TWO STOOLS APART

THE LAST CALL — Love Is Never an Accident Margaret Whitmore had spent eleven hundred and forty-three dollars on clothes she did not need, another two hundred and eighty dollars on a pair of shoes she could barely walk in, and eighty-seven dollars on a silk scarf she had purchased entirely because the saleswoman insisted that it made her eyes look younger, and now, sitting alone at the far end of the magnificent marble counter in the Beaumont Grand Hotel's bar, she was beginning to suspect that the entire shopping expedition had accomplished nothing more than transferring a considerable amount of money from her bank account into the pockets of people who had smiled at her very politely. She took another sip of her gin and tonic, studied her reflection in the enormous antique mirror behind the bottles, and wondered whether forty-eight was too young to become one of those women who traveled everywhere alone, wore expensive jewelry, and pretended that solitude was a lifestyle choice rather than something their husbands had unexpectedly imposed upon them. "Another, madam?" The bartender stood before her, a tall, remarkably attractive woman with dark hair gathered into a loose knot, an immaculate black silk blouse beneath a fitted waistcoat, and the sort of quietly confident expression that made Margaret feel as though this stranger could probably tell her entire life story merely by looking at the way she held her glass. "Isn't it rather late?" "That depends entirely on what you're planning to do afterward." Margaret glanced at the clock above the doorway, which showed seventeen minutes past midnight. "Go upstairs, take off these ridiculous shoes, and spend another hour wondering what went wrong with my life, I suppose." "In that case, I would recommend something rather less depressing than gin and tonic." Margaret laughed despite herself. "Are you always this honest with your customers?" "Only the ones who look as though they might appreciate it." "And what would you suggest?" "Something with a little champagne, perhaps, because whatever brought you here this evening, I doubt very much that it deserves another hour of your misery." Margaret studied the bartender for a moment, wondering whether she ought to feel offended, then found herself smiling for the first time since she had arrived in Chicago. "All right, surprise me." "An excellent beginning." The bartender turned away, moving between the polished bottles with the practiced elegance of someone who had been performing the same little rituals for a very long time, and Margaret watched as those slender hands selected a crystal flute, added a little elderflower liqueur, and poured champagne with barely a whisper of escaping bubbles. "What's your name?" Margaret asked. "Mirelle." "That's unusual." "So I've been told." "And where are you from, Mirelle?" "Oh, here and there." "That sounds suspiciously like an answer from someone who doesn't want to answer." "Then I shall have to work on it." She placed the flute before Margaret, added a delicate twist of lemon, and smiled. "To better evenings." Margaret raised her glass. "I'll certainly drink to that." Two stools away, Elena Marquez had been pretending to read the same page of a paperback novel for almost twenty minutes, although the truth was that she had lost track of the story somewhere between ordering her second glass of red wine and noticing the elegant blonde woman sitting at the opposite end of the counter. There was something terribly sad about that woman, something in the way she held herself very straight while staring into her drink, as though maintaining perfect posture was the last remaining defense against bursting into tears in public. She was beautiful, too, with shoulder-length honey-blonde hair elegantly pinned into a loose evening updo, carefully applied lipstick, and a fitted midnight-blue dress that showed off an excellent figure, although Elena suspected she would have been just as attractive in an old sweater and jeans. Elena had noticed the pale mark on the woman's ring finger, and having known something about loss herself, she wondered whether the stranger had recently been through a divorce, or perhaps something even worse. "You're not enjoying your book." Elena looked up and discovered Mirelle standing before her. "Is it that obvious?" "You've been on page forty-seven since eleven fifty-two." "Have you been watching me?" "I watch everyone, darling, it's part of the job." "Well, it's not a particularly good book." "Then why are you reading it?" "Because reading a bad book seemed preferable to sitting here alone staring at the wall." "An understandable mistake." Mirelle reached for Elena's empty wineglass. "Another?" "I probably shouldn't." "An interesting observation, although not technically an answer." Elena smiled. "One more, please, and then I really ought to go upstairs." While Mirelle poured the wine, Elena glanced again toward the blonde woman, who had discreetly slipped one of her shoes off beneath the counter and was rubbing her foot. "Those shoes look murderous," Elena murmured. "Indeed." "I saw her