Bliss (19 page)

Ah.

"I mean I understand that we live in a very small commu nity. There's bound to be incestuous contact. But that's too
much. "

"Just who is Della anyway?"

Lydia looked at Sinclair as if she'd forgotten that she was
there, or that she had another function besides being the silent
witness to her confessions. "She's a big flirt, that's what. And
she doesn't mean a damn thing that she says."

What?

"She's also Papa's friend and Nikki's." She tucked a smooth
sweep of hair behind her ear and considered the empty spoon
in her hand. "She and your mother were lovers for a little
while, too."

Sinclair stiffened and stared at her sibling. "How do you
know that?"

"Like I said, the lesbian community here is very small."
Lydia shrugged and looked at her through a lush forest of
eyelashes. Sinclair had the sudden urge to pluck them out
one by one. How do you just drop a thing like that on a person?... Later. I'll ask someone else about this later. She took
a calming breath and forced herself to refocus on Lydia's
problem.

"I still don't understand this compatibility thing with
Hunter. So what if she slept with Della. That just means that
she likes all kinds of women."

Lydia made a harsh noise. "I can't touch Hunter. I can't
have sex with her, not even close." She stuck her spoon in
one corner of the ice cream carton. "Every time we start to
do something I tense up. I just can't do it."

Sinclair tapped the spoon against her mouth. "I still don't
get it. It's not like she's your mother or even that she slept
with your mother."

"It's just Della-she's disgusting. I can't stand to be in the
same room with her."

"Did you feel this way after or before you found out that
Hunter slept with her?"

"I'm not even sure," Lydia said. "I feel like she preyed on Hunter's feelings, that she's a viper or some sort of ... succubus."

That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Sinclair said
nothing, merely spooned more ice cream into her mouth. It
melted over and around her tongue, sweet, rich, and impossibly delicious. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." Lydia's voice sounded far away, as if she'd
lost her favorite toy and didn't know where to look for it.

Sinclair gently patted her sister's hand and reached for the
ice cream.

ydia knocked on Sinclair's open door and poked her head
(into the room. "Hey, Sinclair. Want to go out?" It was
after eleven on a Friday night.

"Sure." Nikki and Xavier laid on the cot already half
asleep, hypnotized by the dancing blue lights from the TV.
Deeper in the house, Victor sat reading an old copy of the
British Financial Times. Sinclair put her book aside. "Let me
change and go tell Papa that we're leaving."

Lydia went into the kitchen to greet her father. "Hey,
Papa. What are you reading?"

"An old paper." He put it down. "You girls heading off
somewhere?"

"A little party up the hill."

He glanced at Lydia's see-through blouse and slim-fitting
black slacks. "Take care of yourself, now. People run crazy
this time of night."

Sinclair changed into tight low-rider jeans and a thin white
blouse.

"Nice," Lydia said once they were in the car. "The girls are
going to be nuts over you."

"I'll settle for them just buying me a drink and leaving the
nuts at home."

The house was hidden in the wilds of the mountain. As
Sinclair got out of the car she could hear the quiet rush of a
nearby waterfall.

"The place belongs to Phyllis Chambliss and Sabrina something or other," Lydia explained. "They are some rich, rich
women who made a lot of money in real estate in America,
then came back to Jamaica to settle down and spend it."

At least two dozen cars lined the long, paved driveway,
everything from jaguars to Honda Civics. Sinclair noticed
Hunter's blue jeep parked close to the high, marble archway
that served as the entrance to the house. Even out here they
could hear the sound of women's laughter entwined with
music. High double doors parted under Lydia's hands.

"Lydia." A woman in beige slacks and a matching blouse
that gaped over her full breasts greeted them as they walked
in. "I'm so glad you could come." She kissed Lydia's cheek.
"You look marvelous as usual."

"Thank you, Phyl." Lydia reached a hand back for her sister. "This is Sinclair," she said, "my American sister."

"Pleased to meet you." An expensive, powdery perfume
lingered on the woman. She left traces of it on Sinclair's skin
when she pulled back from the unexpected hug. "Come in.
The party is just getting started."

Despite the obvious wealth of the two women who lived
there, the house was relatively modest. The walls were done
in soft beiges and browns, not unlike Sinclair's own apartment, but while hers lacked sensuality, this house certainly
did not. The velvet tapestries in luscious shades of chocolate
and cream begged for a naked back to rub against them. The
same could be said for the low suede couches and chairs. The
rugs were thick and full, inviting bare toes to curl into them.
Arabic music played in the main room, bass-heavy and mellow.

Beautifully designed trays of finger food sat on small tables
in every corner. The women lounged about in their soft clothes,
lightly touching each other, whispering, laughing, and sharing sips from the same cup. It was like a scene from a seraglio,
very stylish and decadent. Sinclair immediately noticed a dark
couple sitting under a soft golden light with their fingers linked,
their mouths moving to shape words meant only for each
other. One woman had long black hair that trailed down to
her hips like a silken scarf. In her glittering silk pants and
cropped top, she perfectly complemented her partner's plain
black dress and closely clipped hair. They were exquisite together.

"Come, let me show you the rest of the place."

