“I know,” Venus said, and Beebo sensed their mutual hopelessness. She embraced her and Venus began to cry. “When I saw him beating you tonight, I could have killed him,” she said, her voice rusty with tears. “It took all the meanness out of me. I just wanted to console you. Beebo, whatever happens to us, always believe that I loved you—I love you.”
“I promise,” Beebo said, but the past tense gave her a premonition of what was coming. “What do you mean, whatever happens?”
“I mean, the papers, and the rest of it. I have to deny everything, Beebo. I have to pretend you’re nothing to me. Oh, darling, understand why!” It was a declaration of love that struck Beebo’s heart.
“I understand,” Beebo said, and thought she did. But she didn’t get quite all of it. For Venus was saying goodbye to her. Beebo didn’t know that this loveliest night they would spend together would be the last. She had thought all along that when the end came, she would pick her own time and day to go; not that the whole thing would be out of her control.
Venus said nothing, did nothing, to spoil the night. She was silent about Toby, even though her heart contracted at the thought of him, and she ached to be beside him. She spoke only words of love to Beebo.
Beebo, surprised at Venus’s ardor, gave in at first to humor her, and finally found herself forgetting even the bruises and cuts on her body.
The night was mild and the stars were sprinkled thick as spilled soapflakes across the sky. Venus pushed aside the sliding door to her patio, and they danced out there a while on a rug of cool grass, moving with the music and the air and the three o’clock mocking bird, arch-deep in the tickling soft grass.
Beebo felt as if she could have held and loved her fabulous lady forever. When she leaned down to kiss Venus’s face, her cheek was wet.
“Oh, it’s nothing, darling,” Venus assured her. “I’m just a sentimental idiot. Say you love me and I’ll recover.”
“I love you,” Beebo said. “I love you, Venus.” And to her surprise, her mind was with Paula Ash for a moment. It staggered her a little. Venus stopped dancing and looked up at her in the moonlight. “Do you? Really?” she asked. It wasn’t just a woman’s endless need to be told over and over. It was the knowledge that she wouldn’t hear it again after this night had passed.
Venus loved her enough to hope that when she sent her away in the morning—for she would have to—Beebo’s wounds would heal and she would be able to think back on their love without the regret that rots so many sweet memories.
“Beebo, promise me one last thing, darling, and then I’ll shut up.”
Beebo squeezed her, turning her tenderly to the rhythm of a waltz. “I’ll promise you that moon on a platter if you want it.”
“Promise me you’ll remember this night as long as you live. Everything about it. The stars inches over our heads, and the music, and the grass, and…” The famous voice broke and she cried again.
Beebo picked her up and sat with her on a bamboo garden chair. “Darling, what’s the matter?” she demanded.
“Oh, Toby and—the damn gossipists. I don’t know. It’ll never be the same for us, Beebo.”
Beebo, full of apprehensions, had no comfort to offer her now, except to hold her tight. Then Venus slipped from her arms to the feathery grass and Beebo followed her down, and there were no more questions or tears or promises. Nothing but beautiful oblivion till the trespassing sun announced the morning.
Beebo awoke, a head-to-toe bouquet of blue bruises from the jolting Leo had given her. But it hardly bothered her. Venus had loved her so warmly all night that she was half-ready to hope they could work out some sort of compromise; half-ready to give in to more months of demoralizing secrecy, if it could be like that every night.
Venus called the hospital the moment she awakened, and they reassured her that Toby was no worse; in fact, seemed better.
She hung up, looking as blue as before her call. “Now we have to face Leo,” she said.
“He won’t eat you alive, honey,” Beebo said.
Venus paled suddenly. “Look!” she said, pointing at her dresser. Beebo saw the telltale glass, still coated with orange juice. “He’s already been in looking for trouble.” Venus stole a glance at Beebo, so young and handsome, so vulnerable to the worst ostracism society could offer; and her heart swelled. I can’t hurt her, she thought in anguish.
I’ve had twenty years of adulation and I’ve got more money than I’ll ever use. She began to wonder if she had the guts to go with Beebo after all. What the hell, I’ve never loved anybody like this before. Am I afraid to stick to the one person who knows how to make me happy?
It gave her the courage to try, at least, to defend Beebo against her formidable and stubborn husband.
While she was preoccupied with these thoughts the bedroom door opened. Beebo was just pulling her shoes on, sitting on the edge of the bed in her clothes of the night before. She stiffened, expecting Leo, but it was the corresponding secretary again. “Another telegram,” he said to her. “For you.”
“Thanks, Rod.” Beebo got up to take it and was about to open it when she heard him say, “Good morning, Mr. Bogardus,” and there was Leo. He dismissed Rod with a wave of his hand and Beebo stepped aside wordlessly to let him enter the bedroom. He had a lighted cigar—a bad sign—and another glass of orange juice
