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The Suitcase in the Attic Chapter 1: Taylor - Secrets and Suitcases "Thanks for driving down, we really appreciate it dear. Janet should be here around noon. She promised it would only take an hour to get pictures and make measurements." My mom was giving me one last hug and an unnecessary fourth or fifth expression of thanks. "Say 'hi' to Mari and the girls for me," I mumbled in her ear before opening the passenger door for her. She gave me an exasperated look, so I reluctantly added, "And Mark too." After reminding my dad to drive safely and to keep it under a hundred driving across Montana, I waved goodbye as they pulled out of the driveway of the home where I grew up, less than an hour drive from the city and apartment where I now live. My parents had decided to retire soon after I finished college and had become a relatively self- sufficient artist, slash actor, slash bar tender, slash anything else that paid my rent and kept me from starving. At the moment, the "anything else" was as an assistant curator at an art gallery, which seemed to be the catalyst that convinced mom and dad it was safe to sell their real estate agency and retire. So they are now on their way to Seattle to visit their eldest daughter and her family. I have three sisters. All much older than me. I was one of those proverbial accidents you hear about. Mari and her ass of a husband have three daughters. My next oldest sister, Kari, is in Boston. Although a lesbian, she has birthed two daughters and is married to a lovely woman who is not an ass. Finally, third sister Lara recently moved to London with her daughter (father unknown, but I'm guessing, an ass). I should note that the preponderance of females in the family extends at least three generations. My mom has three sisters, no brothers. We've speculated that the women in our family have evolved the ability to reject any sperm carrying a Y-chromosome. So it came as quite a surprise when I was born. My nursery was saturated in pink. Pink painted walls. Pink lace drapes. Pink blankets. Pink onesies. Now granted, most of this stuff was left over from my sister's childhoods, but they had picked a girl's name and had already printed birth announcements in anticipation of a fourth daughter. I was once told that the choice had been down to "Taylor" or "Isabella". My mom said I was lucky that Kari vetoed "Isabella" because she had dated a girl with that name. I wasn't so sure about that. After watching my parents' car disappear over a hill, I turned and took a long look at the turn-of-the-century three story house. By the way, that's the turn of the 19th century. Not the last one with the world wars and moon landings and Elvis. My parents were at least the fourth owners, and the house would be looking for a new owner, as soon as Janet the realtor got here to start the listing process. Which reminded me to check my watch. "Ok," I talked to myself, "I have almost an hour." I had to make sure I removed everything l'd hidden, mostly throughout my teen years. Once inside I headed immediately to my room. Last night I actually made an effort to write down everything I could absolutely remember hiding and all the hiding places I used. I was pretty certain that over the summer breaks during college, I had purged the premises of the most embarrassing items that I had accumulated, either purchased, found unattended, borrowed, or outright stolen. It's not as bad as it sounds. Really. Except for a few questionable magazines still stuffed under a nightstand (mostly a few fashion magazines and one Playboy, which was purchased before I was allowed Internet access) the only embarrassing item was one of Lara's nightgowns hiding under my mattress. At age twenty-three, I'd mostly be embarrassed by the fact that I stole it from Lara's bathroom and not the fact that I had a woman's nightgown in my possession. I was under no illusion that my family was unaware of my feminine nature. That Y-chromosome only barely escaped, and as far as I'm concerned, it is living on borrowed time (hey, I was an art and drama major, I'm not being literal, I did take a biology class in college). Satisfied that my bedroom was clear, I headed for my primary hiding space, which was also my private sanctuary during my high school years. The attic. I discovered the attic when I was around fourteen. For some reason I thought I had the athletic ability to fling a frisbee over a three story house. I did not. But thanks to an errant toss that was swept up by a gust of wind, my frisbee landed wedged in the attic gable vent. No one was home, so I went up to the third floor and spotted a rope dangling from the hallway ceiling. Being rather short in stature (by the way, I still am), I dragged a chair from one of the bedrooms and positioned it right under the rope. After a couple of unsuccessfully timed leaps, I latched onto the rope. As I drifted down to the floor, above me a hatch door opened and a ladder emerged. I carefully ascended until my head poked through the opening in the ceiling. It was dark. Then I saw a very old and dusty electrical switch on a nearby post. In retrospect, it was probably stupid to flick a switch that likely hadn't been touched in decades while balancing on a