SOFTWARE UPDATE
By Emma Anne Tate, continuing a story by Ricky
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CHAPTER THREE
May 27, 2023

When we have company, I curb my normal desire to sleep in. Sara was still up first, but I wasn’t that far behind her. When I was dressed, I followed the sound of low conversation, and found Sara and Avery sitting on the sun porch.

“Good morning,” Sara said. “What had you up at all hours?”

“Just a touch of insomnia.” I gave her a look that said, “later.” “What are you two drinking, and would you like a refill?”

Avery rose. “I’m drinking some of your Darjeeling Tea, but don’t worry about it. I prevailed on Sara to let me get breakfast underway, so I’ll refill my own.”

Sara stood as well. “Avery says breakfast is her specialty.”

“Great! I assume you made a pot?”

“Addict,” Sara replied fondly. “Of course I did.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee and got a refill for Sara, and we chatted with Avery as she nosed around the kitchen seeing what she had to work with.

“I had a boyfriend in college who was a real foodie. Miguel. I learned a lot from him. My folks are more grab-and-go kind of people, so it was an eye-opening experience.”

“From the sounds of it, Miguel’s not in the picture anymore?” Sara put just a hint of a query in her words.

“No.” Avery shook her head, while continuing to hunt through our cupboards. “I had a series of boyfriends – Miguel was early on! – but somehow they never worked out. Peter, my last boyfriend, was the one who helped me realize that I’m not a gay man, like I’d always thought.”

“And Peter wasn’t interested in a hetero transwoman?” I surmised.

“Nope. But he was sweet about it. And honestly, I owe him a lot.” She emerged from the pantry with some cans of black beans, looking very pleased with herself. “Tell me you have tortillas.”

“We have tortillas,” I said automatically.

Sara, who knows me too well, rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. You have no idea.”

“Avery asked me to tell her something, so I did. She didn’t ask if we have tortillas.”

Sara appealed to Avery. “See what I have to live with?”

“I feel your pain!” Avery laughed.

“Humph!” I said. “Well – not that you asked or anything – but we actually do have tortillas. Which I actually do know, ’cuz I did the shopping.”

Avery started rummaging in the fridge. “Anyhow, I’ve avoided romantic entanglements for the past couple years while I sorted myself out. And I figure, I might be better off getting through transition before I try again.”

“A bit lonely,” I ventured.

“Yes . . . but it’s actually been good for me. I needed to stop hiding from my problems, or looking to other people to make them better. And besides . . . I found BC. That’s really been a game-changer for me.”

Sara looked intrigued. “Writing? The community?”

“Both, absolutely. I enjoy writing, for sure. And it helps me work out problems. Think through things. I put my characters in situations, and see how they react to them.”

“You make it sound like you're an observer, rather than the prime mover,” I said.

“Sometimes I feel like an observer. Once the characters have gotten developed a bit, they seem to have minds of their own.” She pulled the eggs and a block of cheese out of the fridge and closed the door. “Grater?”

I got the cheese grater from the drawer where it’s kept. “Let me handle this part for you.”

“By all means!” She presented me with the block of cheddar before returning to her point. “Anyway. The writing’s definitely part of it, but the community’s the real draw for me. I knew it, when I started reading the stories other people posted, and exchanging comments and messages. These are my people. I belong. I’d never felt that before. Not anywhere.”

“I definitely saw that,” I responded. “It’s a special place.”

“So, you checked it out?”

“Sara asked me to read all of your stories, so I did.”

“Ha! That explains it! I saw on the author’s tab for my stories that every one of my old posts was getting read. You didn’t leave any comments, though.”

“I don’t have an account. Didn’t seem to need it, for what I was doing.”

“Oh! Yeah, we call that ‘lurking.’ Don’t worry; I did it too after I first ran across the site. I was just enjoying reading TG fiction – it was a real revelation to me. Then one day I had this crazy idea for a story. I’d never done anything like that. So I came up with a pen name, signed up and posted it. And people were so nice to me.”

“Was that Mister Butterfly?” I asked.

“Right!” To Sara, she explained, “It was this quirky solo using Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream idea, except the man dreamed he was a woman, and couldn’t figure out which was real life and which was dream.”

She leaned her palms on the counter and smiled at the memory. “Anyhow, it hadn’t been up for more than ten minutes when I had this lovely comment, welcoming me to BC and raving about my silly story. And it was from Rowena Redmond! I’d read some of her stories when I was lurking. And, I mean . . . damn! I, um. Well. You’ve read them, so you know! They were hot! I couldn’t imagine that she would have been interested in my scribbles . . . but she was.”

Anna chose that moment to wander out, dressed in the blue dressing gown, a towel turbanned on her head. “Do I hear my pen name being taken in vain?”

Avery grinned. “Would I do such a thing, you crazy bitch!”

“You? Never!” She smiled sweetly at Avery, then looked my way. “Rosie, I hate to ask, but despite your best efforts trying to teach me yesterday, I’m lost.”

I was delighted to see that Anna was relaxed, and apparently unconcerned that any of us, including her friend Avery, were seeing her without any makeup or padding. Yesterday had clearly done wonders for her. “Of course! If I can persuade Sara to cut the cheese?”

“Oh, just grate,” Sara growled.

I laughed, came round the island and slipped an arm around Anna’s waist. “Come on, girlfriend, let’s get you ready.”

She giggled. Girlishly.

I helped her with her breast forms, her wig and her makeup, keeping the latter light since Debbi was coming to do a salon for them all later in the morning. While I had her seated at the vanity, I asked, “So . . . was it worth the risk?”

“It was the most amazing evening of my life.” Her voice was hushed, filled with wonder. “I’ve never felt so comfortable. Like I was living in one of Chris’s beautiful stories!”

“Good! Close your eyes, now.” As I applied some eye shadow, I said, “Anna? You knew Tara without any introduction. You must have known what she looks like?”

