Our Secret Summer, page 5
An extremely hot butch, Dylan thought, but luckily didn’t say out loud because she needed to brush up on the latest lingo to check if butch was still a thing. Probably not for some people and it was impossible to know if Raffo was one of them. Dylan didn’t have the courage to ask in that moment. Besides, she wanted to ask Raffo something else.
“What about me?” Dylan put away her empty champagne glass, well aware of the speed she’d knocked it back with. “What do you see when you look at me?”
Raffo’s features folded into a grin, and she held Dylan’s gaze with an audacity that made Dylan’s pulse quicken. “I’ve definitely been getting mixed vibes,” Raffo said, her voice carrying a hint of something that made Dylan grip her glass tighter. “Although I was a lot less confused after the Ida-Burton-speaker incident.”
“Oh, god.” Dylan pressed two fingers against her forehead. “It’s this app. I have to applaud the makers as well as the marketing team because I’ve found myself completely unable to resist it.”
“I have it, too,” Raffo said. “It’s insane.”
“I’ve had a crush on Ida Burton since her very first movie,” Dylan admitted.
“And then, all of a sudden, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, she’s whispering all of that into your ears.” Raffo had the kind of knowing smile that could only come from having listened to the same story Dylan had enjoyed.
“Yeah. That’s quite something.”
They fell silent for a few minutes but it wasn’t an awkward silence. That was the other thing about Raffo. She was an easy person to be quiet with.
Dylan wanted to stay in that chair a good while longer, but she had dinner to prepare, and maybe a little break from this conversation, and its unexpected intensity, was what she needed most of all.
Chapter 11
Could it be? Raffo gazed into her empty glass, as though the answer lay at the bottom of it. Was Connor’s mother flirting with her? Even if she was—and it was a big if because Raffo could immediately think of about five arguments against it—Raffo wasn’t open to flirting right now. Especially not with her best friend’s mom. Not in a million years would Raffo even entertain the notion, although—admittedly—she might well have started it. It was all well and good to tell Dylan, as she had, that she wasn’t trying anything on with her, but did that stand if her actions contradicted her words? If she spent the morning painting a topless picture of Dylan—and enjoying the hell out of it?
These things were so easily misconstrued and Dylan could be feeling vulnerable in a way that made her extra sensitive to the attention of another woman. She clearly admired Raffo as a painter, there was no mistaking that.
Granted, Raffo had been riding the high of her startling painting flow so hard, that she might have failed to pick up on some things. And she wasn’t clueless enough that she couldn’t see there was some chemistry between them. That they enjoyed each other’s company in this dreamy location away from everything and everyone. A situation like this was the perfect breeding ground for heightened emotions, for feeling something inadvertent for another person that you wouldn’t even consider in normal-life circumstances. Three days ago, they’d both been in crisis. To her surprise—and delight—Raffo was feeling so much better already, and she didn’t know if it was just the surroundings, or the woman she’d been spending time with—and who took such great care of her—or a special combination of the two, but for Dylan nothing much had changed. Except for Raffo’s arrival.
There were so many reasonable explanations for a touch of flirting over a glass of champagne. For coming out as bisexual—because, why not? Raffo had done her utmost to keep a poker face, to not give away her secret glee at what Dylan was saying about herself, because a reaction might have… Raffo didn’t really know. Nor did she know what to do about this situation—this possible flirting vibe between them—so she decided to do nothing.
Moreover, it would be preposterous to assume that Dylan was flirting with her simply because she was bisexual. What was quite possible, however, was that Dylan flirted with her because Raffo had, on more than one occasion, expressed her appreciation for Dylan’s physical appearance as well as her kind nature.
But none of that mattered, because not only was Dylan Connor’s mother—and Raffo would never come between her best friend and his mother like that—but a fling was the last thing Raffo was looking for. Thoughts of Mia might have dimmed, pushed into the shadows of her mind after she’d started painting again, but Raffo’s heart was still broken into too many pieces. All she wanted was a good, long break from women altogether, and to paint. That’s why she’d come here, after all. Instead, she was living with an extremely easy on the eye middle-aged bisexual woman going through, Raffo guessed, something like a midlife crisis.