wobbly ladder on my tip-toes. Nonetheless, a few overhead lightbulbs flickered to life and illuminated a spacious, totally empty room. Not really a room with walls and a ceiling, or with central heating, but to a fourteen year old, it was a perfect place. A private place. Over the next few years, I slowly accumulated things for a girl named Taylor. Most had been "found" in one of my sisters' closets. By this time, they had moved out and their rooms were just used during holiday visits. So I figured any clothing left behind was unwanted. Except by me. Actually, one time when Kari was visiting with her girlfriend (and future wife), she emptied out her closet and handed me two large plastic garbage bags filled with clothes, presumably to dispose. But she didn't explicitly say that. And she did wink at me. Whenever mom and dad were out of the house and it wasn't below zero outside, I'd go up to the attic. By the time I was sixteen, I had bought a space heater, a beanbag chair, a suitcase, and salvaged an old throw rug from the trash. My happiest memories are sitting in my beanbag chair, wearing something that made me feel cute, curled up with the latest Teen Vogue or a romance novel. Then each fall before I returned to college, I carefully packed everything into the suitcase and hid it under the loose floorboards. I didn't care if anyone found the other stuff. I could explain that. But I didn't yet understand why wearing the clothes in that suitcase brought me a sense of calm and inner peace. So how could I explain it to mom and dad? But right now, I suppose I just want to get my suitcase for sentimental reasons. I don't want some future owner to find it and throw it away. That would be like losing an important part of who I am. I take a quick look again at the time. I still have over a half hour. I head up to the third floor and sigh with relief that the rope is still hanging from the ceiling. Actually, it's not the original rope. I had subtlety replaced that one with one just long enough that I could jump up and grab it without using a chair. As soon as I reach the top of the ladder I try the old light switch. The lights briefly flicker, then go out. They finally wore out. I smile to myself and think that they are just saying goodbye. I use the light on my phone to illuminate the attic. Nothing has changed. I grab the beanbag and rug, tossing them down the hatch to the floor below. I removed the heater long ago, but scan to room just to make sure. Finally, I lift the floorboard and see my suitcase and memories waiting to be rescued. Holding my phone in one hand I grab the suitcase and carry it down the ladder. Then I hurry back to replace the floorboard and bid farewell to my sanctuary. As I'm sliding the floorboard back into place, the light from my phone bounces off something shiny farther under the floorboard. Puzzled, I lift up the floorboard and direct my flashlight back under the raised board. To my amazement, what I find is a glistening metal latch on another suitcase. A very old looking suitcase. I grab it from it's hiding space, replace the floorboard, and return to the third floor below. After I close the attic hatch one last time, it strangely occurs to me that I never did retrieve my frisbee. I wonder if it's still stuck in the the gable or if, like my childhood, it is now just a memory. After carrying both suitcases, the beanbag, and the rug to my car, I give the latch on the old suitcase a try, but it's locked. Just then I spot Janet's car heading up the road. I guess I'll have to wait until I get back to my apartment to open it. In the mean time, my brain is racing through every lame Hollywood movie plot it's ever seen. Stolen money from a bank heist? Jewelry? Drugs? An evil, possessed doll? Hopefully I don't find the remains of... Stop! Janet is here. Get a hold of yourself! Chapter 2: Olivia - Restarting Life "Livy darling! Welcome home! How was Milan?" The crowd around the airport luggage carousel parted as my mother, engulfed in her usual cloud of Channel, pushed through and greeted me just as I retrieved my last bag. "It was fine... no, it was great! But it is nice to be home. I missed you guys." Well, that was a lie. My mother is a force of nature and definitely an acquired taste. My dumb ass brother is only useful for carrying my luggage to the car. My father is probably somewhere ... actually, I don't care where he is. I've been on a six month sabbatical to Milan to take a few art classes. That's not a lie, but the real reason for leaving the country was to get over a nasty breakup. Alicia, the bitch, was both my fianc? and the curator of the art gallery I own. My family owns a few other businesses started by my grandfather, but he specifically left the gallery to me. I discovered my fianc? was not the dyed-in-the-wool lesbian she claimed to be when I found her in our bed with a hirsute male between her legs. A male I recognized as our accountant (make that former accountant). They didn't even bother to stop. He just kept fucking her and she laughed. All she said to me was, "Sorry, guess I missed yours after you got rid of it." I cried for two weeks. My mother took care of firing both of them while I sought refuge as far away from here as possible. For the last six months, Jason, my