“Here you are.” Gwen stood behind Samantha’s chair, delighted to see the three of them getting on so well. She put her hands on Samantha’s shoulders and smiled at her brother and sister in-law.
“We were having a nice chat,” Sheila said.
“I see. Isabel has us all sitting together for dinner, so you can chat more later. Do you mind if I steal Sam for a dance?”
“Not at all. We’re headed that way, too.” Sheila began dancing in her chair as the DJ made a segue from house music to classic disco. And when Patti Brooks’s “After Dark” started playing, she got up and looked at her husband seductively. “Come on, baby. Let’s burn some calories together.”
Bill looked at her with a stupid, crazy-in-love grin, and if Samantha hadn’t known they were married, she’d have thought they were newly together. He got up and regarded his sister with concern.
“Have you eaten anything other than the olives in that martini?”
Gwen put a hand to her stomach. “I had a few hors d’oeuvres, but I can’t handle much right now. I will at dinner.” She took Samantha’s hand then, and when they were out of earshot she said, “Come on. I want to show you off.”
“I’ve been lying low, not sure what to say if anyone asks how I know you.”
Gwen stopped short. “Sam, everyone here—colleagues, business associates, friends and neighbors—is here because they mean something to me. And anyone who means anything knows who and what I am. Most of them knew me while I was with Jean, and over the past few years many have made failed attempts to either set me up or talk me into online dating. Needless to say, they’re all dying to meet you.” She touched her necklace. “By the way…I’ve received many compliments.”
The caterer caught Gwen’s attention just then and pointed to plates covered with foil. “Isabel had me set aside plates for the dogs. Do you know what she wants me to do with them?”
The caterer was a fabulous chef who handled all the Laraway occasions. “Thanks, Irene. I’ll ask her right away.”
“Wait,” Samantha said and looked around. It took only a moment to locate the Scottie above the crowd. She was sitting way up on the porch, her black body and pricked ears outlined against the white house. Her eyes were locked on Samantha. Loosey was stretched out next to her, presumably asleep. “Would it be all right if I took their food to them? Blue was frightened of me before…it’ll be a peace offering.”
Gwen looked at her oddly. “Sure, Sam. I’ll wait for you by the bar.”
Irene uncovered the plates, and Samantha balanced one in each in hand. Loosey rose when she heard Samantha’s approach and excitedly stepped in place at the smell of food coming. “Hey, girls, I’ve got dinner.”
As soon as Samantha put her foot on the first step, Blue stood and took a step backward. Another step had the Scottie backing up more, until her rump hit the front door and she showed her teeth. “Okay, okay, take it easy. It’s food. You make it very hard for me to like you, you know.” Samantha didn’t dare take another step. She bent and slid one plate to Loosey, who dug right in. Samantha gave the other plate a good shove in Blue’s direction. Halfway to the tent she glanced back to see them both eating. That Scottie wasn’t making it easy for Samantha to win her over.
Gwen was in the middle of a crowd, laughing and talking as Samantha approached her. She reached out a hand to her and raised the other to one of the two bartenders. “What’s your pleasure, darling?”
Samantha eyed the long line of top-shelf liquor. “Patrón and pineapple juice, if he has it?”
“I do,” he said, and when she had her drink in hand, Gwen slipped her arm around her waist and began introductions. Samantha didn’t expect to remember many names by the end of the night, but she tried to commit to memory at least those of Gwen’s cousins and close friends. With the music so loud, it was hard to converse without yelling, but she did her best to make small talk and was thankful when Bette Midler’s “Do You Want to Dance” came on and Gwen whisked her away to the dance floor.
“You look radiant,” Samantha said as they danced.
“I was just thinking the same of you.”
“Do you think we’ve radiated one another?” Samantha grinned.
“That and then some.”
Samantha pulled her close, and they instinctively found a steady rhythm, a perfect fit.
Just before the song ended, a woman dancing waved an arm in the air.
“That’s Carol,” Gwen said, “my best friend, the yin to my yang.”
“A philosopher, too?”
“Yes. She teaches aesthetics. Her husband, Serge, is an art historian. And the two young women dancing with them are from the environmental studies department. We attended their wedding last year.”