As soon as they sat down for dinner, Raffo would change the subject. With her history, she had plenty of other things to talk about that could not be misinterpreted and firmly closed the door to any flirting.
“Hot damn,” Raffo said. “This is incredible.”
“It’s just a salad.” Dylan’s modest deflection belied the dish before them—tender roasted bell peppers that melted on the tongue, a dressing perfectly balanced between tart and sweet that Raffo could drink by the cupful.
“Do you want to know why I hate cooking so much?” It was high time for a swift gear change.
“I’d love to.” Dylan refilled their water glasses—a wise switch from the earlier champagne.
“I don’t know what Con has told you about me, but, um, my mom died when I was thirteen. Ovarian cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.” Dylan put down her cutlery.
“Yeah.” Raffo had missed her mother every single day of the almost twenty years she’d been gone. “So, it was just me and my dad and my three brothers. Guess who had to do all the cooking at home from then onwards?”
“Oh, god.” Dylan slanted her head.
“You will never meet a more staunch defender of the patriarchy than my father,” Raffo said. “I was the only female left in the house, so I would do the cooking—and the cleaning, for that matter.” She paused to take a quick sip of water. “I cooked when my mom was ill as well, but that was different. I did it for her. She’d taught me how to cook a few dishes by then and I did it to help her, but… after she died.” Raffo shook her head. “I was so angry. All the Shahs are stubborn assholes, me included, and, well, there was a lot of fighting, which was, in the end, more an expression of our grief than anything else.”
“Oh, Raffo. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“I ran away from home when I just turned fifteen.”
Dylan did a visible double take. This information was not part of Raffo’s carefully curated artist biography, but she’d assumed Connor might have told his mother some things about her past. Either he hadn’t, which Raffo appreciated, or Dylan had an excellent poker face.
“Where did you go?” Dylan asked.
“The Rainbow Shelter. I’d read about it online and it seemed like my only option at the time.”
“The Rainbow Shelter? Why does that name ring such a bell?” Dylan knotted her shapely eyebrows together.
“They made a movie about it. About its founder, Justine Blackburn. Gimme Shelter. Did you see it?”
Dylan shook her head. “No, but I’ve heard about it.”
“It’s pretty safe to say Justine Blackburn saved my life.” Raffo could give her all the paintings she wanted, but she’d never be able to repay Justine for what she’d done for her. But Justine was not the kind of person who needed—let alone accepted—payment for any of her actions. That’s not why she did what she did.
“Jesus, Raffo. I’m stumped for words. I’m sorry about your mother dying so young and… your family not…”
“Being better?”
Dylan nodded. “What about your brothers? Didn’t they help you?”
“No. Not really. They weren’t allowed to. My dad… he went nuts after my mom died. He couldn’t cope. He just could not cope.”
“Is he still alive?” Dylan asked.
“Oh, yeah. He found himself a new wife-slash-servant, but we’re not really in touch. He doesn’t approve of my ‘lifestyle’ and that pertains to both my choice of partner and what I do for a living.”
“And your brothers?”
“They come to my openings sometimes, but it’s all very… businesslike. We haven’t been able to mend things between us. As a family, we didn’t heal after my mom died. It just wasn’t in the cards for us. It all just went to shit.” Even though it had happened so long ago, Raffo had to swallow a lump out of her throat. “My youngest brother, Rishi… A sister knows—I just know he’s gay, but he’s married to a woman and has two kids.” Raffo expelled a deep sigh. “I’ve always known, but now he’s just another self-loathing homophobe. It’s so sad.”
How was that for not flirting? Dylan hadn’t touched the delicious salad she’d made since Raffo had started talking—neither had Raffo.
