That’s --”
“Those are both women, Brenda Leigh,” the brunette responded, risking a glance at the chief and smirking. Brenda blushed awkwardly, but the humor diffused the tension, and they both began to giggle.
Sharon stopped abruptly and swallowed her laughter. How humiliating to stand here giggling at these beautiful photos like a pair of repressed, virginal schoolgirls. Fishing her glasses from her bag, she took several steps and began to scrutinize the images.
Following her, Brenda nudged her shoulder and chuckled. “They’re works of art, Sharon, as someone just pointed out, not crime scene photos.”
And they were works of art. Cara’s black and white photos depicted her models engaged in various sexual acts -- a clamp tightened on an elongated nipple; a lipsticked mouth pressed against the lips of a swollen sex; a pale hand snaked between bronze thighs -- and yet the focus wasn’t on the bodies. The deeply contrasting levels of black and white gave the images a stark, clinical look. This was erotic art only in the broadest sense of the term, the bodies revealed in the glory of their natural imperfections rather than carefully flattered. It was social commentary, certainly. It was also unexpectedly beautiful.
Cara Bergson, Honesty Series, 2011, Sharon read on the small plaque affixed to the wall.
Suddenly, incongruously, a memory from Daniel and Vivien’s preschool years assaulted Sharon. They’d both loved Sesame Street, and there had been a recurring sketch designed to teach children to pair things or place items in a series. It was accompanied by a little song: “One of these things is not like the others; one of these things is not the same...”
Although it seemed wrong on multiple levels, Sharon almost began to hum as she stared at the sixth photo, unable to look away. One of these things was not like the others.
The other five images were sexual; this one was sexy. Artistically speaking, Sharon supposed that meant it shouldn’t have been included, since it disrupted the harmony of the series. Personally speaking, as she gazed at it, Sharon wasn’t thinking of harmony.
She was actually trying pretty hard not to think at all, especially since Brenda Leigh was standing next to her, Daniel and Willie Rae were in the next room, and this whole situation had the potential to blow up into a disaster more epic than Chernobyl.
Her heart was beating too fast, her breathing skittering to catch up, and her pulse had settled, low and insistently heavy, at the apex of her thighs. She was breaking one of the cardinal rules of motherhood: do not become sexually aroused with your adult son ten feet away.
Come to think of it, she was probably breaking some other cardinal rules as well. Do not become sexually aroused with your best friend’s elderly mother ten feet away. Do not imagine yourself and aforementioned best friend in the places of the models in an erotic photo, especially one taken by your son’s friend. Do not, under any circumstances, reveal your current state to aforementioned best friend.
She had to swallow before she could speak, and then her voice came out so rough and husky that it made her own nipples harden. “I like that one.”
Brenda took a deep breath and pressed more firmly against Sharon’s side, sealing them together from shoulder to elbow. “Do you?” The backs of her fingers tentatively brushed the captain’s knuckles. “I like it too.” Her voice trembled slightly.
A blonde sat in profile in a folding chair beside a bed covered by a dark sheet, barely in the frame. She was fully clothed, seemingly aloof, but something about the angle of her head revealed that she was intently focused on the other woman, the brunette who lay alone in the middle of that bed. She was as starkly naked as her companion was startlingly clothed, her eyes closed, head thrown back as her back arched, both hands buried between her unapologetically splayed legs. The camera didn’t shrink away from the vivid scar on the woman’s shin, the extra pounds padding her luscious curves, or the sheen of wetness spread over her inner thighs.
Sharon thought it was, perhaps, the most honest photograph of them all.
Sharon and Brenda breathed in rapid unison, swaying into one another. Sharon tried desperately to think of something relatively harmless to say, but the words refused to come. She was a little startled by her own instinctive response. Was this something she desired on some level -- for someone to see her like this, vulnerable and exposed and unashamed? Did she want Brenda to see her like this? She imagined those chocolate eyes heavy-lidded, that generous mouth open slightly --
Brenda laughed shakily. “My mama definitely can’t see these.”
“That would not be wise,” Sharon replied unsteadily, unable to break her gaze from the photograph. It was haunting in its realness, calling to some deeply hidden part of herself that had only recently become discovered. She’d never been like the woman in the photograph, never truly allowing former lovers to see her in such a raw and open position, completely unabashed to be seen. She felt as though she could stand before the image for hours, uncovering its secret meanings, exploring the intricacies of her own unfurling sexuality. The press of Brenda’s arm against her own and the tempting heat radiating from her body were integral in this self-discovery.
Every fiber of Sharon’s being cried out in anguish when she stepped away. “We’d better find her before she finds us.”
Brenda looked at her then, her lovely face mirroring Sharon’s own desires. “Sharon...” The quaver of her voice was nearly a whimper and Sharon’s body gave an answering throb.
“It’s time to go.” Sharon’s voice was hard. She headed off, knowing that Brenda would be close behind. She couldn’t stop to look, not when her heart was hammering in her chest and her body was tingling entirely against her will. She’d always believed that there was a time and a place for sex and desire, but her body had turned against her, responding to sinewy blonde stimuli as if she were a hormonal teenager. Self-control had become a thing of the past.
Sharon quickly spotted Daniel and Willie Rae, especially pleased to see that the older woman appeared to be too thoroughly distracted by the conversation to pay much attention to the artwork. When she joined them, she smiled wanly and hoped that her son would keep his keen observational skills to himself. Brenda was only a moment behind her.
“Sharon, your son is the loveliest young man I’ve met in ages. So smart and charming...you must be so proud.”
“I am.” She shot him a look, letting him know in no uncertain terms just what she was thinking in that moment. “I’m glad to hear that he’s behaved himself.”
“I’m always on my best behavior,” Daniel replied, eyes twinkling with a mischievous spark that rivaled Brenda Leigh’s.
“It’s gettin’ late. I think we’d better be gettin’ home.” Brenda deposited her empty wine glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “Are you ready to go?”
“Oh...but we haven’t even seen the other exhibit,” Willie Rae began.
“I peeked inside when I was lookin’ for you. There’s nothin’ interesting in there. Anti-religious propaganda mostly.”
Sharon and her son both raised a surprised eyebrow, both impressed and intrigued by the blonde’s blatant lie. It worked like a charm; the elderly woman scoffed in disgust. “Oh, I don’t need to see any of that. Really, the liberties people take with art these days...”
Brenda nodded in feigned agreement, her eyes lingering on Sharon. “Thank you for an eye-openin’ evening.”
“It was my pleasure,” Sharon answered, knowing on a fundamental level that she had spoken the truth.
**
When Sharon entered the day spa two days later, she found that she could no longer curse her friend for involving her so thoroughly in her personal life. It had become so routine over the months of their friendship that Sharon realized she had unwittingly signed up for impromptu requests whenever the blonde was in need. It was part of their friendship and so she gave a resigned sigh.