dumb..., ok, I need to be kinder to my brother, Jason has been taking care of my gallery. I just hope it's still in business. In my absence, my mother took it upon herself to clean out my apartment (I mean, hire someone to empty it). Anything that had the tinge of Alicia's scent on it, was sold or donated. Only my clothes, cosmetics, and personal items were packed up and moved to a new apartment. Since my mother is an actual interior decorator, it's an apartment which she furnished and decorated herself. I honestly don't know if I should be excited or scared shitless. So as Jason drives away from the airport, I have no idea where he is headed because I no longer know where I live. When he takes the exit for downtown and then heads in the direction of my gallery, I'm totally confused. He drives past the gallery and immediately turns into a drive in front of the high rise building directly across the street. "This is where you now live. Hope you approve," my mother smiles as she pulls a set of key cards from her purse. "It's late and I'm sure you're exhausted. There's food in the refrigerator but the concierge can order anything you want." With that, mother and brother hugged me and drove off as the doorman hauled my suitcases into the lobby. "Hi, umm, I am Olivia Halvorson and apparently I live here," I held out my key card to the concierge at the front desk. "Of course, Ms. Halvorson, Juan will show you to your apartment. Please feel free to stop by tomorrow and Marissa, the daytime manager will show you around. Juan deposited my luggage in my new apartment and gave me the two minute tour of the layout, specifically pointing out the nearest bathroom because of my desperate need to pee. Unfortunately, sometimes the act of peeing will remind me of my ex's mean and awful comment. Tonight was one of those times as I lamented the loss of my old home. But on a very positive note, my mother did a fantastic job. For a change, she treated me as a client and catered to what she knew to be my tastes, and not as the child whose bedroom was a constant laboratory for trying out eclectic modernist furnishings. To this day, my father blames her for my gender change, thinking that exposure to changing furnishings affected me somehow while ignoring that Jason was totally unaffected. The only arguable correlation I can see, is my penchant for trying new hairstyles. But sorry, father, that is not causation. Get over it. I've always been a girl. So between my ex and my father invading my thoughts and being in a new but unfamiliar home, I need something to occupy my mind. So I went to my new bedroom, laid down on my new bed, and without thinking, reached into the drawer of my new nightstand drawer to get my... OMG, my mother, or maybe my brother, had put all of my vibrators and assorted toys in the drawer! I was too happy to be embarrassed. Moments later, I was well on the way to a much needed orgasm. Make that plural. ************* I awoke the following morning somewhat refreshed despite having slept in the same clothes I put on yesterday in Milan (or the day before, I'm not sure, but it's not important, the point is I was pretty stinky and needed a shower). Once showered, dressed, makeup applied, hair styled, and stylish but comfortable pumps in hand, I headed for the kitchen to remedy my hunger pangs. When mother said there was food in the refrigerator I was expecting more than a peanut butter sandwich and a bottle of Champagne. The cupboards were similarly barren. Mother is probably on another one of her fad diets which means the whole family is too. Oh well. So I slip on my heels, grab my purse and messenger bag and head out. There is a nice little coffee shop just a half block away. Using my state of starvation as an excuse, I ordered a large blueberry muffin along with a large French roast coffee. Normally I order things to go, but this morning I need to compose myself and relax before seeing what Jason has done to my business. All he would tell me is that he changed one of the galleries and hired an assistant to replace Alicia the bitch. With the hairy accountant gone too, Jason did the books. Despite having a business degree, I suspect Jason slept through most of his accounting classes and it will take me quite some time to figure out if I am bankrupt or not. I sat at a table contemplating the remaining crumbs from my muffin and tried to decide whether I wanted to risk needing to buy control top pantyhose because I wanted a second one. Then I remembered the euphoria I first felt when I realized I no longer needed constrictive undergarments after I got my own "muffin". Being able to wear bikinis was more than worth the sacrifice of forgoing a second pastry. While I was going through my mental food gymnastics, I noticed someone at another table staring at me. The young man quickly turned away when I glared back at him. He was maybe four or five years younger than me and rather feminine in appearance. As a card carrying member of the LGBTQ community, I support anyone expressing their true self, but I didn't need to be ogled this early in the morning. I grabbed my purse and bag and gave the man a stern look and walked out. Chapter 3: Taylor - Discoveries Opening the old suitcase was more difficult than I thought. For some reason