Sinclair's gaze left the stunning couple as Lydia gently
tugged at her hand, pulling her away. They walked through a
long hallway decorated with unusual paintings and pottery
and books. Lydia obviously wasn't intent on showing Sinclair
any of these things. Her sister pulled her through a door at the
end of the hallway and into chaos. Loud, hard-driving dancehall reggae poured over them. This was where most of the
women were. They surged en masse to the music, swaying hips
and tossing hair, flailing arms and shaking breasts. Sinclair
could feel the music in her chest, feel it reach into her heart
and vibrate the organ to its insistent beat. Her hips twitched
to the rhythm.

"This is fabulous," Sinclair said over the music.

"What?"

She raised her voice, "I said, this is great."

Lydia shrugged her shoulders. She still didn't hear. Sinclair
shook her head. "Never mind."

Although it was mostly dark in the room, the faces of the
women were visible in the flashes of color from the strobe
lights and the disco ball that shot tiny darts of light all
around the room in time with the music. There was every variety of woman here-jet-skinned, gold, red, long-haired,
short-, and everything else in between. Sinclair thought she
saw Hunter but wasn't sure. The lights shifted again and
what she thought was dark, snaking hair solidified into a
long fall of midnight weave. Lydia tapped her hand and sig naled toward the door. The quiet of the hallway was deafening in its abruptness.

"I bet you have a lot of places like this in America."

"We do, but I've only been to one. And it wasn't quite like
this."

"What do you mean? Better?"

"No, just different. There were white women there, for
one thing. And it was a public club so there were more people, more chaos, and it smelled like liquor and sweat." She
remembered Regina rushing onto the dance floor to join the
other gyrating bodies, ignoring her for the anonymity of a
group grope.

"I'd love to see that one day," Lydia said, leading Sinclair
down the hallway and up a spiral staircase.

Sinclair trailed her fingers along the cool iron banister as
she walked up after her sister. Her nose twitched at the scent
of fresh lemons. At the top of the stairs they stepped through
a half open door then closed it behind them. The lemon scent
disappeared. Inside, women lounged about on the floor on
soft pillows, talking softly amongst themselves while low jazz
music drifted through the room's smoky haze. Some of the
women looked up as Lydia and Sinclair walked in.

"Lydia," a woman greeted in a quiet, dreamy voice.

Her sister knelt in the nest of pillows to hug the woman
who spoke. "How's it going, jean?"

"Not bad." The woman ran her thick fingers through
Lydia's hair. "Want some ganja?"

"No, thanks. Maybe later on after I finish showing my sister the rest of the house."

Several pairs of eyes touched Sinclair at once. She smiled in
greeting.

"You two could be twins," a tiny woman in green said
from her bed in another woman's lap. "And what a good
time having the two of you would be."

Laughter eddied around the room.

"Don't scare her off," Lydia said. "She's only here for a
few more weeks as it is."

"You should come by and see us again."

A chorus of agreement rose up.

"Don't just stand there all stiff, girl," Jean said to Sinclair.
"Have a seat." She indicated an empty pillow on the floor
nearby.

Sinclair eased down in the silk and suede pillows, willing
herself not to shrink back at the predatory looks some of the
women gave her, their eyes squinting through the sweet, bluetinged smoke. Lydia looked comfortable, like she could stay
cuddled against Jean's large breasts forever, or at least for the
rest of the night.

"You seen Hunter tonight?"

Sinclair looked up at Lydia's question. Most of the women
had quietly gone back to smoking their blunts, leaning back
to discuss some finer details of esoterica or simply to cuddle
against each other and laugh at nothing.

"She's downstairs somewhere."

"With Della."

"Of course."

"They're inseparable," Lydia said to Sinclair, rolling her
eyes. In the swirling smoke, her face looked ghostly and unfamiliar.

Did that mean that they were still seeing each other? No.
Hunter would never deceive Lydia like that.

"I'm sure they're just hanging out as friends," Sinclair
said.

"So what if they are just friends? The whole idea of
them-"

Jean touched Lydia's shoulder. "Calm down before you
say something mean."

Sinclair was getting bored. She at least needed a drink if
she was expected to sit around these listless women and pretend interest in what they were doing. She glanced around the room again. Maybe two drinks. Lydia stirred in her cocoon.

"I better get down there and find her." She kissed jean on
the cheek. "Call me later on in the week. Come, Sinclair.
Let's go find the rest of the party."

"Is there a particular crowd you like?" Sinclair asked,
noticing the sudden lines of seriousness that settled in her sister's face.

"Not really. I just drift from room to room until I get
bored and go home."

Sinclair wondered idly when that time would come. "This
space is nice. It's better than a crowded club. At least you
know everybody and feel safe here."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

Hunter sat cross-legged on a chair, laughing. Her white
teeth flashed in the faint light, leading the eyes to fall naturally on the white T-shirt that hugged the curves of her
breasts. A girl couldn't help but look. Sinclair forced herself
to notice the other women in the room.

"There's Hunter," Lydia said.

And not far away was Della. The older woman looked
ethereal in a pale dress that skimmed her body from throat to
ankle. It wasn't until she got closer that Sinclair noticed that
the dress was made from several layers of sheer material that
gave teasing glimpses of the body underneath. Della stood
among a group of animated women, soaking up their energy
and throwing hers back into the mix.