This time, Brenda’s request was rather straightforward. She’d been called to a crime scene while in the middle of a spa day with Willie Rae and had asked Sharon to sit out the remainder of her afternoon (complete with a manicure and pedicure) while she investigated a double homicide.
Of all the favors to ask, this certainly could have been worse.
The young man at the desk mournfully informed her that she’d missed the massage, but was in time for the mani-pedi. It was just as well: Sharon had decided she’d prefer not to remove any more clothing around the Johnson women that week.
Enveloped in a fluffy, pale-pink robe monogrammed with the spa’s logo (Brenda must have shelled out for the deluxe package), Willie Rae smiled warmly when Sharon slid into the cushy chair beside her. “Hello, dear. I’m so glad you could come keep an old lady company.”
The brunette automatically smiled back. “I know it’s not the same as having Brenda here.”
Her friend’s mother chuckled. “No, it’s better.”
Sharon blinked in surprise, her lips pursing. “Come again?”
“Oh, now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve been havin’ a wonderful week with Brenda Leigh. I haven’t gotten to spend this much time with my daughter in years, especially just the two of us.” Her silver head inclined toward Sharon’s, her expression a startling mixture of wistfulness and cunning. “Brenda’s never been quite like other girls, you know.”
The other woman’s lips quirked. “No, I should say not.” She had already slipped her heels off; now she immersed her bare feet in the basin of warm, frothing water and allowed herself a small sigh of pleasure.
“Other girls tell their mothers things, but Brenda’s never seemed to understand the art of girl talk. Are you and your mama close, Sharon?”
“My mother died when I was in my twenties,” Sharon replied calmly.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Willie Rae reached over and patted Sharon’s knee before catching the captain’s hand in her own.
“I have a very kind step-mother.”
“Well, I’ll just have to be your mama too, won’t I?” Willie Rae winked, her fingers squeezing Sharon’s with surprising strength. “You can’t have too many mother figures. A girl always needs her mama, no matter what age she is.”
Sharon thought of her fraught relationship with her own daughter, and of her granddaughter whose infant mind would retain no impressions of Vivien, and forced herself to smile.
“Now, I figure even Brenda Leigh tells her best girlfriend what’s goin’ on inside her head. The two of you are thick as thieves.”
Willie Rae’s smile remained guileless, and Sharon thought, Oh, you’re good. She’d long acknowledged that Brenda took after her mother, but still, this was a defining moment.
“We have our moments,” Sharon admitted. “I think it’s been a long time since either of us had a close... girlfriend,” she added, using the older woman’s word with some difficulty.
“Since I’ve been out here, Sharon, I can’t help noticin’ that Brenda’s actin’ a little strange.”
Sharon hummed noncommittally, refraining from pointing out that strange was the norm for the lithe little blonde.
“I don’t mean to pry, but I do worry.”
The dark-haired woman gazed down into the bubbling water, struggling to keep the signs of her amusement off her face.
“Is she seein’ somebody, do you think? New fella?”
Sharon knew the question was inevitable but found herself struggling to find an appropriate answer. Aside from Brenda’s abortive attempt at a date with that guy who’d ordered her food, the only person with whom the deputy chief had experienced any sort of romantic entanglement was, of course, Sharon herself. Her stomach tightened at the thought; they were hardly ‘seeing’ each other, but multiple kisses and enough sexual tension to ignite a wildfire couldn’t exactly be written off as strictly platonic behavior. She cleared her throat. “No. No, I don’t think so.”
Willie Rae twisted her mouth in a disbelieving smirk. “Don’t you start lyin’ to an old woman now. She hasn’t been this flighty since she started seein’ Fritz. Lord only knows why she tried keepin’ it a secret when it was so obvious that she was datin’ him...I never could fully understand the way that girl’s mind works, you know. I don’t think she realizes that she’s doin’ the same thing all over again.”
“Is she?” Sharon asked noncommittally, focusing her attention on the lavish treatment her feet were receiving. Her legs itched to carry her far, far away from the older woman’s inquisition, back to the safety of OIS reports, but she was trapped. The intensity of the older woman’s gaze made it clear to her that she would not get out of this conversation without contributing something substantial to assuage the worried mother’s curiosity. She sighed. “I don’t think there’s anyone noteworthy in her life right now,” she mentioned, wondering just how noteworthy their complicated dance had become to Brenda. “She went on a date a few weeks ago.”
“Oooh, did she? She never mentioned!”
“I don’t think it went well.” In fact, it went so poorly that she promptly came over and kissed me.
“Well, at least she’s openin’ herself up to the idea. I worry about her, Sharon. She’s always been very independent...but she needs someone.” Willie Rae sighed. “I loved Fritz...he’s a wonderful man, but I always thought he wasn’t quite right for her.”
“Why is that?”
“Sometimes Brenda Leigh just needs someone to tell her when to stop. He always let her keep goin’. Did you know him well?”
“Well enough.” Was she really sitting here, gossiping about her best friend’s ex-husband? Apparently she was. “I think you’re right though. They were good together, but not quite a perfect fit.”
“Mmm. What she needs is a nice man who’ll balance her out.” Keen eyes narrowed at Sharon. “Someone like you. Do you have a brother?”
Sharon snorted. “A twin brother, as a matter of fact. He’s married though.”
“What a shame.”
The brunette chuckled and allowed herself to close her eyes while two women began to dry off and massage their feet. She wondered if, on some cosmic level, this conversation were a roundabout way of Willie Rae giving Sharon her blessing--for what? To date her daughter? To continue carrying on like a pair of kids who couldn’t keep their hands off of each other? Willie Rae clearly approved of Sharon’s presence in her daughter’s life, but Sharon couldn’t quite visualize the older woman giving her consent for the two of them to indulge in some torrid lesbian fling.
What had it been like to grow up in the Johnson household, run by its Southern tradition and military influence? Brenda had a gay brother, but how aware were Clay and Willie Rae to his sexual preference? In Sharon’s experience, it was one thing for a man to be gay, but it was quite another for the darling daughter to be expressing her sexuality outside of heterosexual norms.
Still, despite all of this, Sharon flared with heat at the thought that Brenda wasn’t completely in control of her response to this thing that existed between them. If her mother was noticing a change in her behavior, then surely it wasn’t some sexual attraction that happened only when they were in each other’s immediate vicinity. The notion was equal parts thrilling and terrifying--if it wasn’t just a flirtation, what the hell was it?
Sharon straightened her spine and resolved to figure it out later. For now, she’d earned this pedicure, and she was damn well going to enjoy it.
**
Brenda leaned back against the arm of her sofa and was aware--very aware--of several things. Firstly, all of the relief she had felt at having convinced her mother to stay in on her final night in Los Angeles had long since been extinguished, replaced by an all-consuming fixation on the nonexistent space between her own legs and Sharon’s. She was also all too aware of her mother’s presence in the armchair beside them, settled against the comfortable red cushions with a blanket and a kitten spread over her lap.