Carol looked to be Gwen’s age, attractive and full-figured with dyed black hair and crystal-blue eyes. There was something stylishly bohemian about the abundance of jewelry, the flowing floral skirt, the colorful scarf wrapped around the neck of her black, sleeveless top. Even if Samantha hadn’t known she lived in Manhattan, she would have pegged her for someone from the city. A stack of bangle bracelets jangled on her wrist as she and Serge danced their way over, and Sam was quick to note the rings on her thumbs as she let go of her husband and took Samantha’s hands in hers. With her brilliant smile and eyes that sparkled with intelligence and energy, Samantha imagined Carol easily capturing the attention of college students in a lecture hall.
Carol raised her voice over the music. “I was disappointed when this one here dumped me for you,” she said, gesturing with her chin at Gwen, “but now I understand completely. I would have dumped me for you, too.”
Samantha laughed at the compliment and squeezed her hands. “I’m sorry I became a game changer. It wasn’t planned.”
Serge stuck his hand out in greeting, and they let go of each other. He smelled faintly, and not unpleasantly, of expensive cologne and pipe tobacco, and his closely trimmed beard and long salt-and-pepper hair gave him a professorial, almost European flair. The couple from the environmental studies department was dancing their way closer, both sporting short blond hair and a healthy, outdoorsy look. Samantha pictured them hiking on the weekends in search of precious life forms that went unnoticed under the feet of reckless families traipsing through the woods. And not far behind were Liz and Phillip and Isabel and Carlos, talking and laughing more than they were dancing.
“Liz says Rosa’s son is gay,” Samantha whispered to Gwen.
“Ya think?”
“Ha! That’s just what Liz said.”
“But we don’t mention anything to Rosa. God forbid. She has it in her head that Carlos will open a veterinary practice close to home and marry a nice Latina girl who will run the office and make plenty of grandchildren,” she said as the DJ lowered the volume and asked everyone to start moving to their dinner tables.
As the dance floor cleared, Gwen stared at her adoringly. I don’t know where you came from, Samantha Weller, or who sent you, but you do to me what no one’s ever done. The first day we met, you said life was like a game of connect the dots. I wonder whether it’s chance or fate that connects them.”
“Well, one thing is for sure, it was Bertha who connected them. She saved my life…and now she’s led me to the love of my life.”
Gwen’s smile faded and she swallowed hard. “You touch me in a deep place when you say these things.”
“I want to touch all your deep places…and I’m hoping it takes at least twenty years to discover them all.”
Gwen responded with a kiss, the feel of her soft lips stirring vivid memories of their lovemaking and filling her with a sudden and unbearable desire as they left the dance floor hand in hand and made their way into the dining tent.
The air of festivity inside was wonderful. Thousands of tiny white lights wrapped the frame of the tent. Chinese lanterns in an assortment of colors hung over the flowers adorning each table, and dozens of balloons had been set free, their waving ribbons dangling overhead.
It had been thoughtful, not to mention intuitive, of Isabel to seat Liz and Samantha at the family table. Rosa sat at the next table with Eugene, Carlos and Phillip, and four of the Laraway cousins who’d flown in from Florida. Rosa seemed out of character, though—tentative, almost wary as she politely introduced her son and her boyfriend to Samantha. Carlos was a handsome young man, as sweet and soft-spoken as Isabel. Eugene, however, was quite gregarious.
“Buenos!” he said, and took Samantha’s hand in both of his. He was about Rosa’s height and width, bald, with a thick mustache that took on a spidery life of its own when he spoke. He was Spanish-dominant, she quickly realized, but his animated face and mime-like gesticulations made words unnecessary.
Isabel, who was being the perfect hostess, checking on guests and getting them seated, finally collapsed into a chair next to Liz. Gwen kissed the top of Isabel’s head, sat down next to her, and patted the chair beside her. But just as Samantha was just about to sit, a woman next to the environmental studies professors stood up and waved to her. “Sam Weller?”
Samantha stared at the familiar face, trying to place it as the woman came toward her. She was about her age, with similarly short, dark hair and eyes. Suddenly, a vision of the same woman with long hair came to her. “Jen?”
“Yes! Oh my gosh, Sam. What’s it been, fifteen years?”
“At least. How are you?”
“Good. I can’t believe you know the Laraways.”
“And I can’t believe you’re in academia. Last I remember you were earning your MBA.”
