When she reached the front of the house, Gail was standing at the door, her hand resting on the brass *****.  She watched Bette, but said nothing.  Bette held the business envelope in her hand.

“Thank you for this.  It’s extraordinary.  Thomas Jefferson was…I – I don’t know.  Poetic?”

“He was passionate.  He spoke everything he was feeling and that’s why it sounds as fresh today as it did two hundred years ago; that’s why the appeal is universal.”

Bette stepped closer.  “He did a hard thing.”

“I doubt that he knew back then that people would be holding it and sharing it well beyond his future.  I think he probably thought he was just writing to himself or perhaps Mrs. Cosway.”

“It’s so hard to be out there like that.”  Bette stared at her.  To Gail, she seemed lost.  “I feel ridiculous.”

“I don’t see that.  Not in the least.”

Bette moved inside the house and looked around nervously.  The entire cottage was nautical-themed with ship’s portholes for windows, a large eight-spoke ship’s wheel was attached to one wall—navigating nothing, on another wall was a rusted anchor.  Also on the wall were professionally crafted boards that had nautical terms written on them: drifter, sea worthy, starboard, port, aweigh.  In the bay window at the far side of the guest house was an old ship’s bell, a navigator’s telescope, and a small lifeboat’s binnacle.  The family who owned the space had gone way over the point of tasteful to create this ship on land.  But Bette wasn’t there to look at the interior design.

She stood directly in front of Gail.  Bette, whose thin body was hidden under ten pounds of clothing, shook from the cold and the moment.  Slowly, slowly her eyes closed, her arm stretched out and her hand rested on Gail’s lower back.  She pulled her toward her and still, without opening her eyes, she pulled her closer and pressed her lips to hers.  Her hand moved from Gail’s waist to her shoulder, then the back of her head and her kiss deepened.  Gail’s mouth opened, her tongue pressed against Bette’s lips and then Bette’s lips parted.  Both hands came up to hold Gail’s head.  Bette’s hands captured Gail’s face, holding her in place as Bette kissed her the way she had dreamed.  Never had a kiss meant so much, been so dear, carried with it such truth.  When they finally stepped back, Gail sighed softly and her eyes were warm and filled with desire.  Bette, on the other hand looked like she had the fright of her life.  She was positively terrified.

“I’ve gotta go take care of some stuff.  I’ll be back.  Is that okay?–if I come back?”

“Yes.  I’ll be here.”

“It might be kind of late.”

“I’ll still be here.”

Bette left and drove back to New Haven.  She turned the radio on and heard George Michael croon, *‘Guilty feet have got no rhythm.  Though it’s easy to pretend, I know you’re not a fool.’*  She turned the dial on her radio off, puffing her cheeks as she exhaled deeply.  At a signal light, she dropped the visor to look in the mirror.  She wondered if she looked different, like a woman who was making the biggest mistake of her life or a woman who was about to experience something her subconscious mind had always longed for.  Nothing showed.  Her eyes were large and damp, her lips, two straight, tight lines across her face, her brow tense, but no one could tell that she’d kissed a friend and her smooth skin gave away no knowledge of what the next few hours held.

End Part Five