coming through the lobby earlier, carrying enough shopping bags to outfit a small theater company." "Perhaps she owns a theater." "She doesn't look like an actress." "Neither do you." Elena laughed. "Fair enough." Mirelle set down the wine. "Although I suspect she'd appreciate a little conversation." "Why would you think that?" "Because she has been looking over here every few minutes, and I very much doubt she's admiring the wallpaper." Elena felt an unexpected warmth climb into her cheeks. "She has?" "Oh, yes." "Well, perhaps she's just looking around." "Entirely possible." Mirelle began polishing a glass that was already perfectly clean. "Of course, there is one way to find out." Elena shook her head. "Oh, absolutely not, because I don't walk up to strange women in hotel bars, and besides, she's probably waiting for someone." "At this hour?" "Perhaps her husband." Mirelle glanced toward the pale mark on the woman's finger. "I shouldn't think so." Elena followed her gaze and suddenly felt rather ashamed of her curiosity. "That's none of my business." "Not yet," Mirelle replied. Margaret had finished her champagne cocktail and decided that the attractive dark-haired woman sitting several stools away was almost certainly the only other person in Chicago having an evening quite as miserable as her own. She had noticed her shortly after entering the bar, mainly because of her enormous silver earrings and a mass of dark curls that seemed entirely unwilling to obey the fashionable laws of hairstyling, but also because she was sitting alone with a book, which Margaret had initially considered rather romantic until she realized the woman hadn't turned a page in ages. It occurred to Margaret that she could simply walk over and say hello, but the idea seemed absurd, because she had spent twenty-three years attending dinner parties, charity lunches, theater evenings, and business receptions as one half of a couple, and she was no longer entirely certain how a woman was supposed to introduce herself to another woman without appearing desperate, inappropriate, or just plain foolish. Besides, she had never been especially brave about matters of the heart. She had been brave enough to marry Richard at twenty-five, brave enough to move across the country when his career demanded it, and brave enough to raise their daughter almost single-handedly during the years when Richard had been busy becoming an increasingly important man, but apparently not brave enough to cross two empty barstools and ask a stranger whether she would like some company. "Excuse me, madam." Mirelle was standing before her. "I wonder whether you could help me with something." "Of course." "The lady over there has been admiring your dress, and she wondered whether it might be from the Laurent collection." Margaret's eyes widened. "Really?" "Apparently, she has an interest in fashion." Margaret glanced toward Elena, who immediately looked down at her book. "Well, it is Laurent, actually, although I bought it this afternoon." "How fortunate." "Would you tell her that?" "I could, certainly, although I suspect she'd rather hear it from you." Margaret hesitated. "I don't want to bother her." "Then perhaps you could simply ask whether she'd mind." Mirelle leaned slightly closer. "Most people are much less frightening than we imagine, madam, and sometimes the most interesting evenings begin with a terribly ordinary conversation." Margaret looked toward the woman once more, then down at her bare feet, and laughed nervously. "Well, I can hardly walk over there like this." "Your shoes are right beside you." "Unfortunately." "Excuse me." Elena looked up from her book to discover the blonde woman standing beside her, holding a pair of impossibly elegant black heels in one hand and wearing an expression that combined embarrassment, determination, and the faintest hint of panic. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but the bartender mentioned that you were interested in my dress." Elena blinked, then turned toward Mirelle, who was arranging bottles at the opposite end of the bar with an expression of extraordinary innocence. "Oh, yes, I was just thinking how beautiful it is." Margaret smiled. "Thank you, although I must confess I bought it this afternoon, so I'm still trying to convince myself it was worth the money." "Well, if you want a second opinion, I think it was." "That's reassuring, especially since I've spent most of the evening wondering whether I should return everything tomorrow." Elena glanced down at the shoes. "Those included?" "Especially these, because I have the terrible suspicion they were designed by someone who has never possessed human feet." Elena burst out laughing. "Oh, I know exactly what you mean, and I speak from experience, because I once wore a pair of Italian stilettos to a building-site inspection, thinking I could change into sensible shoes when I arrived, only to discover I'd left the sensible shoes in my apartment." Margaret stared at her. "You wore stilettos on a construction site?" "For almost twenty minutes, until the foreman took pity on me and found a