“I did. I work in the administration at the university.” Jen gave a broad smile. “How about you? Still hanging around with dead people? Man, I remember those gruesome stories you used to tell us.”
“Actually, I left forensics to pursue a writing career.”
“That’s awesome. What do you write?”
“Gruesome stories.”
Jen laughed. “And you live here in the Berkshires?”
“No. I live alone in Westchester. Are you still on Long Island with…what was her name, Debbie?”
“Debra. Geez. I haven’t thought about her in years. We broke up a long time ago—many girlfriends ago. I’m currently single and living near the university.”
Samantha realized they were in the way of the staff bringing out salads. “Let’s talk more later.”
“Are you ever in the city?” Jen asked.
“Frequently.”
“How about meeting for lunch or dinner? I’d love to catch up.” She looked Samantha up and down. “Do you have a business card?”
“Not on me.” Samantha patted her empty pockets.
“I’ll give you mine after dinner, and I’ll get your number.”
“Okay,” said Sam.
“All right then.” Jen looked at her sideways, made a finger gun, and pointed it at her. “Catch you later, Detective.”
Samantha sat down to salad and what seemed an ongoing academic conversation.
“So then what’s the difference,” Liz was saying to Carol, “between something being beautiful and something being sublime?”
Gwen leaned into Sam and whispered, “Now’s your chance to run. You can stay and participate in the philosophical musings of professors or escape to another table and enjoy a normal conversation about sports, the weather, and how you’re spending your summer vacation.”
“Considering what I write about, I think I’m at the right table.” Sam looked at her, undressing her with her eyes. “Besides, I’m next to you, so I must be in the right seat.”
“Well,” Carol explained, “beauty and sublimity are both aesthetic concepts, of course, but beauty is bound by its object, whereas the sublime is boundless. It’s a quality of astounding greatness, perfection beyond measure, an experience that elevates us to a heightened state of awareness.” She paused. “Take the most prized vase in Gwen’s pottery collection. If I went in the house and broke it, its beauty would be lost because, as I said, beauty is bound by the object.
“But Gwen’s experience of its beauty is sublime. Whether it’s her expert knowledge that allowed her to recognize the creative brilliance and unmatched artistry of that pottery—or who knows, maybe the fact that something so exquisite originated from the soil, from the earth itself—something about it stirred in her a sense of incalculable awe…a feeling of beauty beyond beauty. That is the sublime!”
“Okay, trick question,” Liz said. “Does this mean that a connoisseur of wine or cuisines can taste the sublime?”
“Ah!” Gwen said. “What a good philosophy student you would be. And that’s a yes. The sublime can be found in the physical, the metaphysical, the artistic, spiritual…even technology can be sublime. But to experience it requires higher-level thinking, and one’s senses must be cultivated. For example, I’m not much of a wine drinker, so I probably couldn’t distinguish mediocrity from sublimity. But the wine connoisseur would.”
“And don’t forget nature,” Serge said. “We might climb a mountain and see many forms of beauty on our way up, but when we reach the summit and look down, the scene before us might be so majestic, so awe-inspiring, that at that moment we become aware of an unsurpassed greatness…something greater than ourselves. That’s what the Romantic painters tried to capture on canvas.”
Bill had finished his salad. He was sitting back with his elbow propped on the chair, the back of his fingers pressed to his mouth in a thoughtful pose. “Maybe that’s why people climb Mount Everest—to experience the sublime.”
Samantha nodded. “I think you’re right.”
“And maybe the sublime is so powerful,” he added, “that once it’s experienced, the person wants to feel it again. Maybe that’s why high-risk adventurers become addicted to their sport.”
“Interesting point,” said Carol. “I’ll have to use that in class.”
Sheila cocked her head. “I get what you’re all saying…the sublime is something that lifts us to a higher level of consciousness, to an increased awareness above the normal scope of emotion…but in the field of advertising, we often rely on subliminal seduction, which is to say we appeal to consumers on a lower, subconscious level. If I want to sell a man an expensive sports car he can’t afford, I’ll make sure the ad features a beautiful woman in the passenger seat so that, subliminally, he associates buying the car with attracting a beautiful woman.”
“It worked for me,” Bill said. “The first time I asked Sheila out she was standing in the parking lot of my office. I was late getting back from another appointment that afternoon and late for my meeting with her. I pulled up in a Porsche, apologized for being late, and asked if we could have our meeting over dinner. She looked my car up and down and said yes. Next thing I knew, I had a beautiful woman in the passenger seat.”
