Curious Wine (10 page)

Liz said to Lane, “You’re a complicated woman.”

“I don’t think so,” Lane said.

The waiter brought their salads. “Isn’t he cute,” Millie giggled, staring at his retreating figure. “I love men with little teeny behinds. Anybody believe in love at first sight?”

“I believe in the possibility of it,” Lane said.

“For God’s sake I was only kidding,” Millie said aggrievedly.

“I have no sense of humor,” Lane said.

Diana laughed and looked up at her. Lane’s gaze was just leaving her; she thought Lane had been looking at her breasts, but decided she was mistaken. Lane had not touched them during the night; she had held her in her arms, held her face, her hands. Flushed and uncomfortable, Diana remembered her own hands under Lane’s pajamas, caressing, savoring warm smoothness and softness. But she had not touched Lane’s breasts either; and she looked at them now, thinking that they would fit into her cupped hands, knowing that what she felt was regret. Nothing had really happened between them — and nothing possibly could.

She watched as Lane leaned, smiling, to hear something Madge was telling her in a low tone, and she thought of a statue she had once seen at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, a statue of a woman carved from such rich warm alabaster and so sensuously curved that she had longed to stroke and caress its lovely feminine lines. She noticed Lane’s long slender fingers brushing frost from the glass containing her drink, fingertips stroking back and forth, dissolving the frost. She remembered Lane’s fingertips slowly, tenderly stroking her face, her ears, her throat, as they kissed… and kissed…

In the surge of eroticism that gripped her she told herself very calmly that in just two more days these strange feelings would leave her; this woman would be gone from her life.

After dinner the women went their separate ways, agreeing to meet at midnight at Harvey’s. Diana and Liz went across the street to Harrah’s to look for Vivian, and found her at a craps table with John, who looked at Diana leeringly as he always did, and hugged her too tightly, as he always did.

Resisting the desire to go back to Harvey’s, to Lane, Diana chose a blackjack table and sat down to play, concentrating on the game with difficulty. She had won five hands in a row and was betting ten dollars when she heard Millie’s voice: “Look at that!” With a surge of pleasure she saw Lane and Millie standing behind her.

The chair next to her was empty. “Do you want to play?” she asked Lane. “I can teach you as we go. It’s not that hard.”

“I’ll watch for a while first,” Lane said.

“It costs too much,” Millie said.

“Less than keno or slot machines most of the time, you’d be surprised.” She won her hand, and increased her bet.

“You’re betting fifteen dollars!” Millie exclaimed.

“I’m ahead, it’s their money I’m betting,” Diana explained. “That’s how you win. You bet more as you win, as little as you can when you lose.”

She won again as the dealer went broke. Lane said, “Would you bet ten dollars on your hand for me?”

“Sure.” Diana increased her own bet to twenty dollars and added two five dollar chips for Lane. She drew a nine and a five. The dealer’s upcard was a nine. “Sorry,” she said to Lane. “The dealer could have nineteen. Fine time for me to get fourteen.”

“Do we lose?”

“Not yet. See if we can improve it.” She signaled for a card, and to her delight it was a seven.

“Is that as good as I think it is?”

“Worst we can do is tie. What do you want to bet now?”

“Take ten and leave ten?”

“Good.”

The dealer did have nineteen, and Diana bet twenty-five of her own money and another ten for Lane. She drew nineteen to the dealer’s upcard of ten, and waited tensely as the dealer went around the table to the other players. She finally turned over her hole card, a seven.

“Fantastic,” Lane said. “Let the twenty go. I know a winner when I see one.”

“Good Lord,” Millie gasped, “there’s fifty dollars out there!”

“Pretend it’s Monopoly money,” Diana said. “I do.”

Lane laughed. Diana picked up her two cards, an eighteen to the dealer’s upcard of three. “Not too bad,” she told Lane. The dealer went broke. Diana glanced back to Lane. “I don’t care what you say, twenty’s the most I’m betting for you. I’ve been known to lose an occasional hand.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Not this time,” Diana said almost apologetically, turning over an ace and ten. “Guess we should have bet everything. Is twenty okay again?”

“Okay,” Lane said, laughing. “This is fantastic.”

Diana drew a seventeen, to the dealer’s upcard of five; but the dealer drew out to twenty. “Ouch. Is there an Emily Dickinson line that fits?”

Lane laughed. “I don’t think she ever played blackjack.

How much am I ahead?”