pair of enormous work boots." "Please tell me somebody took photographs." "Unfortunately, yes, and they still appear at the office Christmas party." Margaret laughed so hard that she had to set her shoes on the empty stool beside her. "I'm Margaret, by the way." "Elena." "It's lovely to meet you, Elena." "You too." There was a small silence, not an uncomfortable one exactly, but the kind that appears between strangers when both are wondering whether the other would welcome another sentence. Margaret glanced toward the empty stool. "Would you mind if I sat here for a little while?" "Please do." "Thank you, because I was beginning to think I might go completely mad sitting over there by myself." "Then we have something in common." Margaret settled beside her, arranged her dress, and placed the shoes beneath the counter. "Are you staying at the hotel?" "Yes, just for two nights, although I have a meeting tomorrow that I'm not particularly looking forward to." "Business?" "I'm an architect." "Oh, how interesting." "Most people change their minds after I've spent ten minutes explaining building regulations." "Try me." Elena smiled. "Careful, I might take you seriously." "I hope you do." And that was how it began, not with a sudden blaze of desire or a dramatic declaration beneath the chandeliers, but with two women talking about buildings, uncomfortable shoes, Chicago shopping districts, terrible airport coffee, and a peculiar little bookstore Elena had discovered earlier that afternoon. For the first time in months, Elena found herself speaking without constantly watching the expression of the person beside her, worrying whether she was boring someone, or wondering whether she ought to be doing something more useful. And for the first time since Richard had left, Margaret discovered that she could enjoy a conversation without automatically waiting for her husband to interrupt, correct her, or explain that she had misunderstood something. At one point Mirelle returned to collect their glasses, and when Margaret asked for another champagne cocktail, Elena decided that she might as well have one too. "Two of the same?" Mirelle asked. "Why not?" Elena replied. "An excellent choice." As the bartender turned away, Margaret leaned toward Elena. "Can I tell you something slightly embarrassing?" "Of course." "I've been watching you all evening." Elena's cheeks warmed. "Really?" "Yes, and I kept wondering what your story was, because you looked so terribly lonely, and I thought perhaps I should come over and say something, but then I decided you'd probably think I was some dreadful woman who couldn't mind her own business." Elena stared at her for a moment, then began to laugh. "Oh, Margaret, that's almost exactly what I've been thinking about you." "You're joking." "Not in the slightest." "Then we're both idiots." "Apparently." They laughed together, and somewhere behind the bar Mirelle allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. By one fifteen, the rain had begun to fall against the tall windows overlooking the avenue, turning the streetlights into trembling golden ribbons upon the wet pavement, and the Beaumont's last remaining waiter was extinguishing candles on the empty tables while doing his best not to disturb the two women at the counter. Margaret had forgotten all about her aching feet, and Elena had abandoned her book entirely, while their conversation had moved from favorite old movies and affectionate arguments about Audrey Hepburn and Lauren Bacall to their families, their work, and finally those subjects that people generally avoid until they begin to trust one another. "I'm sorry," Elena said quietly when Margaret finally told her about Richard. Margaret shrugged. "Don't be, because apparently my husband had been unhappy for years, although he neglected to mention this until the day he announced he'd fallen in love with a twenty-nine-year-old marketing consultant." Elena winced. "Oh, dear." "Quite, and the most ridiculous part was that he actually seemed surprised when I refused to congratulate him on finally discovering happiness." "Please tell me you threw something at him." "Only his suitcase." "That counts." "Out of the front door." "Even better." Margaret smiled, but the smile slowly faded. "Do you know what the worst part was?" Elena shook her head. "It wasn't even the younger woman, or the affair, or the thought of Richard sleeping with someone else, because by then we'd barely touched each other for years, and I think I could probably have forgiven almost anything except the realization that he'd been planning an entirely new life while I was still planning our next summer vacation." Elena said nothing, allowing Margaret to continue at her own pace. "I'd booked a villa in Tuscany, you know, one of those ridiculous places with a swimming pool and a cook, because I thought perhaps we could finally spend some time together now that Charlotte was away at university, and he just sat there listening to me describe it while knowing perfectly well that he intended to leave." "That was cruel." "Yes." Margaret stared into her glass. "And