The Safekeep(32)

The needle hissed into the next song. Slower, much slower. Eva paused, said, “Ah.” She stood before Isabel. Hesitated, looked lost, then decided—on a joke, or a play—and reached for Isabel, clocked her reaction. Told her, “Come. It’s just a dance.”

She took Isabel’s hands now, put them at her waist. Warm, skin under cloth. Isabel looked to Hendrik, a panic, and Hendrik was slumped into Sebastian—head turned away from them, murmuring. Not paying attention. Isabel tried to pull away, but Eva’s hands held her fast by her wrists. She was making sure Isabel wasn’t letting go. Then—she touched Isabel. Up, up her arms, to her shoulders. A hold, a dance. She was moving the two of them in a swaying slur. They went in a circle. Eva had to arch her back a little, to keep her arms around Isabel—pressed her chest close, a heartbeat, the soft give of her breasts. Her breath was a cool puff to Isabel’s throat.

Isabel pulled her in. She didn’t mean to. She was a belly full of wine, was two hands holding the good dip of a waist. She was a touch, trailing up—up Eva’s spine to the back of her neck. Goose bumps, damp skin, whorl of hair. She breathed her in. She fisted her fingers in—grabbed.

Eva’s reaction was whispered to the shell of her ear: “Isa.”

Isabel’s arms were full and then they were empty. She jolted away and escaped quickly, went to the dining room. She began to clear the dishes and didn’t see what she took. In the drawing room the song played on. She made it to the kitchen somehow, no memory of her feet carrying her. And then Eva was there with her, taking the dishes from her hands and pulling her along, saying, “Come—just—”

Feet tangling, arms. Around the corner, hidden from the doorway. Eva’s mouth was close, messy against Isabel’s cheek. She was putting Isabel’s hands where they’d last been: at her back, her neck. “Like this,” she breathed. “Like you did, like—”

Isabel did it again: fingers into the heat of Eva’s hair, pulling. Eva shuddered against her, and all Isabel saw of her was a spill of dark lashes, an open mouth, and then nothing—the red dark of closed eyes. Eva tasted of the wine, of the mint candy she had rolled around her mouth while dancing. She was hot, so hot through her clothes—fingers tight on Isabel’s shoulders, pulling her down, pushing herself up. Her head went back easily under Isabel’s tug. The kiss happened fast and then held—held. Slowed, by increments—built itself back up. The dry chalk of the wall behind Eva’s head, Isabel’s hand caging her in. The hidden pocket behind Eva’s ear, thin skin; the slide of her tongue, the pulse at her throat, heavy under the press of Isabel’s thumb. In the distance, the record ended, needle hissing and then skipping, lifting. Quiet in the house. In the kitchen only the rustle of clothes, the sound of movement, the slick of their kiss. Eva’s quiet Ah!—the hot puff of it.

The world pooled between Isabel’s legs. She stepped away and put a hand to her own face—her cheek. “I have a fever,” she said, and was sure she did. “God, I think I’ve run a fever.”

Eva followed her, took her hand away, said: “Let me feel, let me—” She cradled Isabel’s face, back of her fingers to her forehead, her temple. “You’re fine,” she said. “It’s not a fever. Darling, my darling. Oh—”

Isabel swayed back into her. In the crook of Eva’s neck, she found a heartbeat to put her lips to.





8


THE NEXT MORNING HENDRIK DECIDED they would go swimming. He packed everything into the car while the early sun climbed bright behind the firs. The garden smelled like evergreens, and Hendrik wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, so he kept his eyes squinted in the light—occasionally blocking it with a hand.

Isabel watched him as she leaned back against the car door, arms crossed. She said, quietly—only for the two of them, “You were careless last night.”

He wasn’t paying attention. “Hm?” was his answer, tightening the towel over the picnic basket. And then her words reached him, delayed, and he said, “You mean in front of Eva? Isabel, come now.”

“Don’t tell me come now. You’re too easy with these things. You’re too—”

“Darling, she knew, she knew, what’s this?” He closed the trunk. “Where is this coming from?”

“Knew?” Isabel repeated. The dress she had chosen to wear was already proving too hot for the day. She had been distracted in dressing herself. She had spent the morning searching for marks in the mirror, marks on her face. Anything to indicate what she and Eva had done. She had found none. “What do you mean, she knew?”

“I don’t know, she just knew! She asked me something about Sebastian earlier and—oh, I can’t recall, she just understood, we didn’t speak it out loud. It’s not so outrageous, Isabel. She’s a modern girl and there are other people like us in the world and perhaps we’re not the first ones Eva’s met or—”

“I know there’s—” She stopped herself, lowered her voice. Eva and Sebastian were inside, clearing up breakfast. The window was open, and sound carried easily here. She said, “Never mind.”

Hendrik came to stand next to her. He lit a cigarette, said, “You’re letting her sleep in Mother’s room, though.”

“I’m not letting her anything.” She said it and felt the words churn on themselves. A lie, of course. She let Eva. She had let her a lot. She added, quickly, “Louis told her she could stay there.”