Waking Up Gray (12 page)

Gray answered, through laughter, “Guess you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?”

Fanny chuckled, but didn’t say anything. Gray went in the house. The anticipation of her return held Lizbeth, and she must have been lost in thought, because Fanny’s voice startled her.

“You got your hands full with that one.”

Lizbeth stopped rocking and looked over at Fanny. “Who? Gray?”

“The very same,” Fanny answered, nodding her gray head in agreement.

Lizbeth wasn’t sure what Fanny thought was going on, but she was Gray’s grandmother, and they lived in the same house. Gray didn’t seem to hide her sexuality. In fact, she was so comfortable with it, her being a lesbian didn’t seem to bother anybody. Lizbeth knew that the islanders had a ‘live and let live’ and ‘take care of their own’ attitude toward each other. It may have begun as a fishing village, but it was now an artists’ enclave as well. Eccentricity abounded down these sandy lanes. A Greek goddess, Casanova lesbian, would not stand out in this crowd.

“What do you mean?” Lizbeth asked, half-afraid of the answer.

“Gray’s been a wild child since birth. She took on the world when her feet hit the ground. ‘Bout drove me and her momma crazy. Only person she’d pay any attention to was her granddaddy. She got that love of the water and all things in it from Laurence. That was my husband. He died ten years back. Gray was stuck to his leg from the time she could walk. If he hadn’t kept her out on that boat most of the time, there ain’t no tellin’ what all she’d a got into.”

“I think that’s part of her charm, her willingness to live life to its fullest, no holds barred.” Lizbeth was smiling, seeing Gray in her mind, the wind blowing through that thick blond hair, as she piloted the boat.

“She’s stubborn, too, like a crab with a chicken bone. Once she’s made her mind up about something, she cain’t be swayed no which a way. Take her name. That ain’t what we called her when she was born.”

“Her name isn’t really Gray?” Lizbeth asked.

“She’s named after me. Fanny Gray O’Neal is her given name. I’m named for my grandmother, and her grandmother, and so on back to 1849, when the schooner Fanny Gray sank off the beach here. That day a little girl was born and she was the original Fanny Gray. Been a woman called Fanny in this family every other generation, till ol’ Gray there. Some tourist told her a fanny was a hiney when she was four years old, and she threw a fit and fell in it. Wouldn’t answer to her name no more. We had to start calling her somethin’, so she settled on Gray. Hard headedest young’un I ever had dealin’s with.”

Lizbeth giggled. She could tell Fanny was a little offended that Gray had chosen not to honor her namesake. She tried to smooth the rumpled feathers of the old woman. “She’s not a Fanny. Gray suits her unconventional approach to life.”

Fanny chuckled. “I s’pose that’s right.”

“What happened to her mother?”

Fanny’s face darkened. “Mona died six years ago. Got the cancer. She went real fast.”

Lizbeth was sorry she brought it up. How much she cared for Gray’s mother was etched on Fanny’s face. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she offered in condolence.

“That’s where Gray gets her looks. Her momma was a handsome woman.”

“Those eyes are just like yours, quite stunning,” Lizbeth said dreamily, and then suddenly realizing how that must have sounded, tried to redeem herself. In a non- “I’m so infatuated with your granddaughter I want to sleep with her,” voice, she added, “Her mother must have been beautiful.”

“That she was.”

Since Fanny was being so forth coming with information, Lizbeth decided to pry a little. “Did Gray come back from Texas because of her mother?”

“No, Mona’d been gone about a year before Gray moved home. Course Gray was here for the last month Mona was with us, but she went on back to Texas. Came home a year later, the dog beat out of ‘er. Been a wampus cat ever since.”

That was a new one on Lizbeth. She wasn’t sure what a “wampus cat” was. Now, if something was “catawampus” it meant it wasn’t straight or plum. Lizbeth would have to look up the phrase “wampus cat” when she got home. The “wampus cat” herself, freshly showered and dressed, interrupted her thoughts.

Gray was wearing white, wide legged, thin cotton pants with a drawstring waist. She had on another ribbed tank top, this one navy blue. The blue from the shirt intensified the crystal blue of her eyes. She was barefooted and carrying three glasses of sweat iced tea when she backed out of the door. She turned and presented the tea to Lizbeth and Fanny, then pulled a chair up close to Lizbeth.