“Spendin’ my last night here with my favorite girls and the handsome Paul Newman--what more could an old woman ask for?” Willie Rae had said when Sharon showed up with takeout and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
Now that dinner had been consumed and the movie had begun, Brenda bleakly realized that she might not survive the night, especially when Elizabeth Taylor had bent over to run her hands seductively over her stockinged leg in front of an oblivious Paul Newman. She could think only of Sharon’s legs and how they looked in skirts, how endless they were and how defined.
The shared a blanket on the sofa, the throw loosely covering their laps. When the movie had begun, Sharon and Brenda had remained staunchly on their respective ends of the couch. However, as the movie had progressed, so had their restlessness. Their feet now shared the middle of the couch and, try as she might, Brenda could not sit still.
The violet-eyed movie star was begging her husband to make love to her, and the two police officers were playing footsie beneath their blanket.
Brenda had started it; when she felt the first accidental brush of Sharon’s toes against her own, she had daringly reciprocated, stroking her big toe along the arch of the other woman’s foot. Sharon had licked her lips and shifted on the couch but had not moved her leg away. They moved languidly, as if they were worried about upsetting the still cover of the throw where it rested atop their feet. Though Brenda was cautious not to draw her mother’s attention, she was more aware of the slow, sensuous slide of their feet intimately mapping unexplored territory.
It was more than they had touched in days. The dizzying acknowledgement of their bodies touching made Brenda feel drunk; she’d silently ached for some caress, some kiss or touch, something more substantial than the lingering glances that smoldered long after Sharon had looked away. She knew that Sharon wanted it too, despite the fact that she kept pulling herself away, hiding her desire in repressed coolness.
Like Paul Newman’s character, Brenda decided. Did that make her Maggie the Cat, beautiful and sensual and yearning for affection?
“What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?” Newman asked.
“Just stayin’ on it, I guess, long as she can,” Taylor replied with a spark in her eyes.
She wondered if her mother had chosen this particular movie for Sharon to rent at Blockbuster because on some keenly maternal level, she had picked up on the skitterish dance Brenda had been doing around the brunette. They’d been circling each other like predatory lionesses, each waiting for the other to lower her defenses long enough to pounce. Brenda couldn’t be the one to jump first--not when she wasn’t sure Sharon wanted to jump with her.
Willie Rae gave a melodramatic sigh. “He’s just so handsome, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Sharon agreed, her eyes fixed upon the television.
Brenda much preferred looking at Elizabeth Taylor, but she decided to keep that tidbit to herself, especially when Sharon’s toes began to dance around her ankle. She bit her lip, a shiver coursing down her spine to pool between her thighs. It couldn’t be right to be so aroused just by a little harmless footsie-playin’ when your mama was sitting two feet away, but Brenda was, and she had a hunch that Sharon was too.
It had been years since Brenda had seen this movie and it broke her heart all over again, the pain and the loss and the desire to lose oneself in alcoholic oblivion. She felt for Taylor, who had agreed to celibacy in order to keep her husband and then found she couldn’t live that way. It had struck her somehow, reminding her how she’d silently agreed to respect Sharon’s space without addressing the growing attraction between them. It wasn’t that Sharon wasn’t equally attracted to Brenda--it was that she didn’t want to face what the exploration of a mutual attraction might mean.
Watching Brick and Maggie fight and beg and plead and ignore the valuable existence of their relationship made Brenda yearn for a chance to do the same.
She caressed her foot along Sharon’s calf and for the first time since the film began, Sharon turned to look at her. Her green eyes were cloudy with raw, untempered emotion. Brenda stared, hoping that the captain could read the statement in her eyes. We need to talk, it said. Sharon swallowed, tilted her head in a nod, and looked back at the screen.
When Brick threw his pillow onto the bed and pulled Maggie into a spirited, sensual kiss, Brenda wanted to howl in frustration. The credits rolled and her body screamed, needing some sort of immediate resolution to the conclusion she’d come to about this thing with Sharon.
The taller woman, however, was already on her feet. “I’m sorry to run off like this, but I’m afraid I have to go,” she said as she slipped her bare feet back into her ballet flats.
Brenda looked on, trying to keep the expression of petulant disappointment from her features, while Sharon and Willie Rae hugged and bade one another adieu. Finally her dark eyes narrowed slightly as they met Sharon’s over her mother’s shoulder. “I’ll walk you out,” she drawled.
The brunette’s forehead tightened, but she didn’t protest. (How could she? Brenda thought.) Instead she nodded briskly and managed a quick, thin smile as she gathered up the DVD and her few belongings.
Brenda followed her into the hallway, leaving the door ajar, and furiously grasped her forearm, as if she expected Sharon to bolt. “You can’t just keep runnin’ away,” she hissed fiercely, her eyes flashing.
“I’m not.” The older woman spoke with the quiet intensity Brenda had initially found so disconcerting. With a twist of her wrist, she caught the blonde’s hand and squeezed. “I’m not,” she repeated. “But I need to leave now, and you need to let me.”
“We need to talk.”
Frank green eyes met Brenda’s mocha-colored ones. “Yes, we do, Brenda Leigh. But not tonight. After Willie Rae has left.”
Brenda’s shoulders slumped slightly as she squeezed her best friend’s hand. She knew her captain was right, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Her eyes dropped to Sharon’s mouth, as had recently become a nearly uncontrollable habit. She ached to lean in and kiss her. The simple contact of their hands made her inability to do so just bearable, but it simultaneously inflamed her even further in a perpetual cycle that would drive her crazy if she didn’t do something about it soon. “When?”
“Soon.” The blonde watched the other woman’s lips shape the word, and then lifted her eyes back to Sharon’s. She saw understanding there, and unadulterated desire -- and fear. “Soon, Brenda Leigh. Tomorrow, Sunday --”
“Tomorrow,” the chief interrupted hastily. “I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay.” Sharon tilted her head, bashfully regarding the other woman through the screen of her eyelashes; and then, impulsively, she leaned in and very softly brushed her lips against Brenda’s soft cheek. Her hair whispered over Brenda’s lips. It smelled of honey and ginger. “Okay,” she repeated. “Good night, Brenda.”
**
The next morning Brenda drove her mother to the airport. “I’ve enjoyed myself so much durin’ this visit, Brenda Leigh,” Willie Rae said; and when Brenda answered “Me, too, Mama,” she realized that she meant it. The overwhelmingly positive outcome of the last week owed a not inconsiderable debt to Sharon.
That afternoon, the deputy chief drove back to the gallery they’d visited Tuesday.
That evening Sharon opened her front door to a young woman in ripped jeans with a thrice-pierced eyebrow. “Sharon Raydor?” she asked. “Delivery for you.”