“In general terms.”

“Okay, you can open your eyes.”

She did, and she gave me a questioning look.

Thinking back to her nerves the prior evening, I said, “You never had any trouble communicating with Tara woman-to-woman, knowing what she looks like. Why were you worried that things would change when everyone saw you?”

“It’s the damned profile pic, Rosie. Chris and Avery use their own pictures. Tara doesn’t have a picture at all. Mine, though . . . mine’s just a fantasy. A wish. I planted that image in people’s minds. Meeting them all, face-to-face . . . I felt like I’d been lying to them.”

I turned her head back and forth, and decided the makeup was good. “Even though you knew that they knew that you don’t look like the picture?”

“I know,” she sighed. “Kind of messed up, isn’t it?”

“It’s been my observation, over the years, that writers think too much.”

She giggled, and the giggle burbled into a full-blown laugh. “Ya think?!”

I managed to get her to sit still long enough to get her wig on. “Okay, girl. Salon this morning, so don’t go too fancy!”

She grew quiet, then said, “Rosie . . . I’m really looking forward to the salon, but . . . I’m going to guess that Tara isn’t. I don’t want her to feel left out.”

“I think I’ve got an idea for Tara,” I assured her. “So enjoy the salon, and don’t be feeling guilty, okay?”

“Okay.” She rose and, to my surprise, gave me a tender and very heart-felt hug. “Thank you.”

I squeezed her back, then left her to get dressed. The shower was going in Chris’ room, and I heard Tara’s voice coming from the kitchen.

Debbi had arrived – we don’t ask her to do her salon magic without feeding her – and it appeared that Avery had decided to make Huevos Rancheros.

“Top o’ the marnin’ to ya, Rosie me darlin’!” Debbi said, rolling out her faux Irish brogue. “And how’r those sweet strawberry curls of yours lookin’?”

“Probably got another three weeks left in them.” I gave her a welcome hug.

“Two, girl. Trust me!”

“Two, then,” I laughed.

She patted my cheek like a mother hen – ironic, since I’ve got a few years on her. “There’s me duck!”

“I’m liking the Irish, Debbi,” Tara chimed in. “But your Spanglish was maybe more in keeping with this morning’s feast.”

“Oh, sí, sí, Señora,” Debbi purred. “You are mucho correct. Mucho wise!” Her accent was actually pretty good, though her grammar was appalling.

“Exhausted your Spanish, haven’t we?” Sara inquired sweetly.

“Nonsense, Doña Sara!”

“I thought buona sera was Italian?” I asked plaintively.

“And anyway, it’s morning,” Sara said reprovingly.

“You know, both of you entrust me with your hair. Bad things could happen . . . . Just sayin’!”

We started getting the table set for breakfast and everyone was zipping around like mosquitoes in proximity to mammals. Anna emerged, wearing a crepe top in a light turquoise and – to my surprise - skinny jeans and sandals. But with the wig, the make-up, the padding, and the bra visible through the light fabric of the top, the overall look was still very feminine. Anna would never be a model, but she looked like she’d made peace with all that.

Chris was the last to emerge. She looked fresh, with no shadow of her hard night. Her short shorts and thin, ribbed top in a stretchy fabric emphasized every one of her hard-won curves. As we made our way to the table for breakfast, she touched my arm lightly and gave me a smile that contained a whole lot more gratitude than I deserved.

Breakfast was superb, and we all badgered Avery for her recipe. “That was one hundred percent Miguel,” she said. “He told me it was his grandmother’s recipe. He might even have been telling the truth, though that was the sort of thing he liked to make up.”

“Well, wherever he got it, it’s absolutely a keeper,” I said enthusiastically. I couldn’t afford to eat anything like that very often, but as a treat – as something to make when we had a houseful of guests – it was fantastic.

As we all got up to clear away the dishes, I pulled Tara aside. “Grab your coffee,” I said. “Something I want to show you.”

I took her out the back entrance, where there was a bit of a porch with what I always thought of as a snuggling swing.

She gave me a friendly smile. “Whatcha got?”

“I wasn’t sure how you felt about the whole salon thing. Obviously, if you want to participate, Debbi can do whatever your heart desires. Or you can hang out while she does her magic on the other girls.”

“I thought I might get my nails done, just for fun, but that’s it. I have the sense you had an alternative to propose, though?”

“It’s a lovely day, and we do have some nice walking trails. I don’t need to get anything done today, so I was wondering if you might like to join me for a ramble.”

Her smile softened. “It’s sweet of you to think of me, Rosie. If you're sure you aren’t needed here, I’d love to take a walk with you.”

“Fantastic! I recommend pants or shorts rather than skirts, but sneakers are fine. That work for you?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get changed up as soon as we’re done clearing breakfast.”

We went back in and found that many hands had already taken care of the mess from breakfast, so both Tara and I went to get changed. I went with a skort, a tank top and a floppy hat, while Tara wore regular guy-style jeans, but with a peasant blouse over a camisole.

“I love to walk,” she said cheerfully, “but I’m not going to miss a moment of my girly time. And, just for the record, my panties look like something Anna would design!”

The kitchen and dining room were already smelling as bad as a munitions factory when we took off, and all of the girls were chit-chatting excitedly. It was good to see Anna looking so relaxed and happy in the midst of all of the fluffing.

Fifteen minutes later, the house was gone from sight, sound and smell. The trail wound through woods and wildflowers, sometimes climbing, sometimes slipping down into a narrow valley. I got Tara talking about her work and her life. She was good company.

“You mentioned last night you were out to your wife,” I said. “I assume not at work?”

“No. I don’t dress outside the house, except when I go to a trans conference. And those are usually both discreet and far out-of-town.”

“Maybe not too discreet, in the era of cell phones, cameras and social media.”

She shrugged. “If it happens, it happens. My life’s simpler the way it is, but I can deal with it if it gets out. Laugh it off, mostly. The advantage of being ugly that people will laugh. No-one’s going to think I was trying to pass!