“Jesus,” Dylan muttered.
“I’m sorry for, um, bringing down the mood like that. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to explain…” Raffo took hold of her fork, more as a statement than anything else. “I’m fine now. Well, except for my girlfriend dumping me, but the rest of it all happened nearly twenty years ago.”
“You’re so strong.” Dylan leaned back in her chair. “I’m in complete awe of you.”
“Don’t be. My life is like so many other people’s. Ups and downs. Good things and bad things.”
“No.” Dylan shook her head vehemently. “You were thirteen, Raffo. And no one was there for you. That’s not okay.”
Raffo waved off Dylan’s comment with her fork. “My mom made me promise her, on her deathbed, that I’d go to college. That I’d work hard in high school so I could get a degree. I would have left home earlier if I hadn’t made her that promise, but I soon learned that I didn’t have time to do my homework if I stayed. So I left before finishing high school. Justine made sure I got my diploma when I was at the shelter, but I never went to college. I broke that promise to my mother.”
Dylan dabbed at her eye. “Any mother would be immensely proud of you.”
Raffo would never know—could never know—but she still felt, in her heart, that her mother would be proud of the work she did, despite her not going to college, and not becoming an engineer like Rishi, or a doctor, like her two older brothers.
“Thanks for saying that. I appreciate it.” Another gear change—and a mood shift—was in order. “Just like I appreciate the hell out of this salad. Good thing it can’t get cold.”
“Forget the salad.” Dylan looked at her, her eyes all moist and soft. “I just really want to give you a hug, unless you think that’s inappropriate.”
Raffo could do with a hug right about now. If only for all the motherly hugs she’d gone without since the tender age of thirteen. Because that’s what this hug would be—motherly.
“Okay.” She stood, closing the distance between them. Dylan’s arms enveloped her, and Raffo allowed herself to soften, her own arms finding Dylan’s waist. The embrace was kind and lovely and warm—just like Dylan—and exactly what the moment called for. Though part of her wanted to linger in that comfort, Raffo pulled back after a few seconds.
“I don’t want pity,” she said. “I just wanted you to understand why I hate cooking—where that deep dislike comes from.” She offered Dylan a soft smile. “Now let’s eat this gorgeous salad you made. It’s the least I can do.”
Chapter 12
And so the evening—and Dylan’s clandestine stay in Big Bear—had taken another turn. Dylan couldn’t help but feel compassion for thirteen-year-old Raffo. That’s why she’d wanted to give her a hug. It was already excruciating to lose your mother to cancer at that age, but then to also have to deal with a father like that. To not have a parent capable of comforting her—of parenting her. It was infuriating. But it was also a miracle that Raffo sat opposite her—that this was who that girl had become. This beautiful, successful woman who, though heartbroken, seemed so at peace. Like a testament to the astounding resilience of humans—well, some humans.
“Every time I sell a painting, ten percent goes to the Rainbow Shelter.” Raffo had started on her salad again, eating it with the same gusto as her eggs this morning. “But don’t worry, I won’t ask you to donate ten percent of what I think the painting of you will be worth.” She chuckled and it was such a joy to hear the sound of Raffo’s understated laughter again, after what she’d just confided in Dylan.
“I would if I could.” Dylan’s financial woes paled in comparison to Raffo’s childhood trauma. “Back when I was still gainfully employed, I donated to a few queer charities. And I made sure whichever agency I was with took on campaigns for queer organizations, often free of charge.”
“I’m sorry if I forgot,” Raffo said, “but I’m not sure I know what it is you do.”
“I’m in advertising.” Dylan drank from her water. Maybe she should have talked about her job earlier, instead of professing her bisexuality. “I quit my job a few months ago to go on a sabbatical. For my ‘Eat-Pray-Love journey’ to Europe that never happened. After that, for my last professional hurrah, and with the money I made from my crypto-investment, I wanted to start a brand-new agency. A small start-up like the one that gave me my first job as a fresh-out-of-college copywriter many years ago. Work with a bunch of young people on some exciting projects, like a sort of full circle moment for my career, before retiring.”