I felt it deserved some respect. Obviously it had been important to someone, and I could relate to that. The lock appeared rather well- built, more so than the flimsy one on the inexpensive suitcase I had purchased at Target years ago. The lock's manufacturer would be proud to know their product resisted all of my amateurish attempts to open it. Right before I was about to give up and just pry the damn thing off, I remembered I had a tool the manufacturer could not have contemplated, the Google. A quick search yielded several YouTube videos on "how to pick an old suitcase lock". Twenty minutes later, the suitcase yielded its contents. It held exactly what any reasonable person would expect. Clothes. Women's clothes, including shoes and one hat. As I took out and inspected each item one at a time, I first realized that there were only dresses. No jeans, no shorts, no t-shirts, no blouses, not even skirts, only dresses, and I suspected expensive dresses after seeing a label that indicated it came from Paris. More so when the last dress was labeled "Dior". Beneath the dresses were several pieces of lingerie. But not like anything found at Victoria's Secret. No colorful lace, just plain white satin. Based solely on a few Internet searches, I was reasonably certain I was looking at fashionable women's wear from the 1950s or perhaps post WWII 1940s. I carefully placed everything in an empty dresser drawer in my bedroom. Having watched enough of "Antiques Roadshow" with my mom, I was pretty certain some of these dresses might fetch a tidy sum at auction. I planned to put the empty suitcase in my storage closet, but first I wanted to give it a good cleaning. That's when I discovered that it had a false bottom. I managed to easily dislodge the thin wooden covering. Beneath were stacks of old photos and a few hand written letters. I briefly sifted through the larger photos of a woman posing artfully, wearing a few of the dresses. While somewhat faded with age, they looked like the type of photos an actress or model would have in her portfolio. A second batch of small candid photos were very faded, and they were mostly of the same woman but dressed in casual clothes. Several were with another young woman, and a few of just the second woman. Most seemed to be taken outdoors, perhaps at a picnic or a summer vacation at a lake. There was no indication of what type of relationship existed between these two. Sisters? Friends? Lovers? Then, under the last of the photos, a small envelope with one last image inside. It looked to be an attempt at what could best be described as a "selfie", probably taken with a camera, clumsily held at arm's length. Although the photo was askew and slightly out of focus, it was a closeup of the two women kissing. On the back, written in pencil, was "Olive and Bev, 1951". When I went to put the photo back in the envelope, a small key fell out. I tried it in the suitcase lock, but it didn't fit. Another mystery. It was getting late and I had work in the morning. So as much as I now wanted to start digging through the letters, at least I had an idea why the photos were hidden in the attic. A lesbian relationship in 1951 was something to keep secret. Why they were in a suitcase with expensive dresses was still a mystery. ************* I'd only been working at the art gallery for about four months, but I'd already developed a well worn routine, starting with a large latte and whatever pastry that was on special at a shop near work. Today, it was my favorite, a blueberry muffin with a sugary frosting. As I sipped my coffee, I glanced over at the next table where a very attractive woman, easily close to my age, wearing a very stylish black blazer with matching pencil skirt and a pale blue satin blouse was peacefully eating her own blueberry muffin. Her light brown hair was pulled back and held with an antique clip. She looked faintly familiar and I kept staring, trying to figure out why. I know better than to stare at someone, let alone a beautiful woman, and her angry glare made me look away in embarrassment. When she gave me one final look of annoyance as she left, it dawned on me. Maybe I was overly influenced by my fascination with the suitcase photos, but she bore a resemblance to the stylish woman from 1951. Because I didn't sleep that well, I needed a secondary caffeine boost. It was still early, so I got a small coffee, took out my iPad and started working on an idea for an exhibit based on old photographs. Fifteen minutes later I put away my iPad. The idea looks promising. I'm actually smiling as I leave the coffee shop and head to work. Now my boss, Jason, is not the most punctual employer. He usually wanders in a few minutes before opening at 10am. Since I'm the only other one with a key, I make sure I get there early to let the other employees in. So I am really concerned when I find the front door unlocked. Relying on my recent lock picking experience, I decided that we weren't broken into by art thieves. Nonetheless, I cautiously and stealthily pushed the door open before walking in. There was no sign of activity and nothing was out of place in the main room. Maybe Jason had forgot to lock it yesterday. Then I thought I heard something. I headed for the door to the adjoining business