Isabel

Author's notes: The characters in this story are bilingual; it can be assumed that their conversations are sometimes in English, sometimes in French, occasionally switching between the two. For clarity and the convenience of readers, all dialogue has been rendered in English.

This story begins approximately twenty years before many of the characters appear in The Adventures of Ranger Ramona.

CHAPTER ONE

The train pulled into the McGill Metro station and Isabel Saucier hopped off, looking at her watch. For once, she was not running behind, and would make it to her first class with as much as two minutes to spare. But as she stepped outside into the stinging winter wind, she rushed, as usual, down Sherbrooke Street toward the university.

As she neared the lecture hall door, she saw a tall, dark haired girl approaching on her right. She recognized her as being in her class. She quickened her pace, arriving at the door just before her. Their eyes met, and Isabel smiled and pulled the door open.

"Thank you," the girl said, stepping through. She looked back over her shoulder as Isabel followed her, and said, "You're in Higginson's Psych class aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm Isabel."

"Natalie," the girl said. They walked down the hall together, and when they arrived at their classroom, entered and sat down, side by side. Isabel slipped off her coat and draped it over the back of her seat. Natalie was wearing only a light jacket.

"You must have been freezing," Isabel said.

Natalie shrugged. "I just had to walk over from Laird Hall, so I was only outside for a couple of minutes. Do you live on campus?"

"No," Isabel said. "I live at home, with my sister."

"Oh, you are local?"

"Yes. You?"

"I'm from New Brunswick," Natalie said, "But I have fallen in love with Montreal. Are your parents here as well?"

"No," Isabel said, casting her eyes downward, "They were both killed in a car accident when I was thirteen."

"Oh, I am so sorry!"

"Thank you. My sister, Marianne, is nine years older than me. She has taken care of my brother and I ever since."

"I've always wished I had a sister."

Professor Higginson strode into the room, and loudly dumped a stack of books on his desk.

"Time to get bored," Natalie muttered.

She was correct. Isabel had thought Introduction to Psychology would be a fascinating class, but Professor Higginson's presentation was as dry at dust. As he droned on, her mind, and her eyes, wandered to Natalie.

She was quite pretty, and somehow gave off an impression of elegance. Most of the class were dressed in jeans, and so was Natalie, but her jeans hugged her long legs and were tucked into an immaculate pair of knee high black leather boots. Isabel looked down at her own scuffed snow boots and felt embarrassed.

When the class ended, they stood, and Isabel began to put on her coat. To her surprise, Natalie took hold of the collar and helped her into it.

"Thank you," Isabel said as they walked out. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Definitely," Natalie said, as she smiled and turned away.

When Isabel arrived home after her last class, she found a note Marianne had left for her, stuck by a magnet to the front of the refrigerator. "Working late," it read, "There is soup for you to warm for supper."

She grinned when she saw the note. She knew that her sister was most likely not really working late; one day, a year or so earlier, she had been home alone, idly poking around in Marianne's room, when she found a book on her bedside table titled "The Price Of Salt." Struck by the odd title, she had picked it up. The author's name was Patricia Highsmith.

She flipped through it, reading a bit here and there, and soon realized that it was a novel about a woman who was in love with another woman.

One passage in particular caught her eye. Highsmith had written, "She had heard about girls falling in love, and she knew what kind of people they were and what they looked like. Neither she nor Carol looked like that. Yet the way she felt about Carol passed all the tests for love and fitted all the descriptions."

She put the book back, but those words kept returning to her mind. She had not given any thought to the fact that Marianne had never had any boyfriends that she knew of, but always had very close girl friends.

Now she was curious, but she did not know how to approach the subject with her sister, so she kept her thoughts to herself.

A few weeks later, she was at the university library, and she remembered the book. She had not seen it again, and wondered if her sister may have hidden it. She found Highsmith in the fiction section, and there was a copy. She took it down off the shelf, but before she reached the circulation desk, began to feel anxious about checking it out. She ducked back into the stacks. Why should she be embarrassed about the book? Was it even likely that the librarian knew what it was about? Or would care who checked it out? Still, for some reason, she felt like just holding the book, letting her vision touch its pages, was stepping into forbidden territory. Looking around and seeing no one, she slipped it under her jacket and left the library.