Everyone laughed. “That’s not exactly how it happened,” Sheila said, but she laughed along with the others. “What I’m wondering, though, is why the sublime refers to a heightened awareness, while the subliminal refers to a decreased awareness?”
Serge cleared his throat. “Let the historian answer that, if I may,” he said. “It’s a boring story that goes back to the first century, but suffice it to say that both words come from limen, Latin for lintel, which is actually the beam over a doorway that supports the structure above it. So it represents a threshold…and anything at, or above, or below that threshold…in this case, the threshold of consciousness.”
“Hmm…” Sheila steepled her fingers. “Thank you for that, Serge.” She winked at the others and looked at her husband. “And if you must know the truth, Bill…the Porsche did work. Once I saw that car I couldn’t wait to get my hands on your stick shift.”
Cocktail hour had lowered the inhibitions of everyone at the table, and they all laughed out loud—except for Isabel. The sexual innuendo caused her to visibly shrivel in her seat.
“Can’t books be sublime?” she blurted out, as if to move the conversation comfortably along. “I find poetry to be sublime.”
“Yes,” Carol said. “Many of the old philosophers believed the sublime could be achieved through rhetoric—through dialogue and the exchange of higher-level thoughts. Have you ever read a book you just couldn’t get into, and at another point in your life you pick up that same book and connect with it on such a deep level that it leaves you somehow transformed?”
All of them, except Bill, who wasn’t much of a reader, shook their heads in agreement.
“And as Isabel points out,” Carol added, “poetry is indeed the rhetoric of passion. When that spark rises from the poet’s soul and ignites the reader’s soul, the result is a sublime union, a spiritual communion between minds at a distance.”
Samantha, who had been listening, finally spoke up. “But like the yin-yang of everything else, doesn’t the sublime have a flip side? Can’t something horrific—a vision or experience that catapults us to a higher level awareness of death, mortality, atrocities—be equally sublime?”
“The terrifying sublime!” Carol and Gwen said in unison.
Gwen smiled over at Samantha, obviously pleased with her contribution. “Kant distinguished between the splendid sublime, which we’ve been talking about, and the terrifying sublime.”
“And not just philosophers,” Serge said, “but many artists think that witnessing death is the ultimate in the terrifying sublime. In fact, a European one has publicly staged animal sacrifices to illustrate the terrifying sublime in the name of art.”
Bill made a face. “Wouldn’t that be the bullfight?”
“Stop.” Isabel put her hands to her ears. “I don’t want to know.”
“Me neither,” Carol said. “Let’s just imagine Bill’s mountaineer approaching the summit of Mount Everest when he loses his lifeline or his bearings in a blizzard and realizes he’ll never reach the summit and never find his way back to camp. Likely, he’ll experience the terrifying sublime.”
Sheila had a long, polished fingernail between her teeth and was studying Samantha intensely. “I get the feeling you’ve experienced the terrifying sublime, Samantha.”
“Ha. On a regular basis for many years, usually with my morning coffee,” she answered.
“Before Samantha began writing,” Gwen explained, “she had a career in forensics.”
Both Sheila and Carol put a hand to their chest. “So you saw…murder victims?” Shelia asked.
“I did. And I will say there’s something terrifying about witnessing the aftermath of a heinous crime…of being greeted by the still-shocked eyes of a victim, even though you know they’re vacant.”
They all gave quiet gasps, but Bill scratched his forehead. “Yet so many people seem to seek out the terrifying sublime—vicariously, at least. Look at all the violence in shows and video games.”
“Well,” Sam said, “I suspect there’s something counterphobic in all that. We like to peek at things that terrify us, and horror movies allow us to do it safely from behind a bowl of popcorn.”
Bill chuckled. “And what about ghosts? Sheila says you write a lot about ghosts. I would think seeing one of those would qualify as the terrifying sublime.”
Samantha nodded. “Or it could be the splendid sublime, don’t you think?”
Bill shrugged. “Casper the friendly ghost might be splendid, but not a poltergeist.”
Sheila gazed at Samantha again. “Considering what you write, and considering your past experience around the newly deceased…have you ever…you know, seen or felt a real-life ghost?”