Curious, the captain accepted the package, which was the size of a large sheet of paper, only bulkier, of course. Its contents were ensconced in tissue paper and emitted the unmistakable crinkle of bubble wrap.
“Enjoy,” the young woman offered cheerily, and jogged lightly down the steps.
Between the tissue paper and the bubble wrap there was a small blue envelope. Sharon immediately recognized the looping penmanship in which her name had been scrawled, but she scarcely needed the confirmation.
Because you keep unfolding like a flower, read the short message. Thanks for all your help with Mama. Can’t wait to see what I discover next.
Sharon bit her lip and then chuckled to herself. When she popped the tape securing the bubble wrap, the sides sprang apart to disclose -- what else? -- the dark purple ‘orchid’. Brenda had gone back and bought it for her. Of course she had. The captain allowed herself to grin, feeling her heart pick up its pace inside her chest. It would look lovely in her bedroom.
Back at her apartment, Brenda Leigh carefully examined her second purchase from the gallery, her cheeks heating and her breath coming faster. It wasn’t just the image, but the vivid sensory memory of seeing it with Sharon, feeling the taller woman sway into her body. Swallowing hard, Brenda finished her perusal of the two figures and regretfully slipped the framed photograph into her dresser drawer. She wouldn’t be hanging it up.
Not yet, anyway.
Authors: i-must-go-first & UbiquitousMixie
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Rating: PG-13 (Overall M)
Word Count: 6246
Disclaimer: Not ours. Please don’t sue.
Summary: A late-night craving and a coincidental meeting lead a certain deputy chief to discover that there’s much more to the inimitable Captain Raydor than meets the eye, and to realize that her mama was right: sometimes all a single woman really needs is a good girlfriend.
Authors’ Note: Dear readers, thank you for sticking with us. We appreciate your patience between chapters. We’ve greatly enjoyed your words of encouragement and support, and we hope you love this next chapter as much as we do! Let us know what you think!
-
Sharon was striding toward the LAPD’s above-ground parking deck, located an oh-so-convenient three blocks from what the top brass still referred to as the “new building,” when she heard the unmistakable clatter of kitten heels on the sidewalk behind her.
“Captain Raydor! Sharon, wait.”
A roll of emotions, of which nervous dread was the most pronounced, quickly swept over the older woman like a sudden summer thunderstorm; and yet, as she pivoted and met Brenda’s bright, anxious smile, her lips automatically curved into a matching smile, and it felt good -- it felt right. “Chief. How’s Willie Rae?”
“Oh, fine, she’s fine.” The blonde quickly licked her lips, bending one coltish leg at the knee as she shifted her weight. “Is -- Are we okay?” she blurted.
“Yes,” Sharon replied instantly on a quick rush of breath. What did it mean, this being okay? Did it mean they were going to pretend all those awkward, intimate moments of the past two weeks had never occurred, chalk them up to folie a deux? Or -- a much more stomach-twisting, delicious possibility -- did it mean that those moments were “okay,” welcome, now part of their friendship? Did it mean there might be more? For once the captain couldn’t answer; but this, too, felt right. Relief blossomed to replace the anxiety and the two women smiled at one another.
“That’s good, because I could really use some help.”
Sharon chuckled. “Of course you could.”
“I’ve completely run out of things to do with my mama.”
Predictably, the brunette’s smile melted into a smirk. “That is problematic, since it’s only Tuesday.”
“We drove around all over the place yesterday, so she’s tired of bein’ in the car; she’s seen all the Hollywood sights; there’s nothin’ on at the movies --”
“Hmm.” Sharon considered. “Does she like contemporary art?”
Brenda blinked. “About as much as most people do, I suppose.”
Amusement sparkled in those soft green eyes. “I take it that’s a no.”
“Well, I mean, I think she’d like it if it was somethin’ good, not just a big red circle on a black canvas. But I’m tryin’ to think of something to do tonight, so we can’t go to a museum.”
“I’m not talking about a museum. What about a gallery opening?”
The deputy chief considered for several seconds, her features thoughtfully scrunched together, before she nodded decisively. “A gallery openin’ -- that sounds like a glamorous, California-style evenin’. Do you actually know of such an event, or am I just supposed to go trawl the greater metropolitan area?”
Even white teeth flashed as Sharon grinned. “As amusing as it might be to see you ‘trawl’ something, yes, it just so happens that I do know of such an event, Deputy Chief Johnson. One of Daniel’s friends has a few pieces in a show that’s opening tonight in Silver Lake. I don’t know how ‘glamorous’ it’s going to be,” she cautioned. “These are students, not superstars. Instead of champagne and brie, it may be sparkling wine and cheddar.”
Brenda laughed. “That’s fine. Mama’ll prefer the cheddar, and she can still go home and tell her friends in the WMU that she went to a gallery openin’ in Los Angeles. You’re going too, aren’t you?”
“I’m having dinner with Daniel, so yes, I assume he intends to use his not-inconsiderable powers of persuasion.”
“Oh, you have dinner plans.” The younger woman bit her lip.
“Join us,” Sharon offered. She had not, in fact, invited Daniel to join the Johnson women for dinner Saturday night, but assumed her son was capable of behaving appropriately for a couple of hours.
“No, that’s okay. I have to go home and get Mama anyway; she’s probably cooked. Send me the address and we’ll meet you there.”
Sharon should have had an inkling, really, when she mentioned that Brenda was going to meet them at the gallery and Daniel’s emerald eyes took on a distinctly mischievous glimmer. “Oh, the lovely Deputy Chief Johnson. Yeah, I think the two of you will both really enjoy the exhibit -- not just Cara’s pieces.” He chuckled to himself at some private joke. The response was too much like one the captain herself would’ve made for her to stoop to the level of questioning it.
“She’s bringing her mother,” Sharon added, spearing a bite of her grilled swordfish, “so be prepared.”
Daniel had seemed to pale slightly. “Her mother,” he repeated flatly. “I’m prepared, but are you sure she is?”
Sharon’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Just be nice,” she ordered sternly.
Her son had muttered something about that not being exactly what he meant, but he’d suddenly become wholly absorbed in his short ribs.
About three-point-five seconds after their party of four stepped into the surprisingly large neighborhood gallery, Sharon realized exactly what Daniel had meant. She had no choice: she was going to have to murder him, although it would be hard on Paul to lose both of his children.
“Oh, Mama!” Brenda exclaimed as the captain desperately snagged three flutes of prosecco, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, from the tray of a passing waiter and shoved two of them at the Johnson women. “These paintings are really nice. Don’t you think so?”
Willie Rae clapped her hands in delight, sloshing some of the sparkling wine onto Sharon’s shoes. “Oh, yes! I just love the flowers. I’m quite the gardener myself, you know. Daniel, dear, do you know the artist?”