She kept it hidden all the way home on the Metro, and slipped it past Marianne when she came in the house. She stashed it under her pillow and, that night, began to read it.

The next day was a rainy, dreary Sunday, and Marianne had a shift at the hospital. Isabel read all day, and had finished the book before her sister came home. As they ate dinner together, she wanted to ask Marianne about the book, but was afraid to bring it up.

That night, she could not get to sleep. There was so much that she did not understand, and her mind would not let her rest.

She'd been profoundly touched by Highsmith's story of women in love. It was very well written, the characters were well drawn and sympathetic, and the plot kept her turning the pages. But she'd read lots of good books and she couldn't think of any that kept her awake at night.

It was not hard for her to reconcile herself to the idea that her sister was very likely a lesbian. She would still love her, nothing would change that. But another question was forming in her mind. She thought of Highsmith's words about girls falling in love with other girls, and how they were not always the kind of girls you might imagine them to be, and she wondered if she might be one of them herself.

She dismissed the notion as preposterous. Her experiences with boys were limited, but that was because she found them shallow and immature, not for lack of physical attraction. She was only months away from college, and looked forward to meeting more interesting men. So, how could she be a lesbian?

But, there was another category, wasn't there? She'd heard people referred to as "switch-hitters" or "AC-DC's." People who "went both ways." That was possible, wasn't it? Or was that just a cop out, a way for people to deny their true desires?

It was all too much to figure out, and she tried to put it from her mind. The next day, she dropped the book into the return slot at the library, but the feelings it had brought to the surface lingered. When she started classes at McGill in the autumn, she had come to terms with the reality that she was just as interested in meeting girls to date as she was men. But in two years, she had not met anyone who attracted her enough to take that scary step, and if anyone had been interested in her, they had shown no signs that she could recognize.

But now, there was Natalie. She warmed up her soup and thought about her as she ate. She was very pretty, and carried herself with a cool, assured confidence that Isabel aspired to attain. But there was something more. Thinking about it, Isabel realized that it was the small gesture of helping her put on her coat. That was not something people normally did for someone they had just met, was it? It seemed intimate; perhaps it was that unknown signal she had been looking for.

What if you are wrong, Isabel wondered, what if she is just a very nice, but very straight, person? How is someone supposed to proceed in these matters? She had no answers, and considered asking Marianne. But, she reasoned, if Marianne was comfortable letting her know her secret, she would have revealed it.

She finished eating and washed her bowl. When she finished, she sat back at the table and spent the next couple of hours studying. She grew sleepy, but did not want to go to bed until her sister came home.

Marianne finally returned, shortly after ten.

"How was your day, sweetheart?" she asked as she kicked off her shoes.

"It was a good day," Isabel replied, unintentionally grinning.

"Oh? Something special happen?" Marianne asked, sitting down across the table from her.

Isabel shrugged. "Too soon to say."

Marianne smiled. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Isabel shook her head. "And you?" she asked, "Anything special to tell?"

"No," Marianne said, although there was a glimmer in her eye that seemed to say otherwise.

Isabel closed her text book and stretched. "I think I am ready for bed," she said. She stood up, and went to Marianne, bent down and kissed her cheek.

"Do you know," she asked, "That I love you very much?"

"I do," Marianne said, smiling up at her. " And do you know that I love you very much?"

"I surely do," Isabel said, "No matter what."

As she lay in bed, her thoughts drifted back to Natalie, and she let herself wonder what it would be like to hold her, to touch and kiss her. She knew there was much more than that to sex between women, but she was not prepared for her imagination to go to that length. Still, she felt a warm glow spread from between her legs, and used her fingers to satisfy herself, her mind filled with thoughts of kissing Natalie's soft lips and running her fingertips over her breasts.

****

Natalie was already seated when Isabel entered the classroom. She waved and beckoned Isabel to sit next to her. Professor Higginson began his lecture just as she sat and they had no chance to chat. But as he droned on, Isabel glanced over at Natalie several times. When their eyes met, Natalie smiled.