“Tough humor,” I said.

“It works. Long as Sally’s with me, the rest of the world can hang if it comes to that.”

“Has she always known about your dressing?”

“Yup. She was pretty shocked when I first told her about it, twenty-five odd years ago. Needed a couple weeks to really mull it over. I don’t mean that she wasn’t speaking to me. Just . . . you know. She’d get quiet . . . thoughtful. And maybe ask a question or two, then change the subject. But after a bit, she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t care. And, near as I can tell, she doesn’t.”

“You don’t have kids?”

She was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “We had a little boy . . . but he got a crazy childhood disease and died when he was five.”

I stopped. “Oh, my God! Tara, I’m so sorry!”

She looked away and her eyes turned inward, searching for what could only be seen in memory. “He was a sweet boy. Never got old enough to be real trouble, you know? There were times I didn’t think Sally and I would make it, after Ben died. But we did. I learned a lot about love, that year.”

“About love?” I must have sounded stupid.

“I was hurting so bad. Sally too. And we couldn’t heal ourselves, or each other. We were just spiraling down – and apart. That was me, mostly. But I learned that sometimes, love means just being there. Even when that’s all you can do. Being there, facing it together. And that’s what we did. What we still do. Every day.”

“I don’t have that kind of wisdom,” I confessed, thinking about my prior night’s vigil.

She looked at me then, and her voice was gentle. “I hope you never need it.”

We were standing in a clearing filled with tall grasses and purple flowers. I took her hand and led her to the banks of a stream bubbled through the middle of it. “I always stop here; I love to feel the stream flowing over my feet.” I slipped out of my shoes and stepped into the water. It was still, in late May, bracingly cold, but after a moment it felt soothing. “Join me?”

Tara pulled off her shoes and rolled up the bottoms of her jeans, exposing muscular legs covered with bristly red hair.

We waded into the stream and stood together, feeling the pure, clear water flow over our toes, our feet and our ankles. High up in the light air, three raptors were riding thermals, looking for their next meal. After a bit, we adjourned to the banks of the stream, where some kind soul had put a bench. We sat, plunging our toes into the sand.

“Tara,” I said finally, “You describe yourself as a crossdresser, but you just feel so female to me. Like you’re everyone’s mother. Or, sometimes, their crazy aunt!”

She wiggled her toes. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

She smiled crookedly. “I’m absolutely convinced that it’s a nice thing to say! I love women, so I think it’s a compliment.”

“Do you feel like a woman?”

“It’s hard to, when I look like this. But it’s not just the looks. Construction is a man’s world, and I’ve never felt uncomfortable in it. And when I make love to Sally, I don’t feel like I’m a lesbian. So, there’s all that. . . . On the other hand, there’s just always been a part of me that’s been drawn to feminine things. I love the feel of womens’ clothes and always have. They make me feel alive. A little naughty. Sexy.”

She gave me a wink. “And that’s why I call myself a cross-dresser, and part of the reason I just have fun with it.”

I sensed there were things she wasn’t saying, so I tried just a tiny bit of a push. “But . . . ?”

She paused, thinking about my question. “It is more than just the clothes. I love the company of women, the conversations women have among themselves. I love the way that women care . . . the way that they love. All of that – it’s what I feel inside as well. The person I am, when I’m my best self. I know in my heart that my marriage wouldn’t have survived Ben’s death, if I hadn’t learned to love like Sally loves.”

“Your friends back at the house certainly relate to you as a woman.”

That made her smile. “They’ve been such a lifeline for me. All of them. Whenever I start to get caught up in my own pain, they help pull me back. But they’ve also been through a lot. Every one of them. We’re able to be there for each other. And every time I’m there for one of them, my own soul feels lighter.”

“Anna was petrified that none of you would be able to relate to her as a woman, once you saw her in person. But she knew – generally, anyway – what you look like. It never even occurred to her not to treat you like a woman.”

“She’s a softy, that one.” Tara grinned. “For all her characters are sex-crazed vixens!”

“Earthy sorts.”

“Is that what they call it?”

“Well, I don’t know. Who’s they?”

“Good point!” Seizing the mood change, she said, “Well, come on, darlin’, let’s see what other wonders your trails have to offer!”

We put our shoes back on and rambled some more.

As we hiked, Tara got a bit of my story, and Sara’s. “Quite the second courtship you two had,” she said.

“I guess it is a bit unusual that she only wanted me back in her bed once I’d learned to let my inner woman out.”

“‘Unusual.’ That’s a good word.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Was it a relief for you?”

“Nooooo,” I said slowly. “It was a process. Once she convinced me to dress as a woman and try to connect with my feminine side, I wanted to do it right. I’m a programmer; I can’t stand half-assed jobs. So I really worked on learning how to dress properly, do my makeup right. Debbi styled my hair. When I did all that, it really started to click. It felt right. Suddenly, I was much more comfortable presenting as female than as male.”

I smiled, savoring the memory. “I didn’t want to stop. Instead, I wanted to have my own curves. I took hormones, then had a little surgery here and there. Chest. Fanny and hips. Then it was the nose . . . then the voice . . . . One day, I woke up and said, ‘Rosie, what the hell are you waiting for? You wouldn’t have gone this far if you weren’t going to finish it.’ So I did. After talking to Sara, naturally.”

“You never saw your feminine side before then?” She sounded amazed.

“I can’t say I did. Sara saw it even when we were in school, but I was oblivious, I guess.”

“No regrets?”

“None. This is who I am. Who I’m meant to be.”

“It’s just amazing to me, given how certain you are – and thoroughly feminine you are! – that you didn’t have a clue until seven years ago!”

I thought about that for a moment, and a realization struck me hard. Shook me. “God, wasn’t that a blessing. Talk about ignorance being blissful.” My voice was low, and far harsher than I intended.

Tara looked startled. “Rosie?”