“Fifty. Sit out a hand, okay? These things are usually over when they’re over.” She bet two dollars.

“What a comedown from seventy dollars,” Millie said.

Diana lost as the dealer drew out to twenty-one. “I see what you mean,” Lane said. “What’s the most you’ve ever bet?”

“About fifty dollars, on a really good streak.” Diana lost the next two hands as well, and Millie wandered off, saying she wanted to play keno.

Diana felt Lane’s hand, warm through the cashmere of her sweater, smelled her perfume. “The woman at the end of the table,” Lane said in a low tone close to her ear, “how much is she betting?”

Diana glanced at a sharp-featured woman of perhaps thirty, wearing a simple beige wool dress, who was settling herself on a stool. She had placed four black chips in her betting square. “Four hundred,” she murmured to Lane who was bent over close to her. “Watch the man next to her.” She had noticed him add four five dollar chips to his original ten dollar bet.

She murmured again, after several hands had been played, “Four hundred’s her standard bet, but see how he chases his money?”

“What do you mean?” Lane asked softly, close to her.

“He’s losing, and betting more and more.”

Diana played absently, making minimum bets as she watched the man and woman, and she murmured commentary to Lane, inhaling perfume, acutely aware of her nearness.

The man finally got up. “She’s too lucky for me,” he said to the woman.

“Yeah,” the woman said indifferently. “See you around. Better luck.” She pushed four more black chips into her betting square.

The man left, with a final backward glance. The woman lost her hand, and picked up her purse, a simple leather bag. “Baccarat’s really my game,” she said to no one in particular. “Thank you dear, I enjoyed it,” she said to the dealer, handing her two green chips. She moved quickly away, disappearing in the casino crowd.

“Fifty bucks!” The dealer stared in astonishment at the green chips in her palm. “And I took her for three thousand!”

Diana picked up her money. “I played longer than I should have just watching her. I wonder what she’d give you if she won.”

The dealer’s grin was rueful. “Don’t rub it in.”

Diana handed Lane her winnings, a stack of five dollar chips.

“Free money,” Lane said, hefting the chips. “How very strange. Let me buy you a drink. Or would you prefer to play more?”

“A drink would be fine.”

They paused at the cabaret area, its stage curtained between shows. “I think there’s a cover charge if we sit in there,” Diana said.

“It looks comfortable,” Lane said firmly.

“You have the makings of a gambler,” Diana told Lane as their drinks arrived. She touched her glass to hers in salute.

“Do you think so,” Lane said, smiling, playing with her chips, piling them in two stacks beside her vodka and tonic. “You seem to be very good at it.” She added, “Very courageous.”

“I was more or less compelled to learn. Actually, I get pretty bored after a couple of days. Tonight was fun. I can entertain myself just watching the people. Like that woman at our table. How can anyone be so indifferent to money?”

“She didn’t have a piece of jewelry on her, not even a ring.”

“Isn’t that odd. I see men bet sums like she did, but not many women. A few years ago I saw a woman betting five hundred dollars a hand, playing three hands. It was in the wee small hours and she was at a table by herself with quite a group watching. She looked like an old maid school teacher. She had about forty thousand dollars in front of her, she looked cool as a cucumber - except for one foot tapping like a drumbeat. I saw her the next day betting two dollars. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Lane, arms crossed on the table, was leaning toward her, smiling, listening with lively interest. “What a strange and different world.”

“Yes.” Diana was enjoying her attention. “The people fascinate me. Don’t you wonder about that woman tonight? Where does she get that money? Why did she bet like that? Was it an act, a show? Or were those four hundred dollar bets like two dollars for us?”“I don’t think it was a show.”

“I don’t either, somehow. A woman betting like that, a fifty dollar tip for the dealer—it did my heart good. I felt proud of her.”

Lane smiled. “I know exactly what you mean. That man next to her, he lost a lot of money—for him.”

“Did he ever. He was betting ten dollars before she sat down. I always notice what people bet. I imagine he lost a good part of his gambling money trying to impress a woman who couldn’t have cared less.”

“Gambling seems to have its own special kind of insanity.”

“It can. It depends on—”

The waitress arrived with two more drinks. “From the two gentlemen over there at the corner table.”

“We don’t want this, do we?” Lane asked without a glance where the waitress indicated.

“Absolutely not.”

Lane took two five dollar chips off her stack and placed them on the waitress’s tray. “Please take them back. Could you see to it that we’re not disturbed?”

