“The rig?” Jake asked.
“Flashy, flamboyant,” the proprietor clarified. “Someone who would buy a diamond ring for his wife that probably costs more than I earn in ten years runnin’ this place.”
Jake wanted to be insulted, but he could not quite rise to it. The man was not trying to get under his skin, he was just stating what he believed to be a fact in a no-nonsense way. “I see,” he said simply. “Rig. A good word for it. Short and to the point.”
“Ayuh,” he said. “We like to speak plainly up here in the willy-wags.”
“A good custom,” Jake said with a nod. “So ... anyway, I’ll just...”
But the proprietor was no longer listening to Jake. He had turned back to Laura. “When I saw your picture in that tabloid rag up to the store this morning, I thought you looked familiar,” he said.
“Tabloid rag?” Laura asked.
“The New England whatchamacallit,” he clarified. “You and that Mexican singer are both on the front page of it.”
Jake and Laura looked at each other incredulously. They had known that the issue was hitting the newsstands today, of course, but they had not dreamed that anyone in this part of the state would have access to it. “You sell the New England Report here? At that grocery store?”
“I don’t sell nothin’ at that grocery store,” he said, “but Maudie does. She’s been runnin’ the place since 1978. That’s when that old timer Tim Jenkins finally up and sold it.”
“And there is a demand for that rag here?” Laura asked. “In this little town?”
“Ayuh,” he said, nodding. “Not by the townspeople, of course, but we get lots of flatlanders from down Boston way up here in the spring and summer. And it seems like they like to keep up on all the gossip from home.”
Jake looked at his wife and sighed. “Well,” he said to her, “it looks like our little break from reality is now over.”
“It looks like it,” she agreed with a sigh of her own.
“I hear that rag is claiming you and the Mexican woman like to lie down with your own kind,” the proprietor said. “That’s a pretty wicked accusation.”
Jake blinked. “I’m sorry, is wicked a good thing or a bad thing?”
“It could mean either,” he said, “but in this case, it’s a bad thing, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Jake said.
“Not that it’s any of my business,” the proprietor qualified. “I’ll still sell you gas and Maudie will still sell you groceries. Even if you do like to play for both teams, your money is just as good as any flatlander’s.”
“That’s good to know,” Laura said. She turned back to Jake. “Maybe you oughtta pick up a copy of that rag while you’re there.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I’d better.”
Back in Bangor, Celia Valdez and Suzie Granderson were in Celia’s suite at the Sheraton hotel near the airport. It was just past 11:00 AM and they were still in bed, naked and cuddled against each other, Celia resting her head on Suzie’s chest while Suzie’s arms were locked around her. They had been up late last night, first drinking two bottles of white wine (the King Air was currently at Bangor Airport undergoing a B-level check, therefore Suzie’s moratorium on drinking alcohol was temporarily on hold) and then engaging in a lengthy, two-hour long session of lesbian lovemaking that had finally wrapped up around 3:00 AM. Now, both of them were awake, but too comfortable to get out of bed just yet. Both had headaches and sour stomachs but were quite satiated sexually.
They no longer bothered trying to hide their relationship from the other members of the band. In truth, it had been an exercise in futility to even try, as was evidenced by the ‘anonymous source close to the band’ who had spilled the beans to the New England Reports journalist who had called asking for commentary on the allegation. They still had no idea who that anonymous source was, but he or she had provided enough details of the day-to-day operations and engagement of the band members—particularly Suzie, Celia, and Laura—that they knew they had a mole among them. Was it a member of the road crew? One of the techies? One of the bus drivers? One of the limo drivers? One of the band members? Of all the possibilities, that was the one that bothered Celia the most. The seven of them were very close to each other, had been living and sleeping and traveling and playing music together for months. The thought that one of them might have betrayed her was too much to handle.
“The issue should be at the news stands and supermarket checkouts now,” Suzie said softly, bringing her hand up to play with Celia’s silky hair.
“That’s true,” Celia said with a sigh, snuggling a little tighter into her lover. “From this point on, the media circus will begin. You’ve never been through anything like this before, have you?”
“No,” Suzie said. “I mean, I saw what happened when you and Greg were divorcing and the whole Mindy Snow pregnancy thing hit the public, but I’ve never been personally involved in anything like this.”
“Maybe you won’t be,” Celia suggested. “Paulie said that when the reporter called her, all she knew was that your name was Suzie and that you were a pilot who flew us around. She did not provide them with your last name, the name of your company, or even confirm that there was a female pilot on our plane. This is a sleazy gossip rag. There’s a good chance they were not able to identify you.”
“Really?” Suzie asked.
Celia shrugged. “It’s certainly possible,” she said. “No reporter ever called you to ask for your version of the story, did they?”
“No.”
“You’d think that if they knew who you were, they would have done that, right?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It that how it usually works?”
“Well ... with legitimate journalism it is,” she said. “I don’t know if this New England rag follows the standards of journalistic ethics, but even if they don’t, their story would be juicier if they were able to get a quote from you, or a picture, or anything at all. The fact that they did not even try is suggestive.”
“Maybe,” Suzie said, leaning down and kissing the top of Celia’s head. She hesitated for a few seconds, continuing to stroke Celia’s hair, and then said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” Celia said. “You know that.”
“Did you ever think ... uh ... even for a minute ... that maybe the best course of action would have been to ... just ... you know ... admit that we are together?”
The question caught Celia off guard. She raised her head up and looked into Suzie’s eyes. “Admit we are together? You’re not serious, are you?”
“Well ... we are together,” Suzie said. “We’ve been living and sleeping together as a couple for the past month now. How long do we need to keep this in the closet?”
Madres de Dios, Celia thought desperately. How do I answer this one? “Suzie ... uh ... I am not a lesbian.”
“Oh really?” Suzie said, bitterness in her tone. “You’re not a lesbian? I seem to recall you sticking that pretty face of yours between my legs last night and licking my slit until I came all over it.”
“Well ... yes, but...”
“And was I hallucinating the part where you climbed up on top of me naked and rubbed your clit against mine while tongue kissing me?”
“You were not hallucinating,” Celia said with a sigh. “I did those things and I enjoyed them immensely. And I will undoubtedly do them again tonight as long as you’re not too pissed off to let me, but none of that makes me a lesbian. Bisexual, yes. I will freely admit that. I enjoy having sex with you. I enjoy being close to you. But I can never be with you in the way that you are suggesting.”
“So, I’m just someone for you to fuck?” she asked angrily. “Is that all I am to you?”