“You obviously know Chris’s story.”

Her expression immediately turned bleak. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Right. I was spared all that. I didn’t have a horrible childhood; I wasn’t all that different from anyone else. My parents didn’t reject me, or torment me . . . I had plenty of geeky, nerdy friends . . . I never hated my body, or wanted to end everything.”

I found that I had stopped walking, and the world around me was reduced to a golden blur. I could barely recognize my voice. “I just came up here when I was out of work and at my wit’s end, and a wonderful woman took me by the hand and showed me a better way to be myself!”

Tara was an indistinct figure surrounded by a crystal halo. “Rosie. Don’t feel guilty for being blessed.”

“It’s just so wrong!”

“I know, honey.” She pulled me in and hugged me, and her tears joined mine. My programmer’s mind understood that our tears fixed nothing. Changed nothing.

Did they need to?

* * * * *

Eventually we resumed our hike, and talked about subjects that were less emotionally fraught. We got back to the house a couple hours later, and Debbi insisted that Tara go and wash her smelly feet, then get a mani-pedi. Tara was jovial and funny about it, and professed herself delighted with her nails.

Debbi left after joining us for a light lunch and Sara laid out the programme for the rest of the day. While Saturday afternoons are usually free time on our weekend retreats, this time they were going to talk about writing, seriously and in depth. At 5:00, everyone was going back to their rooms to rest, refresh, and get dolled up for a fancy dress dinner. “And after that, ladies, we’re going to do some dancing!”

The house is open concept, and so I necessarily heard much of their discussion about writing, since I was in the kitchen doing prep work for dinner. I even contributed an opinion here and there, when asked to. And got some gentle ribbing when I confessed to my “lurking.”

Yet the high secrets of their craft I shall not divulge, nor shall I share their thoughts about the frustrations writers face. On their own, beyond the supervision of the ever-vigilant Peredhel, they let down their hair (both natural and artificial). On one or two occasions – brief and inconsequential, to be sure – their comments might be judged to have fallen a bit short of the strictest interpretation of BC’s three golden rules.

All things considered, though, the discussion was both productive and focused on ways to improve their work. Where do you begin a story, and how do you know you picked the wrong place? How do you nail the ending without “happily ever after?” How do you prevent sag in the middle of a story? Pluses and minuses of different narrative styles. How to improve dialogue. While Sara’s expertise received a great deal of deference, she was equally keen with her own questions. The give-and-take was fascinating, and – amazingly – no-one’s ego got bent out of shape.

Dinner was coq-au-vin, and I pretty much had it all under control by 5:00 when, with great reluctance, they wrapped up. Sara spelled me in the kitchen, and I joined Anna in her room to help her get ready.

Courtesy of Debbi, Anna’s make-up was sublime and only needed minor repairs. Her nails had been painted a striking shade of royal blue, and her eye shadow brought out similar tones.

We went through the closet together and she fell in love with a full-length silver A-line gown with sheer, translucent sleeves and a crew neck. The embroidered bodice was tight and required that she use a corset. Naturally, we had a classic whale-bone style; the notion of wearing such a garment made Raunchy Rowena positively squeal with delight. She squealed again when I tightened the laces. Especially the third time.

I’m sure that was from delight, too.

After seeing how the dress looked with her narrowed waist, we swapped out her padded panties for something slightly more substantial, and changed her breast forms from a C cup to a D. The girl is 6’2” in her stocking feet; I knew she could pull it off!

We also decided to change her wig, so her hair was styled in an elaborate up-do that did a nice job accentuating her neck. Fortunately, she had a neck that could withstand scrutiny! A pair of two-inch heels (it’s the principle of the thing!), a couple sparkly rings, and she looked perfect.

She gave me a huge smile and said, “Now run along and get dressed, Rosie. I’ll just practice walking in these beautiful heels!”

“And checking yourself out in the mirror!”

“Yeah,” she said with a goofy grin. “That, too. Now scoot!”

I scooted.

Dinner was lovely. We sparkled – we really did! Sara, trim, fit, and without an ounce of sag on her, can still pull off a slip dress and look stunning. The lady in red. I wore an emerald green body con dress because, after HRT and surgery and diet and exercise, I bloody well can. Tara wore a loose-fitting gold gown with flowing sleeves, which she carried off with a devil-may-care smile. Chris styled in a backless black dress with a pencil skirt, while Avery went with a jewel-tone blue satin dress with a calf-length asymmetrical skirt. Debbi had put soft, honey-gold highlights in Avery's medium brown hair, transforming it into a wavy, curly, sensual banner.

Before we could begin, Tara tapped on her glass. “My turn to propose a toast. To Sara and Rosie, the perfect couple and the perfect hostesses.” Our guests drank our health, then they all rapped utensils on their glasses like drunken guests at a wedding, until Sara, laughing, came round to my side of the table and gave me a kiss that was worth buying tickets to see.

I fluttered my mascara-laden lashes and gave a breathy, “Oh, my!” when I finally came up for air, sounding just like Annie Davoy. At least, I tried to.

The chicken was perfect, the white burgundy paired beautifully and flowed plentifully, and the conversation was merry and bright. Tara led with Peter Whimsy’s wit and charm, Anna parried with sultry asides and double entendre, Chris was a font of kindness and Avery was a character. From the head of the table, her eyes sparkling in the warm candle light, my wife beamed with pleasure.

We cleared the dishes but left them in the kitchen, both to spare our finery and to get to the main event. We had cleared the coffee table from the living room before everyone went off to get changed, so we had ample room for dancing. Sara is, naturally, an excellent dancer and has ensured that I’m competent. Chris was the least experienced of our guests, and Avery and Tara both had somewhat more enthusiasm than skill. Anna, surprisingly, turned out to be accomplished and graceful.