Sam glanced at Gwen and back to Sheila. “Not to speak of,” she lied.
The mood lightened as dinner was served, and conversation moved to everyone’s plans for the rest of the summer: vacations, new restaurants, must-see exhibits, Liz and Isabel’s cottage renovation, and Bill’s new boat. Everyone at the table was invited out on it. And no sooner had dinner finished than the Latin music began. Eugene, who’d been doing shots of tequila, jumped up and clapped his hands. “Bailemos! Let’s dance!” he shouted, and grabbed Rosa by the hand.
Carlos pulled Isabel along to the dance floor, Phillip came for Liz, and Bill offered Gwen a hand. “May I have this dance, birthday girl?”
“Why, of course,” she said.
The rest of the Latin-dance-loving people followed, while others were content to remain at their tables, mingle at the bar, or take a stroll. The sun was setting now, and the staff was lighting torches along the path to the water. Liz and Samantha made their way for drinks and settled for being momentary spectators.
“Gwen’s a great dancer,” Liz said as they watched. “So is Bill.”
“He is. You wouldn’t think it. He looks like a former football player, but he’s so light on his feet.”
“And look at this one,” Liz said, as she watched Isabel move to the driving rhythm and pulsating beats of salsa music. “Those Brazilian women are smooth, aren’t they?”
Samantha saw Gwen let Sheila cut in to dance with Bill and then lost sight of Gwen. “Judging from the way Isabel moves…all I can say is that when she finally lets go…she’s going to make you a very happy woman.”
“You think so?” Liz frowned. “I don’t think it’s ever going to happen. I don’t think Isabel is feeling me. Not that way,” she said, gesturing at the way she danced with Carlos. “I can’t even stand to watch her body move like that. It’s making me want her even more…and making me think she’s a closet heterosexual.”
“That’s funny. A closet—” Gwen had sneaked up on Samantha from behind with a martini in hand.
She sandwiched herself between Liz and Samantha. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said, putting an arm around Liz’s waist, “but Isabel does not like men, of this I can assure you. Carlos is her brother from another mother, as they say nowadays. And she’s able to let go with him because, one, he’s safe, and two, because she’s half Brazilian.” Gwen gave Liz’s side a little squeeze. “I know Isabel is frustrating. Sometimes I want to shake her. But I do know that she has feelings for you, and the sexual attraction has her scared half to death. So don’t give up just yet. I promise you, she’s worth the wait.”
“Thanks for the reassurance, but I just don’t know, Gwen…I don’t get any vibes from her. None whatsoever.” Liz ran her fingers through her hair. “Your niece is such a paradox. I mean, there’s this incredible physicality about her. She loves fast cars, loud music, Latin dancing, swimming, running and playing with the dogs. But when it comes to getting physical with a person she’s—”
“Overly concerned with sexual propriety? Go on, you can say it—Isabel’s a fucking prude.”
Liz and Samantha both stared in astonishment.
“Whoops.” Gwen raised her brow in self-surprise and glanced between them. “Did I just say that?” Her eyes dropped to the empty glass in her hand. “I do believe I’ve had one too many olives!” she said with tipsy politeness. “And if you’ll excuse me, it’s my birthday and I plan to have one more.”
Liz cracked up as they watched her walk to the bar. “Gwen’s a hoot when she’s buzzed. I like her like that.” Liz was still laughing when she turned back to see Isabel leaving Carlos and coming straight for her.
Isabel extended a hand to her. “You said you wanted me to teach you how to salsa.”
Liz smiled coyly. “Are you asking me to dance, Ms. Laraway?”
“I am.”
Liz took her hand and looked back at Samantha with a glimmer of hope as Isabel led her onto the dance floor. And as they went, Jen came out of nowhere and grabbed Samantha’s hand. “Dance with me,” she said with a big smile.
They moved next to Liz and Isabel, and while Samantha danced with Jen she tried to overhear and take instruction from Isabel. “Count to eight, but hold on four and hold on eight,” she told Liz. “Ready? One, two, three…five, six, seven…And stop looking at your feet,” Samantha heard Isabel say. “Just let go and feel my body…feel the rhythm.”
It appeared as though Isabel’s alter ego had emerged on the dance floor. Her body was working itself into a vertical slither, so fluid and mesmerizing as she took control of Liz.
