Marydale stood in her mother’s kitchen, which was no longer her mother’s or hers although the shelves and the baseboards were as familiar as her own skin; a coat of paint couldn’t change that. Henry and Annette watched her, looking hopeful.
“You belong here,” Annette said.
“It’ll be fun,” Sierra chimed in. “We’re going to cook out, and Henry and Annette have invited some people from Tristess who want to meet you.”
“A lot of people are mad at Ronald Holten,” Henry added. “This is a win for all of them, for all of Tristess. They want to thank you.”
“It’ll be potluck,” Annette said. “Just a little get-together. People who care ’bout you.”
Marydale felt good old-fashioned courtesy pulling on her, like a familiar song she couldn’t hear without humming along. She was supposed to say, Well, gosh, I don’t deserve all that, but if everyone’s gone to all that trouble, and of course I’d love to see folks again. It’s been too long. Then someone would ask, How many times did you win that rodeo competition? She knew the script, and she knew her role, and she said, “No!” The word flew out of her mouth before she realized what she was going to say.
Kristen put a hand on Marydale’s shoulder.
Marydale turned to her. “Do you mind if we leave today?” she asked.
Kristen’s expression said, Did I ever want to be here? To the gathering in the kitchen, she said, “If Marydale and I leave now, we can make it back to Portland by midnight.”
Annette and Henry protested, but Kristen held up her hand, polite but final. Marydale hid her smile until they were outside. The sky had cleared, and behind the house, the Firesteed Mountains rose up and up, their outline crisp against the blue. There was a faint hint of green between the last patches of snow. She hadn’t seen it from the prison yard. And it felt like a great luxury to leave all that beauty behind.
“Mind if I drive?” Marydale asked.
Kristen beamed. “Go for it.”
Marydale pushed Kristen’s seat back, adjusted the mirrors, and tuned to the local radio station. On the way out of town they stopped at the Arco for coffee. Kristen poured herself a twenty-ounce cup, tasted it, and said, “Ah! This stuff is awful.” Then she wrapped an arm around Marydale’s waist and added, “I can’t wait to be back in Portland with you.”
Marydale leaned down and kissed her with a quick, loud smack. The woman behind the counter glared. Marydale tossed her hair over her shoulder. She was still wearing the suit Kristen had brought to the prison. Kristen hadn’t guessed her size quite right, and the pants hung off her hips, while the cuffs revealed inches of wrist, but it didn’t matter. She felt like she was wearing her full rodeo regalia with Trumpet’s reins in her hands.
“Did you see that woman in there?” Kristen said as they exited the mini-mart, bags of snacks hanging off their arms and coffees in hand. “She looked like she’d swallowed tack. I mean really…two women. Is it still that shocking?”
Marydale stopped. The attendant was watching them through the window. She caught her eye, then kissed Kristen again, their bags tangling and their coffees sloshing.
“Shocking!” Marydale said.
Then, like a gleeful child, she broke into a run. To her surprise, Kristen followed, her suit jacket flapping.
“Let’s get out of here,” Kristen said.
Marydale revved the engine of Kristen’s Audi the way Aldean had taught her to rev her first Dodge pickup, and they sped out of the parking lot and onto the wide-open highway. The radio blared a triumphant country anthem about a pretty woman and a tailgate party. Marydale sang along, and Kristen laughed.
“I’ve never heard this song in my life.”
“That song was my life,” Marydale said.
When the radio died away in the high desert between Tristess and Burnville, Marydale and Kristen clasped their hands over the gearshift and talked. Their talk veered from Ronald Holten to Gulu to Nyssa and Eric Neiben and, in between the serious truths, their laughter came easily, like groundwater running just beneath the surface. Kristen told her about Grady carefully picking the pine nuts off his steak at the Heavenly Harvest. They imagined the HumAnarchists in Tristess, trying to get the old ranchers to draw mandalas. Although the drive was long, Marydale felt as though she would never get tired. And she marked each county line in her heart.
When they finally arrived in Portland, Marydale threw herself on the bed in Kristen’s spacious bedroom, letting the city lights wash over her.
“We’re home!” she said.
“Does it feel like home?” Kristen asked.
“You feel like home,” Marydale said.
Kristen set her glasses on the bedside table and fell into Marydale’s open arms. Their first kiss was slow and gentle, as they explored each other’s bodies carefully like new lovers.
Kristen lifted Marydale’s shirt over her head and unclasped her bra. And Marydale had the feeling that she was something Kristen had worked hard to achieve and was now enjoying fully. She was part of Kristen’s life—not a strange exception, not a secret. They were friends and lovers and equals. And she could give herself to Kristen completely because her body was hers to give. Her blood, her bones, her sex, her dreams: they were hers, and she was free.
Then they were casting off blankets and swimming in the sea of pillows. Kristen spoke endearments and compliments, her voice growing rougher as their movements grew more hurried. Marydale gave herself entirely to Kristen’s touch. The slight tension that had always stayed in her neck, the sense that she should hold back or finish faster, was gone. She opened her legs for Kristen’s fingers. Kristen found the perfect blend of pressure and movement. Then, a moment later, Kristen’s lips and tongue were swirling across Marydale’s body. Marydale heard herself whispering a joyous litany of cries.
“Yes. Harder. Please.”
She closed her eyes. Looking inward, she could see the constellation of nerves in her own body as Kristen filled her with her fingers and swept her tongue back and forth across Marydale’s clit, bringing her closer and closer until her body turned to liquid gold, and she was the sunrise spilling over the Firesteed Summit, and she was the spring rains washing the city clean, and she was the first taste of a fine whiskey, and she was loved.
As soon as the last spasm of orgasm flickered out, she touched Kristen’s back, urging her to roll over. Marydale guided her to the foot of the bed, so Kristen’s knees bent over the edge. Then she knelt in the pile of blankets on the floor.
“I missed you,” Marydale whispered as she sank her tongue into the warm salt of Kristen’s body.
When Kristen’s body was so taut Marydale could not feel her breathing, she took Kristen’s hand and guided it to the place where she kissed, running her tongue over Kristen’s clit and Kristen’s fingers in beautiful collaboration. Kristen cried out when she came, and in her pleasure Marydale heard their whole story. The cautious girl Marydale had kissed on her porch swing. Their first lovemaking. Their loneliness. The snow on the Deerfield Hotel. The distillery. Aldean’s quick diagnosis: You love her in your blood. Kristen’s tears on the Summit and her pride. We won.