Once again, they walked out together at the end of the class. This time, however, they lingered in the hallway, spending a few minutes talking about the lecture before going their separate ways.

The next Psych class was on Friday, and Isabel pondered the possibility of asking Natalie if she would like to do something together over the weekend. But what would she ask her? Where was the line between asking someone if they wanted to hang out together and asking them on a date? Unsure of how to proceed, she let the opportunity pass by.

The next week was much the same. They would sit together and chat a little before and after class, but Isabel began to think that any erotic spark she had detected between them was an illusion. Then, on Friday, as they were leaving, Natalie put her hand on her arm.

"I was wondering," she said, "A friend of mine is an artist. He has an opening at the Gemini Gallery tomorrow night. Would you like to go with me?"

Isabel's breath caught in her throat. She held back the urge to blurt out a quick yes, and acted as if she were considering the offer.

"Sure," she said after a minute, "That sounds cool."

Natalie smiled. "Oh, good. I have no idea how to get there, all I know is Rosemont Street. We will have to take the Metro, unless you have a car. He said it is right by the station."

Isabel shook her head. "I don't have a car, but I know how to get there. What time shall we meet?"

"Seven? Oh, and you can bring someone if you would like."

That took some wind out of Isabel's sails. "No, there isn't anyone."

"Ah, fine. Well, you and I, then."

Isabel smiled, then asked, "I've never been to a gallery opening. What should I wear?"

"I try for a look that is casual but kind of sexy at the same time."

"I'll try for that, then."

"I am sure you will look fabulous."

Natalie leaned in and kissed Isabel on the cheek. "See you tomorrow," she said, and turned, leaving Isabel standing in the hallway, staring at her as she walked away.

****

Natalie was waiting on the Metro platform when Isabel stepped off the train. Isabel did not think there was anything casual about her outfit. She wore a straight line red dress that came down to her mid thighs, a sleek black coat a few inches longer, and the knee high boots Isabel had admired the day they met.

"You look sensational," she told her.

"Thank you," Natalie said, with a little curtsy. "You do as well."

"I don't think anyone is going to look at me, standing next to you," Isabel replied. She was wearing a pair of form fitting black slacks and a floral print blouse under her coat.

"Nonsense," Natalie said. She reached out, and undid the top button of Isabel's blouse. "There, perfect."

They rode the train to Rosemont station. As they exited to the street Natalie pulled up the collar of her coat. "It's really gotten colder," she said. "Which way is Rosemont Street?"

"This way," Isabel told her, pointing to her right. They walked briskly down the dark street to the gallery. A sign on the door read "The Profundity of Sky, an exhibition of new works by Arturo Gallant."

The gallery was in a large open space that had obviously been some sort of retail business at one time. The walls were lined with huge abstract paintings. There was an hors d'oeuvres table on one side, and a small portable bar, where a young woman in a crimson vest was pouring glasses of white wine and handing out bottles of beer. There were perhaps two dozen patrons milling about, a few looking at the artwork, most conversing in small cliques.

A tall woman in what looked to Isabel like black silk pajamas approached them and held out her hand, palm down, to Natalie.

Natalie squeezed her hand and said, "Good evening, Salome, this is my friend, Isabel."

Salome extended her hand to Isabel, who mimicked the slight squeeze Natalie had given it. "Nice to meet you," she said. Salome responded with a hint of a nod.

"The bar is there," she said, with a languid wave, "Enjoy." She looked past them and walked away.

"She's hospitable," Isabel whispered to Natalie.

"She owns the gallery, so she thinks everyone should kiss her ass."

They each got a glass of wine. Isabel strolled along the wall, looking at each painting, puzzling as to how they expressed anything profound about the sky. Natalie scarcely looked at them, constantly glancing around the room.

"I don't see Arturo anywhere," she said, pouting.

"Perhaps he is outside, philosophizing with a cloud," Isabel said.

Natalie laughed. "I think there is a very wicked side to you that I have not seen yet."

There was a smattering of applause. They looked toward the front door.

"There he is," Natalie said, an edge of excitement in her voice.