office. As I reached for the door handle, the door swung open and I heard an ear splitting scream just before I was hit by a large leather bag. "You fucking pervert! Don't move, I'm calling the police," a woman dressed in black was yelling and pointing her phone at me. Interestingly, lying on the floor, all I could think of was calling the police too. So I yell, "I'm dialing 911! What are you doing here? Who are you? How did you get in? What happened to Jason?" I don't really expect the thief to answer. I'm just trying not to be killed before the police arrive. "Wait, who are you? How do you know my brother?" The woman, who is beginning to look less dangerous standing over me in her stilettos (Jimmy Choo if I'm not mistaken), stops dialing but has her thumb hovering over the call button. "I work here. I'm Jason's assistant!" As I manage to get to my knees, I recognize the woman from the coffee shop. And the mention of her brother probably means I am about to be fired by his sister, the owner of the gallery. Oh well, let's hope one of those dresses were once worn by Marilyn Monroe and worth a million dollars. Might as well try to salvage some of my pride. "Shit, I thought you were a burglar. You left the door unlocked! Any pervert could have walked in. You're just lucky it was only me. And by the way, I'm not a pervert and I'm sorry I stared at you. It was not because you're gorgeous. The reason doesn't matter anyway. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll clean out my desk and leave." "Wait, you're," she turns back into the office and grabs a piece of paper, and reads aloud, "Taylor Barns?" "Yes" "You arranged the showing in room three?" "Yes, why?" I'm rather proud of the painting collections I put together. They are the top sellers for the last two months. "Ok, umm, do you suppose we could pretend this whole morning hasn't happened and start over? Please." She holds out her hand while I decide. While I have really liked working here, this woman seems a lot more high maintenance than laid back Jason who pretty much gave me free reign. Then again, a job in hand is likely worth more than a dress or two in a suitcase. So I take her hand, which is irritatingly soft. Now I'll have make sure I don't stare at it. "Ok. So do you want to go back to the coffee shop or your office?" "Tempting, but I think more caffeine is not helpful. Let's just get to know each other here. By the way, I'm Olivia, but most people just call me Livy." Chapter 4: Olivia - Beginnings For some reason I cannot get how soft and gentle Taylor's hand felt in mine. I've been racking my brain about anything Jason had told me when he hired an assistant. Knowing my brother, I just assumed he'd hire a female. Although not for equality or diversity reasons. And not for her qualifications. But for her bra size. As much as it pains me, I'm going to have to congratulate him on taking a chance on someone who is gender nonconforming (although for the time being, that is strictly observational on my part). Before I knocked him over with my messenger bag and almost had him arrested, I was planning on giving Taylor a raise after his six month probationary period. Looking through the books, again having underestimated my brother, the gallery had a great six months while I was gone. Actually I'm not sure how I feel about that. It's a little unsettling to find out I might not be as integral to the business as I thought. Most of the increase in profits came from Jason's sports oriented gallery and from Taylor's eclectic gallery. I had avoided any and all sport centric art. Not because I thought it wouldn't sell, but because I was always picked last for any team in school. I hated sports. But Jason had discovered a couple of artists who created sculptures that celebrated movement. Getting them to strategically integrate the team colors of the local professional teams on them was genius. Taylor on the other hand, brought in several new and diverse artists which brought in new and diverse customers. While the art work was priced lower, the volume of sales brought in more revenue. I had wanted to do exactly that but had grown too cautious. I chastised myself for not taking the risk. It was ironic considering the risk I took transitioning. As Taylor walked me through the collections currently being offered in room three, explaining her rationale for selecting each painting and how they all worked together "to create a unifying theme", her words not mine.... Shit, I mentally keep using feminine pronouns anytime I think about Taylor. I've already verbally and physically assaulted her, or him, or them, I don't want to make our work relationship anymore tense than it already is. We were standing in front of a large painting of dark images portraying the anguish of poverty when that, coupled with jet lag and hunger, pretty much reduced me to an emotional puddle on the floor. "My god, are you alright?" Taylor reached down an grasped my arms, steadying me. "Yeah, probably just a little dehydrated and overwhelmed with everything." Fortunately, Jason had finally wandered in around 3pm. My fault, I didn't realize he had assumed he was no longer needed now that I'd returned from my self imposed exile. I think he was actually pleased when I asked him to stay on as