“That sounds like it would have been an amazing plan.”
“Yeah.” Dylan glanced at her house, then at the lake. “I could still do it, but only if I sell this house.”
“A place like this would go for how much?” Raffo pursed her lips. “A million?”
“Realistically, in today’s market, around eight hundred.” Dylan’d had the property valued already. “It’s gorgeous, but not very big.”
“So you have a choice to make.”
Dylan nodded. “I could also go back to a more corporate role like the ones I’ve had the past decade. I was the CEO at a big agency for six years before I quit.”
Raffo whistled through her teeth. “That sounds like it would bring in a bit of cash.”
If it had been anyone else, and perhaps under different circumstances, Dylan would have been flummoxed, perhaps even annoyed, by this kind of directness, but after three days in Raffo’s company, she already knew this was how she was.
Dylan nodded. “I lost a lot of money, but I’m not poor. I have my house in West Hollywood as well.” Dylan cast her eyes downward. “Hiding out here is more of an ego thing, although losing all that money hurts a lot, and not just because of my ego.”
“Would it be difficult to find a new job?” Raffo asked.
“No.” Dylan had an inbox full of inquiries from headhunters. She had forty years of experience in a cutthroat business and she was damn good at her job. “But being CEO for another five years, or however long I choose to work, doesn’t appeal to me anymore. The hours. The stress. The endless meetings.” And, as she had recently had the misfortune of finding out, her wayward handling of funds—not something Dylan had ever worried about before, but couldn’t help but be conscious of now. She had to be.
“I’d love to see some of the campaigns you worked on before you became the big boss.”
“That can be arranged.” Dylan relaxed in her chair. “How about tomorrow?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Raffo stretched her arms above her head. “That hike this afternoon really took it out of me.” She rested her gaze on Dylan. “But I don’t feel like going to bed yet. Shall I build a fire?”
“Why not?” Dylan rose. “How about another glass of champagne as a night cap?”
“Why not, indeed?” Raffo’s wink caught the twilight as she made her way to the fire pit.
“I have a burning question,” Raffo said, poking at a glowing log.
“About the fire?” Dylan’s lips curved into a teasing smile.
“No,” Raffo said matter-of-factly.
“Shoot.” Dylan settled deeper into her chair.
“Who were the two women you’ve been with?”
Dylan huffed out a deep-throated chuckle. Raffo sure could come up with a killer question. Although Dylan had left the door wide open for this particular one.
“Well.” Dylan savored a sip of champagne, letting the memory surface. “The first one was in college—cliché of all clichés, I know. Her name was Alex. She was a TA, a few years older than me. Nowadays, what we did would be more than frowned upon, but I didn’t mind one bit forty years ago.” Dylan hadn’t thought about Alex in decades, that’s how far away the memory of her first time with a woman was stashed. “It ended when I graduated and moved to LA.”
“How long were you and Alex together?” Raffo appeared relaxed, her ankle on her knee, her glass of champagne on the armrest of her chair, her body angled toward Dylan.
“About five months, if I remember correctly. God, it was so long ago.”
“What was she like?” Raffo really wanted to know everything.
“So fucking hot.” Dylan chuckled. “I know how shallow that sounds, but I was twenty and very horny.”
“Can you describe her to me?” Raffo asked.
“You want me to describe my first girlfriend to you?”
“If you don’t mind. You did say she was ‘fucking hot’. I guess I’m curious what that means to you.”
“Fair enough.” Dylan could still easily picture Alex and she wondered what she would look like now—and what she was doing. “Short, dark hair. Brown eyes. Such a friendly face with a big smile. Not overly, um, feminine. She had this walk… I couldn’t look away from it if I tried. I loved seeing her dash across campus. Alex Petrovski.” Dylan made a mental note to Google her later, just out of curiosity.