Arturo came into the gallery, smiling broadly and waving at his admiring patrons. He was thin, almost to the point of being gaunt. He had sharp features, piercing dark eyes and a stubble of beard. He moved through the room, shaking hands and patting backs. When he looked towards the corner where Isabel and Natalie stood, his already wide grin grew broader. Natalie gave him a girlish wave. "He's so fine," she said to Isabel.

Isabel felt uneasy. Clearly this evening was not about Natalie spending time with her, but about Natalie being there with Arturo. She was only there for support.

Arturo broke away from the crowd and came to them. He hugged Natalie and gave her a quick kiss on the lips, then held his hand out to Isabel. As Natalie introduced her, he took her hand and kissed it. "You are a student at McGill?" he asked.

"Yes, I am," she said.

"What are you studying?"

"Business administration."

Arturo leaned closer toward her. "My dear," he said, "that makes you a bit of an outsider in this crowd. But when you graduate, look me up. My business affairs are a perpetual mess."

Other patrons moved toward them, eager to be close to the man of the hour.

"Please excuse me," he said. He dropped his head close to Natalie's and whispered in her ear. She smiled and nodded vigorously, but did not share whatever he had told her with Isabel.

Arturo worked the crowd, answering questions about his paintings and clearly trying to make a few sales. Isabel and Natalie wandered back to the bar to refill their wine glasses and then browsed the hors d'oeuvre table.

Isabel looked around at the work on the walls. "I think I should take some art appreciation classes," she said.

"I am learning a lot from Arturo," Natalie replied.

"Some of it about art, I imagine," Isabel snickered.

Natalie smiled. "He's a good teacher on several subjects."

They had completed their tour of the room when Natalie looked up with her eyes wide. "Oh," she said.

Isabel followed her gaze and saw that Arturo was beckoning her.

"Forgive me, darling," Natalie said, "I should go see what he wants." She set her wine glass down on the table and went to him. I have an idea what he wants, Isabel thought.

"Excuse me," someone said behind her. She turned and saw a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, with a soft handsome face and a neatly trimmed beard. He smiled at Isabel and held out his hand. "Max Berger," he said, "and you are?"

"Isabel Saucier."

"I'm very pleased to meet you," he replied, "It seems you're a friend of the artist?"

Isabel shook her head. "No, I am here with my friend Natalie. She's a friend of Arturo."

"I have met Natalie," he grinned, "You are also a student at McGill?"

"I am."

"Very nice." He gestured to one of the nearby paintings. "Tell me, Isabel, what do you think of this piece?"

Isabel looked at it for a few minutes, cocking her head from side to side. The canvas was mostly blue, with horizontal streaks of burnt umber near the bottom and magenta across the center.

"It's a sunrise, isn't it?"

Max ran his fingers through his beard and nodded. "I'm curious," he said, "Why do you interpret it as the sun coming up rather than the sun going down?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I just have a positive disposition."

"Perhaps because you are young and life has not yet disappointed you."

For a second, she considered telling him that she was an orphan. "That may be so," she said, shrugging.

"Your glass is empty," he said. "Please allow me to get you more chablis." She handed him the glass and they stepped over to the bar.

After refilling their glasses they looked at several more paintings. "I'm afraid I don't know enough to offer any sort of valuable opinions," Isabel said.

Max patted her on the back. "My dear, let me tell you something." He bent his face close to her ear. "Nearly everything you hear anyone say about art is just bullshit."

Isabel laughed.

"Oh, I am very serious, my dear. That first piece we looked at? I've heard people tonight saying things like 'It illustrates the limitations of our visual vocabulary'. What in the world does that mean? You looked at it and you saw a sunrise. Your eye is untrained but interpreting the piece was well within your visual vocabulary. You are as astute a critic as anyone in the room."

Isabel blushed. She was enjoying his attention. So she was disappointed when he looked at his watch and frowned.

"I'm sorry," he said, "But you'll have to excuse me. I'm going to have to step out."

He took her hand and squeezed it, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card and a pen. He scribbled something on the back of the card and then handed it to her.

Isabel read it. Le Grande Grille. Max Berger, chef and proprietor.

"Show them this card any time and dinner for two will be my treat," Max said.

"Thank you very much."