“Okay, now tell me, what kind of lies has this old woman been telling you?” Gray asked, winking at Lizbeth.

“I found out how you got your name,” Lizbeth said.

“Is she still going on about that? I can’t believe she’s still mad because I told her I didn’t want to go around being called a not so flattering name for a body part.”

Fanny shot back, “We should’a just started callin’ ya’ ‘hiney,’ that’s what you acted like.”

Gray laughed. “Missed your chance old woman. You’re stuck with Gray now.”

Fanny surprised Lizbeth by saying, “Smartass,” but Fanny was laughing, too.

Lizbeth joined in. One thing about the two O’Neal women, they loved to laugh and it was infectious. Maybe that’s how Fanny got to be eighty-five and still so vibrant. They both had a wicked sense of humor and a quick wit. Lizbeth imagined it must have been a joy to grow up in a house ringing with laughter. Her own family had fun, but there was a seriousness that didn’t exist here in this cottage.

Gray propped her feet on one of the screen porch cross beams. She stretched her long legs out and slid down in the seat of her rocker, getting comfortable. The thin material of Gray’s pants fit tightly to her hips. Lizbeth caught sight of tight butt muscles and rock hard thighs through the fabric. The tingling between her legs returned.

“Well, I’m gonna leave you young’uns to it,” Fanny said, standing and taking her tea glass with her. “I’m gonna go on to bed. Y’all have a good night.” Fanny crossed behind the chairs, so Gray didn’t have to move her legs.

Lizbeth touched the old woman’s arm as she passed. “I’ve enjoyed our evening. Have a good night Miss Fanny.”

“You too, darlin,” Fanny said, patting Lizbeth’s hand.

When they were alone, Lizbeth turned to Gray. “Gray, what’s a wampus cat?”

Gray answered lazily, “The village rogue, a tom cat that gets around.”

“Oh,” was Lizbeth’s reply.

“Where’d you hear that? I haven’t heard that phrase in years,” Gray asked, casually.

“Fanny said you’ve been a ‘wampus cat’ since you came back from Texas.”

Gray’s feet fell off their perch. She sat up in the chair and looked at Lizbeth. “What did she tell you?”

“Nothing. That’s all she said, that you drug up here with ‘the dog beat out of you’ and then you became the village rogue, if I translate that right.” Lizbeth paused. “She didn’t mean you were beaten up literally, did she? I mean you weren’t physically attacked were you?”

Gray sat back against the rocker and stared out into the street. Lizbeth waited for her response. Gray finally spoke.

“I’m not as roguish as she thinks. I don’t sleep with every woman who throws herself at me.”

Lizbeth snickered. “I would imagine there have been quite a few, throwing themselves at you, that is.”

Gray turned back to Lizbeth. “I have my standards.”

It had not been lost on Lizbeth that Gray dodged the beaten up subject. She tried again. “Gray, I’m not interested in how many women you’ve slept with. What I want to know is why you came back from Texas? What happened?”

Gray dropped her chin to her chest. All the happiness seemed to drain from her body. She pierced Lizbeth with a cold stare. “I could have asked you what happened in your marriage, but I didn’t. I think I deserve the same courtesy, don’t you?”

Lizbeth had not seen this Gray before. She wasn’t hostile. She was hurt. Whatever happened to her had wounded her to the core of her being. Lizbeth knew that pain. The one that grips you so hard you can’t breathe. It tears apart your world as you knew it, and nothing, nothing will ever be the same, because you know that agony exists. Lizbeth had spent every night since it finally subsided praying that pain would never come back. She had promised herself that no one would ever get close enough to hurt her like that again. That was before she met Gray.

“I’m sorry, Gray. I’m sorry someone hurt you like that. I won’t ask you about it again.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Gray said quietly, then turned her gaze back to the street.

They sat there in silence, both lost in thought. She didn’t know where Gray’s mind was, but all Lizbeth could think about was how wounded Gray seemed. Someone hurt Gray back in Texas. That’s why Gray didn’t want to get attached to Lizbeth. That’s why she had affairs with strangers. Gray, like Lizbeth, had vowed not to let that happen again.