And Liz, a quick study, was obviously in paradise. She caught on fast, and within minutes she and Isabel were moving as one. Of course, Samantha knew Liz was an expert at moving in rhythm with women’s bodies—with or without music—and she certainly didn’t need any instruction when the music changed to a merengue. Their hips and ribs rose and fell naturally, as though they were slinking up a staircase. Samantha tried to copy them, deciding that she herself could master those moves with the help of a studied partner. But Jen’s hips and whole body were swinging all over the place.
The music changed to a cha-cha while Eugene’s bateria took their places onstage. The DJ faded out then, handing the evening over to the samba band.
Eugene gave a shout out to Gwen. “Feliz cumpleaños!” he said, and then the samba band began with what sounded like a very slow salsa. It seemed Jen would have happily moved closer had Gwen not cut in.
Samantha saw something disapproving in Gwen’s smile. “Bossa nova dancing comes from Brazilian samba,” she explained, her tone was soft and sultry as they began to move. “It’s a much slower dance…more intimate, romantic…and so you should have me in your arms, darling…not her.”
Samantha grinned, mildly amused by the idea that Gwen might be a tad jealous. “Point taken, Mistress. I was hoping you’d show up when you did.”
“Good. Now follow me and loosen those knees so you get some bounce action.”
Gwen was an excellent teacher, and Samantha had never felt so in sync with someone. “You’re an incredible dancer,” she said.
Gwen smiled. “Not bad for a white girl, huh?”
“Oh, you’re better than bad.” Samantha murmured. Bodies pressed together, they moved in a slow circle, and as they did, Samantha saw Isabel stop and awkwardly withdraw from Liz. Sheila had left the floor to talk to someone, and Isabel turned away and went straight into her father’s arms.
Liz’s shoulders drooped, the joy draining from her face, and she quickly turned and left the dance floor. Samantha watched her pick up her drink and a cocktail napkin and hurriedly wander out across the lawn.
“I saw that,” Gwen said before Samantha could say anything. “Isabel was a little too close for comfort and got scared, but I could wring her neck for doing what she just did.” She kissed Samantha’s cheek and let go of her. “Go check on Liz.”
Liz was standing in the middle of the lawn facing the trees, her glass in one hand, her other arm wrapped around herself.
Samantha came up beside her. “Hey, you…”
Liz glanced back at her and looked away. “What a slap in the face that was, huh? She just leaves me standing there in the middle of a slow dance and runs into her father’s arms? Even he looked embarrassed for me.”
“She didn’t mean it, Liz.”
“She’s hopeless, Sam. And so am I. I can’t do this.”
“You heard what Gwen said…give her time to come around. After all, you haven’t really known her all that long.”
“You haven’t known Gwen that long either. But you two had chemistry right from the beginning. And even though she rejected you at first, you knew she had feelings for you. It’s not that way with Isabel. I’ve been around her long enough to know she does not look at me that way. Tonight will be the sixth night we’ve shared the same bed and—oh, just forget it, Sam. It doesn’t matter.” She set her drink on the ground and played with the napkin in her hands. “I wish I didn’t have to sleep with her tonight. If I wasn’t drinking, I’d drive home right now.”
“Just take a deep breath.”
“What I need to do is take a step back.”
“A step back from what? You love being in her company. The two of you became instant best friends. Doesn’t that mean something?”
“It means the world to me. That’s the whole point, Sam, don’t you get it? My friendship with Isabel will probably be the most significant one of my life. I just need a couple of weeks away from her…I need time to regroup, figure out a way to put my feelings back where they belong, because when I’m with her I can’t even think straight.”
“Aw, give me a hug.” Samantha opened her arms, but Liz put up a hand and turned away.
“I don’t want to hug you, Sam. If I do I’ll fall apart. I don’t want my mascara to run.” She sniffled, dabbed the corners of her eyes with a napkin, and laughed at herself. “Look at me. How ridiculous am I?”
“You’re not ridiculous. You’re in love.”
“Oh! Is that what it is?” She turned to Samantha with a sour face. “Everyone always talks about how one day I’ll meet that special person and know how wonderful it is to fall in love. Well, guess what?” She shook her head and raked her fingers through her hair. “I did fall in love. And you know what? So far it sucks. Love fucking sucks. Big-time!”