Squirming under his mother’s intense scrutiny as well as Willie Rae’s guileless gaze, the young man replied, “No, ma’am. My friend’s pieces are in the next room. They’re, um... portraits, I guess you could say.”
“They’re so bright and cheerful.” Brenda wandered over to examine one of the paintings in question, Willie Rae at her elbow. Sharon followed like a wind-up toy, and Daniel trudged at her heels. “They remind me a little bit of the ones by that famous artist -- What’s her name?”
Sharon swallowed hard. “Georgia O’Keefe,” she murmured unobtrusively.
“Yeah, that’s her! I just love this one, with all the purples. I wonder how much it costs? They are for sale, right?” She turned to pin Daniel with an inquisitive look. He nodded, wide-eyed. “Sharon, how do you think it would look over my sofa? Would the colors be too much?”
“Oh, no, they’re complementary,” Willie Rae piped up before Sharon could discourage her friend.
Brenda had to lean in very close to read the artist’s name without the aid of her glasses, and then stepped back again to admire the single, gorgeous, lush flower depicted. “I wonder if she just paints orchids, or if she does other flowers too?”
Daniel cleared his throat and avoided his mother’s glare. “I think they’re meant to be...interpretive. You know, not just one type of...flower.”
“They don’t all look like orchids,” Willie Rae added, lifting her glasses from where they dangled around her neck on their beaded chain. “Those over there look a little different. Let’s go see before you settle on the first one you looked at.”
“Allow me to escort you, Mrs. Johnson,” Daniel gallantly suggested, offering his elbow to the eldest woman.
Willie Rae beamed and looped her arm through his. “My husband will be so jealous that I’ve got myself such a fine young escort this evenin’. Lead the way--and do call me Willie Rae.”
He grinned at her and then cast a meaningful look at his mother. “I’m not sure the other room will exactly be to your taste. You may want to pass on that...”
Sharon closed her eyes and stifled a woeful groan, unable to imagine just what horrors would present themselves in the adjoining gallery. When she opened her eyes, Daniel had led Willie Rae across the room. Brenda, meanwhile, was still gushing about the purple painting.
“It’s called ‘Regina.’ That’s such an odd name for a paintin’ of a flower,” she mused, her eyes scanning the fluid brush strokes and bold use of color to capture the subtle delicacy of each petal.
“Brenda,” Sharon said slowly, “this isn’t a flower.”
“Of course it is. What else would it be?”
Sharon placed her hands on Brenda’s waist and encouraged her to take a few steps back, careful to remove them before she could think about having actually touched the younger woman. “Look at it again.”
Annoyed, the blonde screwed her face up in exasperated confusion. She tilted her head a little to the side for a slightly different vantage point. “I don’t know what it is you think you...” Slowly, as comprehension dawned, Brenda’s eyes widened and her pale face blossomed with color. “Oh my God.”
“Exactly.”
Brenda spun around, nearly spilling her wine all over her new purple dress. “Sharon Raydor, you brought my mother to a gallery of painted vaginas?!” The last word was shrieked in a strangled whisper.
“I swear that I had no idea.”
“I suppose Daniel wouldn’t have mentioned it to you...I bet he thought it’d be a real hoot for his own mama to be gawkin’ at lady parts.” The outrage gradually lessened in her features, replaced finally by a snort of amusement.
“That’s exactly why I’m going to kill him.”
“They really do look like flowers though,” Brenda admitted, her eyes scanning the room. “I mean, if you weren’t lookin’ for it, you might not even see it.” She let out a breath. “Oh Lord...I hope my mama doesn’t see it!”
“Something tells me that she may remain in the dark on this one...especially if my darling son values his life.”
Brenda took a long swig of her wine, hoping that the heat would leave her cheeks. “I’ll never be able to look at a flower the same way again.”
“Join the club.”
Brenda giggled, though the tone of her voice had lowered to that dangerous level that immediately worried the captain. “I wonder what it says about you that you saw it right away?”
Sharon pursed her lips. “It says absolutely nothing. It’s like that picture where you either see the old woman or the young woman. It’s a matter of perspective.”
“Why Sharon Raydor, I do believe I know just what your perspective might be these days.” The blonde’s eyes glittered suggestively.
The captain decided that she would absolutely not take the bait that the deputy chief was so clearly laying out for her. “Then you must know something I don’t. Come on, let’s find your mother before she checks out the other display. If Daniel’s friend’s work is worse than this, we may not be able to avoid the corruption of your mother’s innocent mind.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake...” Brenda sighed, following closely behind her friend. “The last thing I need is for her to run home and tell everyone that her depraved daughter brought her to a porno exhibit.”
“Hardly, Brenda. I realize this isn’t Willie Rae’s cup of tea, but it’s artwork, not some sleazy --”
Sharon stopped short, and the blonde slammed into her so forcefully that Sharon doused the front of her blazer with the remains of her drink. When she didn’t immediately begin squawking about it being dry-clean only, Brenda Leigh knew it was bad -- really bad.
Except that it wasn’t. It was really, really good.
Which was the problem.
Peeking around Sharon, Brenda gulped. “Oh,” she yelped. “Portraits, like, photography.”
Sharon swallowed. Brenda darted a quick glance at her friend and saw that the captain’s countenance was emotionless, but her eyes were wide. “Evidently.”
There were only six images -- thank the Lord, because Brenda thought she might drop dead if there were any more.
“They’re all women,” Sharon murmured.
Brenda frowned, her eyes narrowing. “No, look at that second one from the left. That’s --”
“Those are both women, Brenda Leigh,” the brunette responded, risking a glance at the chief and smirking. Brenda blushed awkwardly, but the humor diffused the tension, and they both began to giggle.
Sharon stopped abruptly and swallowed her laughter. How humiliating to stand here giggling at these beautiful photos like a pair of repressed, virginal schoolgirls. Fishing her glasses from her bag, she took several steps and began to scrutinize the images.
Following her, Brenda nudged her shoulder and chuckled. “They’re works of art, Sharon, as someone just pointed out, not crime scene photos.”
And they were works of art. Cara’s black and white photos depicted her models engaged in various sexual acts -- a clamp tightened on an elongated nipple; a lipsticked mouth pressed against the lips of a swollen sex; a pale hand snaked between bronze thighs -- and yet the focus wasn’t on the bodies. The deeply contrasting levels of black and white gave the images a stark, clinical look. This was erotic art only in the broadest sense of the term, the bodies revealed in the glory of their natural imperfections rather than carefully flattered. It was social commentary, certainly. It was also unexpectedly beautiful.
Cara Bergson, Honesty Series, 2011, Sharon read on the small plaque affixed to the wall.
Suddenly, incongruously, a memory from Daniel and Vivien’s preschool years assaulted Sharon. They’d both loved Sesame Street, and there had been a recurring sketch designed to teach children to pair things or place items in a series. It was accompanied by a little song: “One of these things is not like the others; one of these things is not the same...”