Sara started us with goofy line dances – dances that are popular, in part, because women are much more willing to dance than men and thus want dances that don't require partners. Acting as the “dance motivator,” she demonstrated how the simple elements of a dance like the Macarena can be sexy as hell when they are executed with style, and with that specific intent. The way she placed one hand, then the other, on her ass cheeks would have earned at least an “R” rating from the motion picture academy!

Of course, we all followed along, feet turning, hips swaying, arms beckoning, laughing our hearts out.

After that, we did some swing dances, with Sarah, Anna and I each pairing up with one of our less experienced friends. We did the sort of fast, free-form contemporary dances that everyone knew. We did slow dances, switching up partners. We took breaks and had cake and champagne, then went back and danced some more. It was low lights and music, the swirl of colorful dresses, the percussion of heels and the rustle of skirts. It was perfume and smiles and laughter.

It was marvelous.

At 11:30, Sara stopped the music. “All of you – this has been so much fun! I want to say, like Eliza Doolittle, that I could dance all night and still beg for more. But I’m not twenty any more!”

“Here, here!” said Anna. Tara gave her two thumbs up.

Sara continued, “Here’s my suggestion. Go hang up your finery, get dressed for bed, but put on slippers and a robe, and let’s take care of the kitchen. With the six of us it’ll be quick, and we won’t have to wake up to a mess!”

There are probably few things that are more of a quintessential female bonding experience than taking care of the kitchen together, dressed for bed. Everyone was chatting happily, still excited, still filled with the magic of the evening.

On top of which, we got the kitchen spotless.

After everyone retired, I went down the hall and tapped quietly on Chris’s door. She said something indistinct, so I opened it and poked my head in. “Got a sec?”

She was already in bed, looking as tiny as a child. “Of course! Come on in.” She patted her bed.

I sat and took her hand. “Will you be okay, tonight?”

Her smile was warm. “I’d like to say ‘of course,’ but the truth is, I never know.”

“I wish I knew how to help.”

“You can’t fix this, Rosie. But I’m surrounded by love in this house.”

“And even with that, we can’t keep the darkness out.”

“Of course you can’t; I bring it with me. My shadow. But love helps me deal with it. Does that make sense?”

“Why do I feel like you're the one who’s giving comfort?”

“Because right now, you’re the one who needs it.”

I squeezed her hand and rose. “Rest you gentle, Chris.”

“Good night, Rosie.
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CHAPTER FOUR
May 28, 2023

I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night this time, but the sound of Sara’s shower brought me back from the land of nod. I decided to start the day with a commendable spasm of virtue, so I hopped out of bed, got my dressing gown and slippers on, and went off to make my darling some coffee. I would, of course, make myself some as well, but that was just a coincidental effect. It would have been wasteful, after all, not to take advantage of efficiencies of scale.

I was surprised to find Avery awake – it was just past 6:00. She was, certainly without knowing it, sitting where Sara sits most mornings, a laptop open on a small table in front of her. I heard her muttering to herself and smiled. Her behavior was completely normal in our house, and I knew not to interrupt it.

I went into the kitchen, got the kettle going, and fished out both the ground coffee beans and the tea bags. While the kettle was heating, I put a bag of Darjeeling into a stoneware mug and put coffee into the French Press. Everything was ready in minutes.

I brought the tea to Avery and set it on the table next to her laptop, saying nothing, but touching her shoulder gently. She reached up and pressed my fingers in gratitude, but continued muttering at her screen.

I pushed the plunger on the French Press, poured mugs for Sara and me, then took them back to our bedroom. Sara was standing in the middle of our bedroom wrapped in a delightfully small towel; she beamed when I showed up appropriately encumbered.

I paused to appreciate the show. “Pretty dress!”

“Coffee first. Talky second,” she replied, grinning.

I gave her one of the mugs and got a light kiss in return. When she’d had a couple sips, she said, “Thanks, Sweetie. You’re up early!”

“Turns out not. I’m third at best, which puts me in the middle of the pack.”

“Really? Who else is up?”

“Avery. Looking and sounding suspiciously like my favorite author.”

“I hope you didn’t inadvertently rip her clothes off.”

“That’s something that pretty much has to be done advertently.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It happens in probably sixty percent of your novels!”

“Closer to eighty percent, I’d guess. Still doesn’t mean I’ve ever tried to do it.”

“Then, you should definitely defer to my expertise. I do recall doing it on at least one occasion.”

“Really? Was I present?”

“I thought it was you. But perhaps, as you suggest, it was another author.”

“I love the sound of persiflage in the morning!” She inhaled exuberantly, straining the tuck of her towel. “It reminds me of . . . coffee!” So reminded, she took a long pull, then set her cup down on her bedside table. “So Avery is writing?”

“Open laptop, fierce concentration, muttering.”

“All the classic symptoms, certainly. I concur with your diagnosis. I assume you got her tea?”

“I did.” I set my cup down and took Sara in my arms. “Was it what you hoped for?”

“The weekend? Absolutely. I mean, the salon’s a pretty set piece – though I thought Anna was too cute for words. But the afternoon and evening were amazing.”

I kissed her lightly. “I love to dance with you.”

“Yeah.”

She was softened up enough, so I gave a sharp tug and dispensed with her little towel.

“Crazy girl.”

I ran my hands lovingly over her soft, smooth skin. “Guilty.”

She gave me another kiss, then a longer one, before breaking away. “Later, I’m afraid. Duty calls us both.”

“I’m sure it’s a wrong number.”

“Go on, now,” she said fondly. “Into the shower with you. You can fill me in on your talk with Tara while we get dressed.”

With great reluctance, I went and got cleaned up. I told her about my talk with Tara, as well as my encounter with Chris Friday night, and my discussion with her before bed Saturday.

“So you were right about those two stories,” she said.

“Yeah. I mean, not exactly autobiographical, since Andy commits suicide at the end of The Back of His Hand. But a lot of the horrid details are clearly real and personal.”