“I know just how to take care of it,” the waitress said.

“Are you always such a big spender or have you been taking lessons?” Diana teased.

“Natural talent,” Lane said with a grin.

There was an awkward silence. Diana looked at the table, and then away as she saw Lane’s fingers begin to brush frost from her glass.

“Is everything okay with you, Diana?” Lane’s voice was quiet.

Diana nodded, and with effort, met her eyes. “How about you?”

“Yes, okay. I’m fine.”

“It was. a very emotional night.”

“Yes, I’ve been concerned about you. You seemed upset at dinner. I want to be sure you feel okay about… everything.”

“I appreciate that. You’re an unusual person,” Diana said with feeling.

“So are you. You’re a very special person—” Lane started as the stage curtain rose to a blare of sound. “This won’t do,” she said. “Unless you want to stay?”

“No.”

“Good.” Lane smiled. “I have a weak head. Noise makes it ache.”

“We’d better hurry then,” Diana said to a thunder of drumbeats.

As they made their way through the tables Diana heard a man say to his male companion, “Those two sure don’t look like Carmelite nuns to me.”

Diana and Lane made it to the casino area before they burst into laughter.

Liz came up to them. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Chris doesn’t feel well. I think she’s just overtired, but I’d better get her back to the cabin. I can pick you up later if you want to give me a time.”

“Do you want to play more?” Lane asked Diana.

“I’m sure everyone’s tired,” Diana said. “Why don’t we go on back?”

The air was still, bitterly cold, and Diana shivered as they walked to the station wagon, her hands plunged deeply into her jacket pockets.

“One of us should have brought the car around,” Lane said, looking at her.

“I’m okay,” Diana said, annoyed with herself. “It’s just my thin Southern California blood.”

“The wagon heats up fast,” Liz said.

“I understand from Millie that you and Diana are a pair of high rollers,” Liz said. She and Lane chatted as Liz drove swiftly down Highway 50, Liz’s arm across the seat behind Lane. Chris, next to Lane, lay back, eyes closed, her face pale.

As Lane told Liz about the woman gambler, Diana watched her. Lane’s face was in profile, her beauty sharp-edged simplicity, her hair highlighted with gold by bright neon and headlights.

She thought over their conversation. Very clearly, Lane had told her she assigned no special significance to any behavior of Diana’s, or to their night together. Diana remembered Lane’s statements during the encounter games describing some relationships as butterfly interludes; and with an odd mixture of relief and depression she realized that Lane obviously thought of their night together as somewhat less than even a butterfly interlude.

“False alarm about the storm,” Liz said, peering up over her steering wheel as they wound their way up the mountain road.

“Yes,” Lane said. “All the stars are out.”

Chapter 8

Chris went immediately to bed. Liz poked the fire into vigorous life, and the cabin became quickly comfortable. The women began their preparations for bed.

Lane was standing by the window when Diana stepped into the room. Diana pulled up the ladder and lowered the trapdoor, deciding firmly that she would not go to her.

She got into bed and lay with an arm across her eyes, thinking that she did not want to talk, or think, or feel. She did not want to continue their interrupted conversation, to have Lane further diminish their night of tenderness and pleasure. She only wanted Lane to get into bed and say good night and fall asleep.

Lane turned from the window finally, and blew out the lamp. She got into bed, the silence between them stretching out with wire-drawn tension. There was the scent of perfume. Diana opened her eyes as Lane bent to her.

“Diana,” whispered Lane.

“Yes,” Diana answered, reaching for her, her hands and then her arms feeling the warmth of Lane’s body through the cool silk of her pajamas.

“Diana,” Lane whispered again, and her mouth was more meltingly tender than Diana had remembered, had been remembering all day.

Diana held Lane’s face between her hands and kissed across her forehead and into her hair; her lips brushed the curving line of eyebrow and moved very gently over delicate eyelids, her tongue touching long thick eyelashes. Diana’s lips explored the planes of Lane’s face as her fingertips traced the intricacy of her ears and the shape of her nose, feeling the warmth of Lane’s breath on her fingers. She felt her lips with her own, touching the corners with her tongue, and then felt them again, kissing slowly across them; soft, tender lips that did not answer hers, sensing her wish to simply feel their shape. Then she laid her face against Lane’s throat, and with her fingertips touching Lane’s face, she said in a muffled whisper, “Why must you be so very beautiful.”