Although it seemed wrong on multiple levels, Sharon almost began to hum as she stared at the sixth photo, unable to look away. One of these things was not like the others.
The other five images were sexual; this one was sexy. Artistically speaking, Sharon supposed that meant it shouldn’t have been included, since it disrupted the harmony of the series. Personally speaking, as she gazed at it, Sharon wasn’t thinking of harmony.
She was actually trying pretty hard not to think at all, especially since Brenda Leigh was standing next to her, Daniel and Willie Rae were in the next room, and this whole situation had the potential to blow up into a disaster more epic than Chernobyl.
Her heart was beating too fast, her breathing skittering to catch up, and her pulse had settled, low and insistently heavy, at the apex of her thighs. She was breaking one of the cardinal rules of motherhood: do not become sexually aroused with your adult son ten feet away.
Come to think of it, she was probably breaking some other cardinal rules as well. Do not become sexually aroused with your best friend’s elderly mother ten feet away. Do not imagine yourself and aforementioned best friend in the places of the models in an erotic photo, especially one taken by your son’s friend. Do not, under any circumstances, reveal your current state to aforementioned best friend.
She had to swallow before she could speak, and then her voice came out so rough and husky that it made her own nipples harden. “I like that one.”
Brenda took a deep breath and pressed more firmly against Sharon’s side, sealing them together from shoulder to elbow. “Do you?” The backs of her fingers tentatively brushed the captain’s knuckles. “I like it too.” Her voice trembled slightly.
A blonde sat in profile in a folding chair beside a bed covered by a dark sheet, barely in the frame. She was fully clothed, seemingly aloof, but something about the angle of her head revealed that she was intently focused on the other woman, the brunette who lay alone in the middle of that bed. She was as starkly naked as her companion was startlingly clothed, her eyes closed, head thrown back as her back arched, both hands buried between her unapologetically splayed legs. The camera didn’t shrink away from the vivid scar on the woman’s shin, the extra pounds padding her luscious curves, or the sheen of wetness spread over her inner thighs.
Sharon thought it was, perhaps, the most honest photograph of them all.
Sharon and Brenda breathed in rapid unison, swaying into one another. Sharon tried desperately to think of something relatively harmless to say, but the words refused to come. She was a little startled by her own instinctive response. Was this something she desired on some level -- for someone to see her like this, vulnerable and exposed and unashamed? Did she want Brenda to see her like this? She imagined those chocolate eyes heavy-lidded, that generous mouth open slightly --
Brenda laughed shakily. “My mama definitely can’t see these.”
“That would not be wise,” Sharon replied unsteadily, unable to break her gaze from the photograph. It was haunting in its realness, calling to some deeply hidden part of herself that had only recently become discovered. She’d never been like the woman in the photograph, never truly allowing former lovers to see her in such a raw and open position, completely unabashed to be seen. She felt as though she could stand before the image for hours, uncovering its secret meanings, exploring the intricacies of her own unfurling sexuality. The press of Brenda’s arm against her own and the tempting heat radiating from her body were integral in this self-discovery.
Every fiber of Sharon’s being cried out in anguish when she stepped away. “We’d better find her before she finds us.”
Brenda looked at her then, her lovely face mirroring Sharon’s own desires. “Sharon...” The quaver of her voice was nearly a whimper and Sharon’s body gave an answering throb.
“It’s time to go.” Sharon’s voice was hard. She headed off, knowing that Brenda would be close behind. She couldn’t stop to look, not when her heart was hammering in her chest and her body was tingling entirely against her will. She’d always believed that there was a time and a place for sex and desire, but her body had turned against her, responding to sinewy blonde stimuli as if she were a hormonal teenager. Self-control had become a thing of the past.
Sharon quickly spotted Daniel and Willie Rae, especially pleased to see that the older woman appeared to be too thoroughly distracted by the conversation to pay much attention to the artwork. When she joined them, she smiled wanly and hoped that her son would keep his keen observational skills to himself. Brenda was only a moment behind her.
“Sharon, your son is the loveliest young man I’ve met in ages. So smart and charming...you must be so proud.”
“I am.” She shot him a look, letting him know in no uncertain terms just what she was thinking in that moment. “I’m glad to hear that he’s behaved himself.”
“I’m always on my best behavior,” Daniel replied, eyes twinkling with a mischievous spark that rivaled Brenda Leigh’s.
“It’s gettin’ late. I think we’d better be gettin’ home.” Brenda deposited her empty wine glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “Are you ready to go?”
“Oh...but we haven’t even seen the other exhibit,” Willie Rae began.
“I peeked inside when I was lookin’ for you. There’s nothin’ interesting in there. Anti-religious propaganda mostly.”
Sharon and her son both raised a surprised eyebrow, both impressed and intrigued by the blonde’s blatant lie. It worked like a charm; the elderly woman scoffed in disgust. “Oh, I don’t need to see any of that. Really, the liberties people take with art these days...”
Brenda nodded in feigned agreement, her eyes lingering on Sharon. “Thank you for an eye-openin’ evening.”
“It was my pleasure,” Sharon answered, knowing on a fundamental level that she had spoken the truth.
**
When Sharon entered the day spa two days later, she found that she could no longer curse her friend for involving her so thoroughly in her personal life. It had become so routine over the months of their friendship that Sharon realized she had unwittingly signed up for impromptu requests whenever the blonde was in need. It was part of their friendship and so she gave a resigned sigh.
This time, Brenda’s request was rather straightforward. She’d been called to a crime scene while in the middle of a spa day with Willie Rae and had asked Sharon to sit out the remainder of her afternoon (complete with a manicure and pedicure) while she investigated a double homicide.
Of all the favors to ask, this certainly could have been worse.
The young man at the desk mournfully informed her that she’d missed the massage, but was in time for the mani-pedi. It was just as well: Sharon had decided she’d prefer not to remove any more clothing around the Johnson women that week.
Enveloped in a fluffy, pale-pink robe monogrammed with the spa’s logo (Brenda must have shelled out for the deluxe package), Willie Rae smiled warmly when Sharon slid into the cushy chair beside her. “Hello, dear. I’m so glad you could come keep an old lady company.”
The brunette automatically smiled back. “I know it’s not the same as having Brenda here.”
Her friend’s mother chuckled. “No, it’s better.”
Sharon blinked in surprise, her lips pursing. “Come again?”
“Oh, now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve been havin’ a wonderful week with Brenda Leigh. I haven’t gotten to spend this much time with my daughter in years, especially just the two of us.” Her silver head inclined toward Sharon’s, her expression a startling mixture of wistfulness and cunning. “Brenda’s never been quite like other girls, you know.”