They eventually started talking, but it was about the weather and the dolphins they saw. Gray’s mood brightened briefly when she talked about the calves, but she sank back into silence fairly quickly. After a few more awkward moments of quiet, Lizbeth stood.

“I’d better go on home so you can get to bed,” she said, through a fake yawn.

Gray stood and moved her chair back to its original position. She opened the screen door and held it there for Lizbeth to pass. Gray seemed to be trying to overcome the mood in which she found herself. She attempted a smile, but it couldn’t cover the pain she was obviously feeling. Lizbeth had stirred bad memories and Gray was having trouble putting the lid back on them.

Lizbeth stepped down on the first step, turned back to Gray, and without thinking placed her open palm on Gray’s abdomen. She felt Gray stiffen, the muscles under Lizbeth’s hand becoming hard. Lizbeth looked at her hand, because she couldn’t believe how just this one hand on Gray’s tight stomach could send shockwaves through her own body.

When Lizbeth looked up, she saw Gray’s face was flushed. Gray’s eyes were locked on Lizbeth’s. Lizbeth watched desire returning to the eyes that a minute ago were lost in painful memories. Lizbeth smiled and Gray followed suit. The life seemed to flood back in to Gray’s countenance. The sparkle came back to her eyes and she cocked her head, enchanting Lizbeth with her charm.

“Why Miss Jackson, you are being quite forward.”

Lizbeth moved her hand, sliding it down just a few inches, stopping just above Gray’s hipbone. She felt Gray’s sharp intake of breath and saw Gray’s intentions clearly in those crystal eyes. Lizbeth hoped Gray could see the same thing in hers.

Lizbeth said, “I’m sorry. Is this making you uncomfortable?” but she didn’t remove her hand. She saw Gray bite her bottom lip. “I was wondering if I would see more of you tomorrow.”

Gray laughed. “You’re going to see more of me a whole lot sooner if you keep that hand where it is.”

Lizbeth was enjoying her newfound power over Gray. She remained exactly as she was. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Then without another word, she slid her hand across Gray’s ripped abs, turned and walked away, knowing Gray was watching.

Gray called after her, “You know there’s a word for women like you, it rhymes with please.”

Lizbeth didn’t turn around. She gave Gray a hip pop to think about and disappeared into her cottage. She could still hear Gray’s laughter when she closed the door.

Wednesday, September first, Governor Beverly Perdue declared North Carolina under a state of emergency. The Coast Guard issued a warning for all vessels to proceed to port. If Lizbeth had not known about the pending hurricane, she would have never guessed one was coming by looking outside. At eight fifteen, it was already in the mid seventies. The sky was clear and bright with the sun shining, as if the category four monster was not lurking off the coast of the Outer Banks.

Earl was not the only thing lurking around. Lizbeth, who was standing in her parlor drinking her first cup of coffee, dressed in a thin nightgown, was watching Gray, who was also drinking coffee, but pacing up and down Fanny’s front porch. When Lizbeth awoke this morning, she had gone to close the bedroom windows against the heat of the day. She noticed Gray was already dressed and sitting in Fanny’s chair across the street. It had now been twenty minutes and Gray was still on the porch, checking her watch frequently, and constantly checking Lizbeth’s house for signs of life.

Playing hardball was working on Gray O’Neal. Lizbeth could tell that something had changed last night. She remembered her hand on Gray’s stomach and how Gray had almost trembled under her touch. Lizbeth wasn’t the only one swooning around here. Now, Gray was prowling her porch, just waiting to pounce on any sign that Lizbeth was receiving guests.

Lizbeth, who had suffered all night through tumultuous dreams of the village rogue, decided to play her own version of reel ‘em in. She turned the handle on the front door and let it swing open on its own. She didn’t let Gray see her and went upstairs to dress. She left the door open, silently beckoning Gray across the street. As she crossed the floor to climb the stairs, she counted, “One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four…”

“Hey, Lizbeth, can I come in?” A breathless Gray was at Lizbeth’s front door in less than five seconds.