now I'm sitting in a hotel bar wearing a dress I bought because a saleswoman told me it made me look ten years younger, as though being forty-eight were some terrible disease." Elena reached across the small space between them and gently touched her hand. "For what it's worth, I don't think you need to look ten years younger." Margaret raised her eyes. "No?" "No, because I think you're absolutely lovely exactly as you are." For several seconds neither woman moved, and then Margaret looked down at the hand resting upon hers. "That's a very nice thing to say." "I meant it." Margaret swallowed. "Thank you." Elena withdrew her hand slowly, suddenly uncertain whether she had crossed an invisible boundary, but Margaret didn't move away, and instead turned a little more toward her. "And what about you?" "What about me?" "Your story, Elena, because I've been talking about my miserable marriage for so long that I haven't given you a chance to explain why you were sitting here looking as though somebody had stolen your birthday." Elena laughed softly. "That's quite a description." "Well?" For a moment Elena considered offering one of the polite explanations she had been giving acquaintances for the past several weeks, something about being busy at work and needing a little break, but there was a warmth in Margaret's expression that made such evasions feel unnecessary. "My mother died seven weeks ago." Margaret's face changed immediately. "Oh, Elena, I'm so sorry." "Thank you." "Were you close?" "Very." Elena looked down at her fingers. "She lived with me for the last two years, and toward the end there were days when she barely knew who I was, although she'd sometimes wake in the middle of the night and call me by the nickname she'd used when I was little, and for a few minutes she'd be my mother again, not a frightened old woman in a bed, but the person who taught me how to ride a bicycle and made hot chocolate whenever I came home crying." Margaret reached for her hand. This time neither woman withdrew. "That must have been terribly difficult." "It was, although the strange thing is that I miss even the difficult parts, because I spent so long organizing medications and appointments and meals that now I come home from work and find myself listening for her television, or thinking I ought to check whether she's eaten, and then I remember that she's gone." Elena gave a small, embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry, this is probably far too much to tell someone I've only just met." "No, it isn't." "Are you sure?" "Completely, and if you want to tell me more about her, I'd like to hear it." Elena looked at her for a long moment. "Her name was Teresa." "That's beautiful." "She was impossible." Margaret smiled. "Impossible how?" "She believed nobody outside her own kitchen knew how to cook a proper meal, insisted that every man I ever dated was either too short, too lazy, or insufficiently educated, and once threatened to call my boss because I was working too many hours." Margaret laughed. "I think I would have liked her." "Oh, you would have adored her, especially when she discovered I was dating women as well as men, because she spent three weeks asking whether that meant she could finally stop worrying about me marrying somebody who expected me to do all the cooking." "How wonderfully practical." "That was my mother." Elena smiled through sudden tears. "And she would have liked you." Margaret's expression softened. "Would she?" "Very much." At one forty-two, Mirelle de Valcour glanced toward the clock, then toward the waiter who had finished preparing the tables for morning. "Everything all right, Madame de Valcour?" he asked quietly. "Perfectly, Daniel." "Shall I begin closing?" "Yes, please, although leave the counter lamps for another few minutes." He followed her gaze toward the two women sitting close together at the far end of the bar. "Ah." Mirelle raised an eyebrow. "Something you wished to say?" "No, madam." "Wise young man." He grinned and disappeared through the service door. Mirelle considered the women for a moment, noticing how naturally Margaret's knee rested against Elena's, how Elena had turned almost completely toward her companion, and how neither had looked at a telephone in nearly an hour. It was going rather well, although in Mirelle's experience it usually did once people stopped being so terribly determined to protect themselves from the possibility of happiness. She selected an old jazz recording and let the opening notes drift softly through the almost deserted bar. Elena stopped speaking. "Oh, my goodness." Margaret glanced toward the speakers. "What is it?" "This song." "You know it?" "My mother used to play it when I was little, and sometimes she'd dance around the kitchen while she was cooking, especially when my father was working late." Margaret listened. "That's lovely." "She always said it was impossible to remain unhappy while dancing." "Was she right?" "Most of the time." Margaret considered this, then gave Elena a rather mischievous smile. "Would you like to test her theory?" Elena stared at her. "What?" "Would