The other woman’s lips quirked. “No, I should say not.” She had already slipped her heels off; now she immersed her bare feet in the basin of warm, frothing water and allowed herself a small sigh of pleasure.
“Other girls tell their mothers things, but Brenda’s never seemed to understand the art of girl talk. Are you and your mama close, Sharon?”
“My mother died when I was in my twenties,” Sharon replied calmly.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Willie Rae reached over and patted Sharon’s knee before catching the captain’s hand in her own.
“I have a very kind step-mother.”
“Well, I’ll just have to be your mama too, won’t I?” Willie Rae winked, her fingers squeezing Sharon’s with surprising strength. “You can’t have too many mother figures. A girl always needs her mama, no matter what age she is.”
Sharon thought of her fraught relationship with her own daughter, and of her granddaughter whose infant mind would retain no impressions of Vivien, and forced herself to smile.
“Now, I figure even Brenda Leigh tells her best girlfriend what’s goin’ on inside her head. The two of you are thick as thieves.”
Willie Rae’s smile remained guileless, and Sharon thought, Oh, you’re good. She’d long acknowledged that Brenda took after her mother, but still, this was a defining moment.
“We have our moments,” Sharon admitted. “I think it’s been a long time since either of us had a close... girlfriend,” she added, using the older woman’s word with some difficulty.
“Since I’ve been out here, Sharon, I can’t help noticin’ that Brenda’s actin’ a little strange.”
Sharon hummed noncommittally, refraining from pointing out that strange was the norm for the lithe little blonde.
“I don’t mean to pry, but I do worry.”
The dark-haired woman gazed down into the bubbling water, struggling to keep the signs of her amusement off her face.
“Is she seein’ somebody, do you think? New fella?”
Sharon knew the question was inevitable but found herself struggling to find an appropriate answer. Aside from Brenda’s abortive attempt at a date with that guy who’d ordered her food, the only person with whom the deputy chief had experienced any sort of romantic entanglement was, of course, Sharon herself. Her stomach tightened at the thought; they were hardly ‘seeing’ each other, but multiple kisses and enough sexual tension to ignite a wildfire couldn’t exactly be written off as strictly platonic behavior. She cleared her throat. “No. No, I don’t think so.”
Willie Rae twisted her mouth in a disbelieving smirk. “Don’t you start lyin’ to an old woman now. She hasn’t been this flighty since she started seein’ Fritz. Lord only knows why she tried keepin’ it a secret when it was so obvious that she was datin’ him...I never could fully understand the way that girl’s mind works, you know. I don’t think she realizes that she’s doin’ the same thing all over again.”
“Is she?” Sharon asked noncommittally, focusing her attention on the lavish treatment her feet were receiving. Her legs itched to carry her far, far away from the older woman’s inquisition, back to the safety of OIS reports, but she was trapped. The intensity of the older woman’s gaze made it clear to her that she would not get out of this conversation without contributing something substantial to assuage the worried mother’s curiosity. She sighed. “I don’t think there’s anyone noteworthy in her life right now,” she mentioned, wondering just how noteworthy their complicated dance had become to Brenda. “She went on a date a few weeks ago.”
“Oooh, did she? She never mentioned!”
“I don’t think it went well.” In fact, it went so poorly that she promptly came over and kissed me.
“Well, at least she’s openin’ herself up to the idea. I worry about her, Sharon. She’s always been very independent...but she needs someone.” Willie Rae sighed. “I loved Fritz...he’s a wonderful man, but I always thought he wasn’t quite right for her.”
“Why is that?”
“Sometimes Brenda Leigh just needs someone to tell her when to stop. He always let her keep goin’. Did you know him well?”
“Well enough.” Was she really sitting here, gossiping about her best friend’s ex-husband? Apparently she was. “I think you’re right though. They were good together, but not quite a perfect fit.”
“Mmm. What she needs is a nice man who’ll balance her out.” Keen eyes narrowed at Sharon. “Someone like you. Do you have a brother?”
Sharon snorted. “A twin brother, as a matter of fact. He’s married though.”
“What a shame.”
The brunette chuckled and allowed herself to close her eyes while two women began to dry off and massage their feet. She wondered if, on some cosmic level, this conversation were a roundabout way of Willie Rae giving Sharon her blessing--for what? To date her daughter? To continue carrying on like a pair of kids who couldn’t keep their hands off of each other? Willie Rae clearly approved of Sharon’s presence in her daughter’s life, but Sharon couldn’t quite visualize the older woman giving her consent for the two of them to indulge in some torrid lesbian fling.
What had it been like to grow up in the Johnson household, run by its Southern tradition and military influence? Brenda had a gay brother, but how aware were Clay and Willie Rae to his sexual preference? In Sharon’s experience, it was one thing for a man to be gay, but it was quite another for the darling daughter to be expressing her sexuality outside of heterosexual norms.
Still, despite all of this, Sharon flared with heat at the thought that Brenda wasn’t completely in control of her response to this thing that existed between them. If her mother was noticing a change in her behavior, then surely it wasn’t some sexual attraction that happened only when they were in each other’s immediate vicinity. The notion was equal parts thrilling and terrifying--if it wasn’t just a flirtation, what the hell was it?
Sharon straightened her spine and resolved to figure it out later. For now, she’d earned this pedicure, and she was damn well going to enjoy it.
**
Brenda leaned back against the arm of her sofa and was aware--very aware--of several things. Firstly, all of the relief she had felt at having convinced her mother to stay in on her final night in Los Angeles had long since been extinguished, replaced by an all-consuming fixation on the nonexistent space between her own legs and Sharon’s. She was also all too aware of her mother’s presence in the armchair beside them, settled against the comfortable red cushions with a blanket and a kitten spread over her lap.
“Spendin’ my last night here with my favorite girls and the handsome Paul Newman--what more could an old woman ask for?” Willie Rae had said when Sharon showed up with takeout and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
Now that dinner had been consumed and the movie had begun, Brenda bleakly realized that she might not survive the night, especially when Elizabeth Taylor had bent over to run her hands seductively over her stockinged leg in front of an oblivious Paul Newman. She could think only of Sharon’s legs and how they looked in skirts, how endless they were and how defined.
The shared a blanket on the sofa, the throw loosely covering their laps. When the movie had begun, Sharon and Brenda had remained staunchly on their respective ends of the couch. However, as the movie had progressed, so had their restlessness. Their feet now shared the middle of the couch and, try as she might, Brenda could not sit still.
The violet-eyed movie star was begging her husband to make love to her, and the two police officers were playing footsie beneath their blanket.
Brenda had started it; when she felt the first accidental brush of Sharon’s toes against her own, she had daringly reciprocated, stroking her big toe along the arch of the other woman’s foot. Sharon had licked her lips and shifted on the couch but had not moved her leg away. They moved languidly, as if they were worried about upsetting the still cover of the throw where it rested atop their feet. Though Brenda was cautious not to draw her mother’s attention, she was more aware of the slow, sensuous slide of their feet intimately mapping unexplored territory.