“That poor woman!” Sara put a comforting hand on my bare shoulder. “It’s really weighing on you, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “It is. Chris . . . Tara . . . even Anna, with all of her angst. They are sweet, lovely people, and they are dealing with so much.”

“And you want to help?”

“Yeah. But I’ve got nothing.”

She turned me around and hugged me gently. “I think they would disagree, Sweetie. While you were off with Tara yesterday, Anna and Chris both made a point of getting me alone to tell me how wonderful you are. I didn’t ask for details, since I figured they’d tell me what they were comfortable telling me. But whatever you did meant a lot to them.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Sara brushed my cheek with the back of her fingers. “Rosie, my love, your programmer’s mind and fixer instinct are invaluable. I lean on you for that all the time, and you know it. . . . But under that fine mind, you have a tender, loving heart, and you need to value it. Being present, opening your heart – there are times where it’s the only thing that matters.”

“It feels useless.” My voice was barely a whisper. “And it hurts!”

“I know, Sweetie. I know.” She stroked my hair soothingly. “And I can’t fix that. But I’ll always be here for you.”

I chewed that over, trying to get my supposedly “fine mind” to help. It did matter to me – made all the difference in the world! – knowing that Sara was here and loved me. Unless my reaction was unique, and I had no reason to believe it was, it followed logically that other people derive the same comfort from a loving, caring, presence. Tara and Chris had each, in their own way, said the same thing. Moreover, all four of our guests affirmed that BC offered them a community of caring that had helped them get through dark times and difficulties. Ergo.

I was forced to conclude that the idea had merit.

It still hurt. “Software makes more sense.”

“If you say so.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “Well, I’d better get out there. If presence is all I can offer, I’d damned well better be present.”

“That’s you. A regular Christmas Present.”

“Or the ghost thereof.”

“Scarcely.” She handed me a colorful blouse. “Let’s get you properly wrapped.”

“I’d rather you finished getting me unwrapped.”

“Later. I promise.” She kissed me again and said softly, “I’ll be right there with you, girlfriend.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah. That.”

We finished getting dressed and left our sanctuary. Avery was still typing and muttering, and the kitchen had been commandeered again, this time by Tara.

“Morning, sleepyheads! Or is it lovebirds?” She gave us a cheerful grin and she swirled a whisk in a bowl of batter.

“I’ll have you know I was already in here, making coffee!” I said with mock asperity.

“Ah. So, it’s lovebirds, then. Cool!” She laughed at my blush, then shook the whisk at me. “But you didn’t leave any coffee for me, and I’m certain that whatever is in Avery’s mug is either gone or gone cold.”

“I am suitably reproved,” I said gravely. “Now scoot over and let me get at the kettle!”

Sara wandered over to where Avery was sitting and retrieved her mug. Based on how Sara was holding it, Avery had remembered to drink it. She took a brief look over Avery’s shoulder at her screen, smiled, and came back to the kitchen.

“I’m guessing a refill is in order,” she said, handing me the empty mug.

“And for you as well?”

“Well . . . yes. But not that tea stuff.”

“Why should this morning be different from every other morning?” I turned to Tara. “Coffee? Tea? A Bloody Mary?”

“Don’t tempt me, woman!” Tara replied, her eyes dancing. “Coffee, white and sweet if you would.”

“Coming up.”

Sara asked our impromptu chef if she’d heard either Anna or Chris stirring.

“Oh, they’re both awake,” Tara said. “Though they’re still in their jammies. Well, Chris is in her jammies. Anna, naturally, is in something more scandalous and less fabric-ous.” She pointed out the window that faced toward the back porch.

Sara and I went to the window and had a look. They were both sitting on the snuggle swing; the petite Chris was tucked into Anna’s shoulder, and Anna’s cheek was resting on the top of her head.

“Oh!” Sara said.

I looked at the two of them thoughtfully, considering my interactions with each of them. Chris’s PTSD; Anna’s closeted angst. “Yeah,” I said softly.

I felt Tara’s hand on my shoulder. “I thought so too,” she said. “They’ve been virtual friends for years now, and they’re good for each other. I’m glad they’re talking.”

“Well,” Sara said, smiling softly, “they can get dressed after breakfast.”

I pointed at the oblivious Avery. “That one, too. It’ll be like a sleep-over!”

“Don’t tell me you did sleep-overs!”

“Of course not,” I replied. “But I’ve read about them.”

“You. Reading! My little girl’s all grown up!”

I laughed and took care of the tea and coffee, while Sara set the table.

Tara had bacon and eggs going on the stovetop, and started pouring batter on the electric griddle. “About ten minutes,” she told me.

I gave Chris and Anna a couple minutes longer, then wandered out to get them. “Good morning, you two!” I said in a low voice as I stepped onto the porch.

Anna’s posture, her body language, and her expression all communicated a flood of love, care and tenderness. Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet with tears. Chris, her head on Anna’s chest, had her eyes closed.

Anna planted a soft kiss on the top of Chris’s head. “Come to fetch us?”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” I assured her. “But Tara’s got some lovely pancakes ready for us, and I doubt you’d want to miss them.”

Chris opened her eyes and smiled up at me without moving. “Good morning, Rosie! We’ll be right there.”

“Did you sleep okay?” I asked her.

“I did,” she confirmed. “I slept straight through, so I was able to get up early and spend some time with the crazy lady here.”

“I’m crazy?” Anna sounded amused.

“Anna,” she explained patiently, “one of your protagonists fellated the entire offensive line of her college’s varsity football team. At the same party, and very much of her own free will. Of course you’re crazy.”

Anna sighed dramatically. “Well, if you put it that way . . . .” She smiled down at Chris, kissed her feathery black hair again, and rose. “Come on, girl. Let’s see what Tara can do in the kitchen.”

Chris got herself up. “Thanks, woman. Plenty of nights, virtual hugs from you and Tara were all that kept me going. But there’s nothing like the real thing.”