you like to dance?" "Here?" "Why not?" "Because we're in a hotel bar and it's nearly two in the morning." "An excellent time for dancing, surely." Elena laughed nervously. "I haven't danced with anyone in ages." "Neither have I." "Margaret—" "Elena, I've spent the last six months doing what was sensible, appropriate, expected, and dignified, and I can assure you that it hasn't made me the least bit happy." She stood, then remembered that her shoes were still beneath the counter. "Oh, to hell with it." Elena looked at her bare feet. "You're not putting your shoes on?" "Absolutely not, because if we're going to make fools of ourselves, I'd prefer to be comfortable." Elena laughed, set down her glass, and accepted Margaret's outstretched hand. "All right, but I should warn you that I'm not particularly good at this." "Neither am I." They moved into the small open space between the bar and the nearest tables, where the golden light from the chandeliers fell upon the polished wooden floor, and after a moment of awkward uncertainty, Margaret placed one hand upon Elena's shoulder while Elena rested hers against Margaret's waist. For several seconds they merely swayed, smiling rather self-consciously at each other, until Elena stepped a little closer. "Is this all right?" "Yes." "You're sure?" "Very." The music carried them gently, and Margaret realized with a sudden, almost frightening clarity that she could not remember the last time someone had held her simply because they wanted to, rather than out of habit, duty, or the polite requirements of a social occasion. Elena's hand was warm against her waist, her perfume smelled faintly of jasmine, and when Margaret looked into her eyes, she saw something she had not expected to find during a solitary shopping trip to Chicago. Interest, unmistakable and wonderfully personal. "Elena?" "Yes?" "I'm very glad I came over to talk to you." Elena smiled. "So am I." "I almost didn't." "I know." Margaret frowned. "How could you possibly know?" "Because I almost came over to talk to you about six times." "Really?" "Oh, yes, and then I convinced myself you'd think I was some strange woman trying to pick you up." Margaret laughed. "And would that have been such a terrible thing?" Elena's smile faded just a little, replaced by a look of cautious surprise. "I don't know," she said softly, "would it?" Margaret felt her heart begin to beat rather faster than seemed reasonable. "No," she whispered, "I don't think it would." For a moment the two women continued moving slowly to the music, aware now that something had shifted between them, something neither had planned or expected and neither quite knew how to name. Then Margaret rested her head briefly against Elena's shoulder. "May I confess something?" "Anything." "I haven't been this happy in months." Elena drew her a fraction closer. "Neither have I." When the music ended, neither woman seemed particularly inclined to let go, and it was only when Mirelle discreetly cleared her throat from behind the counter that they remembered they were not, in fact, alone in the universe. "Ladies, I am terribly sorry to interrupt what appears to be a most agreeable evening, but the hour is approaching two." Margaret turned toward her. "Oh, goodness, I'm so sorry, we've kept you here terribly late." "Not at all." Elena glanced at the clock. "I can't believe it's almost two." "Time does have a rather unpleasant habit of moving quickly when we're enjoying ourselves," Mirelle observed. Margaret retrieved her shoes, made a halfhearted attempt to put them on, then abandoned the effort when Elena began laughing. "Don't you dare," Elena said. "What?" "Put those dreadful things back on." "But I can't walk through the hotel barefoot." "Why not?" "Because—" "Because what?" Margaret considered the question. "Actually, I have absolutely no idea." "Good." Elena picked up the shoes. "I'll carry them." "You don't have to." "I know." Margaret smiled. "Thank you." They returned to the counter, where Mirelle had placed their bill inside a small leather folder. Elena reached for it. "Let me." "Oh, no," Margaret protested, "I insist." "Margaret, please." "Elena, I am quite capable of buying a woman a drink." Elena raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you're doing?" Margaret looked at her. "Would you mind?" "Not in the slightest." "Then allow me." Elena leaned closer. "In that case, perhaps I could buy you breakfast." Margaret's eyes widened. "Breakfast?" "Tomorrow morning." "Oh." "Unless you have other plans." "Only returning approximately half the contents of Michigan Avenue." "That sounds exhausting." "It certainly does." Elena smiled. "Then perhaps we should have a proper breakfast first." Margaret returned the smile. "I'd like that very much." She opened the folder, examined the bill, and placed her credit card inside, and when Mirelle returned with the receipt, Margaret signed it, added a hundred-dollar tip, and looked up at the mysterious bartender. "Thank you for a lovely evening." "It has been my pleasure." "And thank you for encouraging me to speak to Elena." Mirelle inclined