It was more than they had touched in days. The dizzying acknowledgement of their bodies touching made Brenda feel drunk; she’d silently ached for some caress, some kiss or touch, something more substantial than the lingering glances that smoldered long after Sharon had looked away. She knew that Sharon wanted it too, despite the fact that she kept pulling herself away, hiding her desire in repressed coolness.
Like Paul Newman’s character, Brenda decided. Did that make her Maggie the Cat, beautiful and sensual and yearning for affection?
“What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?” Newman asked.
“Just stayin’ on it, I guess, long as she can,” Taylor replied with a spark in her eyes.
She wondered if her mother had chosen this particular movie for Sharon to rent at Blockbuster because on some keenly maternal level, she had picked up on the skitterish dance Brenda had been doing around the brunette. They’d been circling each other like predatory lionesses, each waiting for the other to lower her defenses long enough to pounce. Brenda couldn’t be the one to jump first--not when she wasn’t sure Sharon wanted to jump with her.
Willie Rae gave a melodramatic sigh. “He’s just so handsome, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Sharon agreed, her eyes fixed upon the television.
Brenda much preferred looking at Elizabeth Taylor, but she decided to keep that tidbit to herself, especially when Sharon’s toes began to dance around her ankle. She bit her lip, a shiver coursing down her spine to pool between her thighs. It couldn’t be right to be so aroused just by a little harmless footsie-playin’ when your mama was sitting two feet away, but Brenda was, and she had a hunch that Sharon was too.
It had been years since Brenda had seen this movie and it broke her heart all over again, the pain and the loss and the desire to lose oneself in alcoholic oblivion. She felt for Taylor, who had agreed to celibacy in order to keep her husband and then found she couldn’t live that way. It had struck her somehow, reminding her how she’d silently agreed to respect Sharon’s space without addressing the growing attraction between them. It wasn’t that Sharon wasn’t equally attracted to Brenda--it was that she didn’t want to face what the exploration of a mutual attraction might mean.
Watching Brick and Maggie fight and beg and plead and ignore the valuable existence of their relationship made Brenda yearn for a chance to do the same.
She caressed her foot along Sharon’s calf and for the first time since the film began, Sharon turned to look at her. Her green eyes were cloudy with raw, untempered emotion. Brenda stared, hoping that the captain could read the statement in her eyes. We need to talk, it said. Sharon swallowed, tilted her head in a nod, and looked back at the screen.
When Brick threw his pillow onto the bed and pulled Maggie into a spirited, sensual kiss, Brenda wanted to howl in frustration. The credits rolled and her body screamed, needing some sort of immediate resolution to the conclusion she’d come to about this thing with Sharon.
The taller woman, however, was already on her feet. “I’m sorry to run off like this, but I’m afraid I have to go,” she said as she slipped her bare feet back into her ballet flats.
Brenda looked on, trying to keep the expression of petulant disappointment from her features, while Sharon and Willie Rae hugged and bade one another adieu. Finally her dark eyes narrowed slightly as they met Sharon’s over her mother’s shoulder. “I’ll walk you out,” she drawled.
The brunette’s forehead tightened, but she didn’t protest. (How could she? Brenda thought.) Instead she nodded briskly and managed a quick, thin smile as she gathered up the DVD and her few belongings.
Brenda followed her into the hallway, leaving the door ajar, and furiously grasped her forearm, as if she expected Sharon to bolt. “You can’t just keep runnin’ away,” she hissed fiercely, her eyes flashing.
“I’m not.” The older woman spoke with the quiet intensity Brenda had initially found so disconcerting. With a twist of her wrist, she caught the blonde’s hand and squeezed. “I’m not,” she repeated. “But I need to leave now, and you need to let me.”
“We need to talk.”
Frank green eyes met Brenda’s mocha-colored ones. “Yes, we do, Brenda Leigh. But not tonight. After Willie Rae has left.”
Brenda’s shoulders slumped slightly as she squeezed her best friend’s hand. She knew her captain was right, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Her eyes dropped to Sharon’s mouth, as had recently become a nearly uncontrollable habit. She ached to lean in and kiss her. The simple contact of their hands made her inability to do so just bearable, but it simultaneously inflamed her even further in a perpetual cycle that would drive her crazy if she didn’t do something about it soon. “When?”
“Soon.” The blonde watched the other woman’s lips shape the word, and then lifted her eyes back to Sharon’s. She saw understanding there, and unadulterated desire -- and fear. “Soon, Brenda Leigh. Tomorrow, Sunday --”
“Tomorrow,” the chief interrupted hastily. “I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay.” Sharon tilted her head, bashfully regarding the other woman through the screen of her eyelashes; and then, impulsively, she leaned in and very softly brushed her lips against Brenda’s soft cheek. Her hair whispered over Brenda’s lips. It smelled of honey and ginger. “Okay,” she repeated. “Good night, Brenda.”
**
The next morning Brenda drove her mother to the airport. “I’ve enjoyed myself so much durin’ this visit, Brenda Leigh,” Willie Rae said; and when Brenda answered “Me, too, Mama,” she realized that she meant it. The overwhelmingly positive outcome of the last week owed a not inconsiderable debt to Sharon.
That afternoon, the deputy chief drove back to the gallery they’d visited Tuesday.
That evening Sharon opened her front door to a young woman in ripped jeans with a thrice-pierced eyebrow. “Sharon Raydor?” she asked. “Delivery for you.”
Curious, the captain accepted the package, which was the size of a large sheet of paper, only bulkier, of course. Its contents were ensconced in tissue paper and emitted the unmistakable crinkle of bubble wrap.
“Enjoy,” the young woman offered cheerily, and jogged lightly down the steps.
Between the tissue paper and the bubble wrap there was a small blue envelope. Sharon immediately recognized the looping penmanship in which her name had been scrawled, but she scarcely needed the confirmation.
Because you keep unfolding like a flower, read the short message. Thanks for all your help with Mama. Can’t wait to see what I discover next.
Sharon bit her lip and then chuckled to herself. When she popped the tape securing the bubble wrap, the sides sprang apart to disclose -- what else? -- the dark purple ‘orchid’. Brenda had gone back and bought it for her. Of course she had. The captain allowed herself to grin, feeling her heart pick up its pace inside her chest. It would look lovely in her bedroom.
Back at her apartment, Brenda Leigh carefully examined her second purchase from the gallery, her cheeks heating and her breath coming faster. It wasn’t just the image, but the vivid sensory memory of seeing it with Sharon, feeling the taller woman sway into her body. Swallowing hard, Brenda finished her perusal of the two figures and regretfully slipped the framed photograph into her dresser drawer. She wouldn’t be hanging it up.
Not yet, anyway.