Anna just smiled and nodded, clearly too choked up to speak.

Inside, Avery had finally been pried from her writing and was helping get all the food to the table.

Tara set down a plate of pancakes and waved us all over. “Come and get it!”

We complied with commendable alacrity.

“Damn! My pancakes don’t taste like this!” I said, impressed.

“I’m not really much of a cook,” Tara said apologetically. “But Sally’s not much of a morning person, and anyone in construction has to be. So I learned the basics.”

Anna leaned forward, her mischievous smile ameliorating her still-red eyes. “Okay, Avery! Dish! We all saw you were muse-bitten this morning!”

Avery giggled. “Just a little frolic. Honest!”

“Can you tell us? Or is it too soon?” Chris had a bit of a wheedle in her voice.

“Well . . . the idea is solid, I think. And you know the way my bitchy muse works. I’ll write it ’cuz I’ll get no peace otherwise. But I might not post it.”

Sara looked intrigued. “Do you do that often?”

“Never. Well, not so far! I’m usually willing to throw anything out there and see what people think.”

“But this one’s different?” I asked.

Avery’s smile was lopsided. “Yeah . . . it’s about some trans authors getting together for a weekend.”

Tara whooped. “That’s hysterical!”

Chris was laughing as hard as Tara.

Anna chuckled, then said, “Names changed to protect the innocent?”

“More like, to protect the guilty!” Tara quipped.

“Well, them, too, I suppose,” Anna said primly. “I mean, everyone knows Rowena Redmond is innocent and chaste. Can’t speak for the rest of you!”

Avery laughed along with everyone else. But she reached over and gave Anna a squeeze. “Honestly – all the characters are fictional. Completely. You won’t recognize any of them.”

“Awwww,” Tara pouted. “You’re no fun!”

“It’s right up your alley,” I said. “Characters, right?”

“Exactly!” Avery was suddenly excited, lost in her new story. “But also . . . I mean, think about it. Almost all of the characters in almost all of our stories are cisgendered and straight.”

“I’ve kind of noticed the same thing about the big, bad world,” I cautioned.

“Of course,” Avery said, nodding sharply. “But our dynamic this weekend was special. Sara’s the only one of us who is solidly cisgendered, and she’s married to a transwoman. I’ve literally never had an experience like this. So, just this once, I wanted to write about transwomen together, rather than alone. Relating to each other, not to the rest of the world.”

The table was suddenly quiet, digesting that radical idea.

Finally, though, Tara broke the silence with a chuckle. “Avery, you know I love your writing. The people, the dialog, the emotion – you really have a gift. But I am convinced that your greatest talent, bar none, is ferreting out the smallest sliver in our already tiny niche market to mine. Your whole audience might fit around this table!”

“I don’t care about that.” Avery smiled softly. “So long as it includes the five of you!”

”Awwwww!” Chris said. “Can I borrow that line?”

“You sticking with first person?” Sara asked, getting technical.

“Yeah. I mean, I tried third person. And the story was just fighting me, tooth and nail. I wasted three hours trying to write it in third person.”

“All that, huh?” Sara looked amused. Sometimes she deep-sixed months of work, though in fairness it was her day job. “When did you start this?”

“Oh, I woke up at 1:00 a.m. The idea was right there, you know?”

“Writers,” I muttered.

“So, your narrator.” Sara was smiling. “Just out of curiosity . . . is she smart? Caring? Sexy?”

Avery giggled and gave me a sideways glance. “Yeah.” Her eyes went unfocused, and she said, dreamily, “I think I’ll call her ‘Mary Sue.’”

Things kind of went downhill from there, and there were lots of suggestions, lots of ribbing, and lots of laughter. But Avery promised to let all of us beta test the story before she posted it.

“If only to scrub my character clean of all identifying traces,” Tara joked.

After we cleaned up from breakfast, Tara and Sara went out to the sun porch to chat, while the rest of our guests got dressed. I went back to give Anna a hand with her makeup and wig.

“Looked like you and Chris had quite the talk this morning,” I said as I smoothed a bit of foundation on her face.

“We did,” she agreed. “Except that we didn’t say anything.”

I remembered her red eyes – and my own, from Friday night. “Are you alright?”

She nodded. “More than alright. I’ve got my own problems, for sure, but . . . God, I’m lucky.”

“I know how you feel,” I said fervently. “I just wish . . . .” I lapsed into silence, knowing that thought just ended up in a cul-de-sac.

Anna understood. “Yeah. Me, too.”

Once her hair and make-up were set, I left her to make her own clothing selections. It was her last opportunity, and I was curious to see what she chose.

Avery came out, bringing her bag with her and setting it down by the front door before coming out to join us on the sun porch.

“I don’t want the weekend to be over,” she said, taking a seat. “Thank you both so much . . . I have never, in my whole life, felt such a sense of belonging.”

Sara smiled, warm and friendly. “I’m so glad you could come! When I had dinner with Tara and Chris back in February, I was sure that it would be a great experience. For all of us.”

Chris came out next; like Avery, she was dressed for traveling, though Chris was catching a flight and Avery had a long drive. Anna came out last, dressed in a light, flowing, floral-patterned cotton dress with a full calf-length skirt. It had three-quarter sleeves and she hadn’t bothered with tights or hose; presumably, she’d decided not to worry about her fairly sparse and extremely pale leg- and arm- hairs.

We all walked Chris and Avery out to their cars. Anna lingered with Avery a few minutes, talking quietly, while Tara wrapped Chris in a final, wordless, hug. Then they were off.

Tara put an arm around Anna’s waist and walked her back to the house, while Sara and I followed. Back in the living room, we sat and Anna said, “It’s going to be so hard, going back. But it’s a fabulous memory.”

Tara smiled at her. “You look good. Really. But even if you didn’t, did you really think we wouldn’t see the woman we’ve always known?”

Anna looked sheepish. “Is it so crazy?”