her head. "I merely pointed you in the right direction." Margaret smiled. "Well, whatever you did, I'm grateful." She turned toward Elena, who was standing beside her holding the shoes. "Ready?" "Almost." Elena hesitated, then reached for Margaret's hand. "May I ask you something before we go?" "Of course." Elena glanced toward the doors, then back at Margaret. "Would you think me terribly forward if I told you that I don't really want this evening to end?" Margaret felt a sudden warmth spread through her chest. "No." "And would you think me even more forward if I admitted that I've spent the last twenty minutes wondering whether I might kiss you?" Margaret stared at her, then laughed softly, not because the question was amusing, but because the answer seemed so wonderfully obvious that she could scarcely believe Elena had needed to ask. "Oh, Elena." "What?" "Please do." Elena moved closer, one hand settling gently against Margaret's waist while Margaret lifted her free hand to touch Elena's cheek, and for one small moment they simply looked at each other, both smiling, both a little nervous, both suddenly young in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with their ages. Then Elena kissed her. It was a gentle kiss at first, barely more than a question, but Margaret answered by slipping her arm around Elena's shoulders and drawing her closer, and when their lips met again, there was nothing uncertain about the warmth that passed between them. Behind the counter, Mirelle quietly turned away to give them the privacy they deserved. When the women finally separated, Margaret was blushing. "Good heavens." Elena laughed. "Was that all right?" "All right?" Margaret touched her lips. "Elena, I haven't kissed a woman since I was twenty-one." Elena's expression changed. "You've kissed women before?" Margaret nodded, suddenly shy. "Only one, actually, when I was at university, although I spent years convincing myself it was merely an experiment." "And was it?" Margaret looked into Elena's eyes. "I don't think so anymore." Elena smiled, then kissed her again, a little more slowly this time. When they parted, Margaret glanced toward the elevator lobby. "Would you like to come upstairs?" Elena studied her face. "Are you sure?" Margaret nodded. "Very sure, although I should warn you that my suite looks rather like a department store exploded inside it." "I think I can survive that." "And I have absolutely no intention of getting up early tomorrow." "Neither do I." "And breakfast?" "We can order room service." Margaret laughed. "That sounds wonderful." Hand in hand, they made their way toward the elevators, Elena still carrying the black heels and Margaret walking barefoot across the magnificent carpet, and just before disappearing around the corner, Margaret turned back toward the bar. "Goodnight, Mirelle!" "Goodnight, ladies." Elena waved. "And thank you!" Mirelle smiled. "Sleep well." The elevator doors opened, the two women stepped inside, and as the doors began to close, Margaret slipped her arms around Elena's neck and kissed her once more. Then they were gone. The Beaumont Grand's bar was silent again, apart from the soft ticking of its antique clock and the distant patter of rain against the windows, and Mirelle de Valcour gathered the abandoned glasses while Daniel returned from the service corridor carrying the last of the clean linen. "Those two seemed to get along nicely, Madame de Valcour." "Indeed." "Funny, isn't it, how two people can walk into a place without knowing each other, and a few hours later leave holding hands as though they've known one another forever?" Mirelle studied him for a moment. "Yes, Daniel, it is rather extraordinary." He glanced toward the signed receipt. "Good tip?" "Very generous." "People are always generous when they're happy." "Not always, but frequently enough." Daniel smiled, wished her goodnight, and disappeared, leaving Mirelle alone beneath the warm amber lamps. She looked toward the elevators and allowed herself a small smile, remembering other evenings, other lonely women, and other moments when two strangers had discovered that the distance separating them was considerably smaller than they had imagined. There had been a time, long ago, when someone had told her that such things were beneath the attention of a Weaver, but Mirelle had never been particularly interested in the opinions of those who considered themselves important. She folded the receipt, extinguished the last lamp above the counter, and looked once more toward the empty stools where Margaret and Elena had spent so much of the evening wondering whether they should speak to one another. "Two stools," she murmured, shaking her head with quiet amusement, "and they nearly allowed them to become a lifetime." Then she turned out the lights, leaving the Beaumont Grand's magnificent old bar to its silence, while somewhere high above her, behind a closed suite door, two women who had arrived in Chicago with broken hearts were discovering that life, even after its cruelest disappointments, could still offer something wonderfully unexpected. THE END