“You’re asking me?” Tara giggled.

“I wish I had your self-assurance,” Anna confessed. “You just aren’t bothered by it.”

“Oh, honey! It doesn’t work like that! Of course it bothers me. But I’m so hopeless physically, at least as far as passing is concerned, that my choices are pretty limited. Basically, I can laugh, or I can cry.”

“And so you laugh,” I said, making it a statement.

Her smile was fleeting. “I’m all cried out, Rosie. Laughing’s all I’ve got.”

Anna gave her hand a squeeze, and the conversation moved to easier topics. We sat and talked the morning away. Anna and Tara had known each other the longest of our four guests, and their friendship clearly ran deep.

They were also fiercely protective of their younger friends. And, in an odd way, in awe of them. “It’s just amazing to me,” Tara said. “They figured out who they were, and marched in and got the help they needed. It wasn’t easy, but they did it.”

I wasn’t seeing the big deal. “It seems like a pretty logical response to gender dysphoria.”

Tara laughed, uproariously. “Rosie, you are so funny! Of course it’s logical. But you know the world doesn’t see it that way.”

“Some of this is generational, too,” Anna said. “Though I’d guess you’re pretty close to Tara’s age. Still, I’ve got twelve years on all of you. The fact that those twelve years matter so much gives you an idea of how far we’ve come, and how fast.”

“Given the anti-trans hysteria we’re seeing right now, it doesn’t feel like progress,” Tara said, shaking her head.

Anna was less gloomy. “I don’t want to sound like Pollyanna. Especially not when I think of stories like Chris’s, and she’s far from alone. But change creates reaction. The bigger the change, the bigger the reaction. You’re all old enough to remember 2004, when Karl Rove had the bright idea of getting gay marriage bans on the ballots in as many states as possible, to goose conservative turnout in the election.”

Sara grimaced. “Yeah. Bastard.”

“It worked, too.” Tara said, sounding sour.

Anna nodded. “Sure, in the short term. Which is all Rove cared about. Might have put W over the top; the election was a squeaker. But my point is, the reaction didn’t last. Barely more than a decade later, the politics were completely reversed. Gay marriage is the law of the land, and it’s so popular that it wouldn’t change even if the Supreme Court changed its mind.”

“You think that will happen for transgender issues too?” Tara sounded skeptical.

“Think?” Anna waggled a hand. “That might be too strong. But I hope so. Listen, I know trans people have been around forever. You know it. But our society made them invisible. Even our language hedged us out. When I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be with the girls, not with the boys. But I had no words to even describe what I was feeling. I just thought I was a freak.”

Tara stretched out a hand and gave Anna’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Never. But I know what you mean.”

“When I was older, I learned about people like Christine Jorgensen, but . . . you had to really hunt for information . . . and I grew up before the internet. Now, it’s everywhere. People are only just starting to adjust.”

“I hope you’re right,” Sara said. “I worry that reaction does win, sometimes.”

“At least trans people don’t have to feel so alone anymore.” Anna smiled crookedly. “Think of it this way. Erin started BigCloset in, what, 2004? Something like that? Avery would have been in high school; Chris would have been in grade school. I was forty. It’s a completely different world.”

Tara touched her arm again. “Born just a bit too early, were you?”

“No regrets, Hon. I have a good life, and I love my family. And, I have a community where I can be open about my gender issues, and good friends who enjoy my raunchy sense of fun.” Anna smiled warmly.

“I’m thinking . . . .” I paused, suddenly uncertain.

“Does it hurt?” Tara asked.

“Don’t let us stop you!” Anna giggled.

Sara looked at them approvingly. “I knew I liked you two!”

“A big, beautiful raspberry to the lot of you!” I threw up my hands, laughing. “I was just thinking, maybe I should join BC too. But, I can’t write.”

Tara laughed “It’s not just for authors! Somebody has to actually read our stuff.” With a sly grin, she added, “You could even drop a comment, now and then!”

Anna rolled her eyes, then gave me a very direct look. “Seriously, Rosie. You should. Stop lurking. Be part of our community. We’d love to have you. And I think you’d like it there.”

I felt a lump in my throat. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

We had a pleasant lunch, just the four of us, then it was time for them both to change for travel. Unlike Chris and Avery, they had to depart presenting as males. I got up to help Anna, but Tara waved me off. “We both need to do some grieving in the process, and we might as well do it together.”

The better part of an hour later, they came down the hall together, the barrel-chested man with the red beard, and the tall, older man with mostly silver hair. Anna looked subdued.

Tara worked to preserve a bluff front. “Will you be in Denver for the conference in November?” she asked Sara.

“Still up in the air,” my wife replied. “How about you?”

“God willin’ and the creek don’t rise! I hope I’ll see you there – both of you.” She gave me a grin.

I said to Anna, “I wish we could see you, too.”

Even presenting as male, the smile was pure Anna. “You know where to find Rowena, you naughty girl!”

We walked them to their cars, there were hugs and kisses all around, and we waved until they were out of sight.

“What great people,” Sara said. “We should have a writers’ weekend every year!”

“I’d like that.”

“Are you really thinking of joining BC?”

“I liked the four of them . . . a lot. I want to stay in touch.”

“I’m glad to hear it – but you’ve never been much of a joiner.”

“All of you made me think about this idea of being present . . . I mean, I get it, I guess. Like, I got the packet, you know? But it conflicts with a lot of my original programming. It’ll take me a while to work out all the bugs.”

“Geek!”

“Guilty. But I’m not even sorry about it, ’cuz it’s ‘Take Your Geek to Bed’ Day.”

“I’ve never heard of that one.”

“The Goddess of Geekastan just decreed it.”

“Really? You get to do that?”

I smiled. “Remember when you promised you’d unwrap me?”

“In the middle of the day? Good heavens! I think Rowena has corrupted you!”

“I certainly hope so!”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“Know it? Sara, I depend on it! ”

The End

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.