our accountant and business manager. So, with my brother around to watch over the place, I decided that I needed to go somewhere away from the gallery. Then I shocked myself. "Say Taylor, want to go get something to eat and drink? Not necessarily in that order." "Ahh... sure. That sounds good. I didn't realize we worked right through lunch." We left through the main entrance and started walking in the direction of the coffee shop until I grabbed Taylor's hand, looked both ways, and then dragged her across the street and into the high rise. Taylor was rightfully confused. "What do you like? Italian? Chinese? Mexican?" Taylor was still confused. "I'm fine with just a burger and fries, really." She said softly. "Great idea! A girl after my own heart," I looked at the name tag of the woman sitting at the concierge desk. "Marissa, will you order us a couple of burgers and fries?" I turned back to Taylor, "Cheese? Barbecue?" She shook her head, "no" and mouthed "just plain". "Two plain burgers, Marissa. By the way, I'm Olivia Halvorson, apartment 1401, the penthouse." "I kind of assumed," Marissa laughed, "No problem. Anything to drink with that?" "Nope, just the food." Taylor followed me to the elevator. She remained quiet. As we passed the third floor I had to say it, "I'm sorry, but not sorry, a called you a girl." Quiet again until the elevator passed the seventh floor. "It's ok, really." More silence. The elevator comes to a halt. The doors open. "I don't have anybody to talk to," Taylor had a tear running down her cheek. "Come on, you do now." We're holding hands again and we both seem reluctant to let go, even as I fumble with my key card. "Ok, you have your choice of Champagne or one of the Italian reds I have stashed in my suitcase. Or we just start with the Champagne and pair a red with the hamburgers when they arrive." "I like how you think. Champagne please!" Chapter 5: Taylor - Revelations Olivia.... Livy keeps staring at me while opening a bottle of Champagne taken from an empty refrigerator in an immaculately clean kitchen. Expensive Champagne. I recognize the label even though I can't afford it. If I wanted to be snarky, I should yell at her and call her a pervert for staring. But I'm not that confident of an actor to pull it off. I'm afraid that rather than playful teasing, it would sound mean. Besides, she is my boss and she is bending over backwards to makeup for hitting me. I am curious to find out why she seems able to see through my gender nonconforming persona while even I have trouble doing so. "Here you go," Livy hands me a flute of the bubbly liquid then momentarily lets her eyes wander around our surroundings. "Umm, let's go over there," pointing to a couple of wingback chairs that look brand new, "maybe there's a nice view out those windows." "Ahh, you do live here, right? We didn't just break in and this is all a trap and you're going to call the police and blame me!" I think I managed to say that humorously. "Ok, I'll let you have that one. Just know that the statute of limitations on teasing each other runs out once we start drinking these." "Agreed," I lift my flute, "to no more mean teasing or verbal assaults." Livy is giving me an odd look, "and no more physical ones either?" "Depends on how we define 'physical'. Cheers!" Then after taking a sip, "so, how long have you lived here?" "Let's see," looking at her watch, "eighteen hours, but I was asleep for six of those. But I do know where the bedroom and guest toilet are." "Ok, that sounds like a very good intro, tell me more," I sit down in one of the chairs, "oh, and look, there is a nice view from here." ************* She tells me about her six months in Italy, about her return yesterday, and vaguely about the reason for her absence. I want to know more about her life before, but she is hesitant to share. Instead she wants to know about me. It may be the Champagne or it maybe the decadent hamburger I'm devouring (who knew there was such a thing as a 'gourmet hamburger', I've been moving in the wrong circles), but I begin telling Livy things about my gender dysphoria that I've never been able to articulate before. She listened intently. "Honestly, pretty much from the moment I helped you up from the floor, I knew you weren't being a nonconformist. The shirt and the slacks you're wearing might be women's, your hair style might be androgynous, and you might be wearing clear nail polish and have feminine mannerisms, but it's the look I see in your eyes. I see the same thing in you that I see when I look in the mirror. I see a woman." That stunned me. Livy is leaning towards me, waiting for a response. Then something occurs to me, I hesitate to say it. I open my mouth, but I remain mute. "It's ok, I know what you want to ask. I was a small child when I knew that I was a girl. But my body seemed to disagree. I corrected that." Then she told me about her ex fianc?. I don't know if I could have handled the callous remark and betrayal that Livy has endured. I wanted to hug her and make it better, but I resisted because even more, I just wanted to touch her. Since it was likely a crime in France to re-cork a Champagne bottle, we finished it off and then chatted for another couple of hours. Almost as an afterthought, I told Livy about her resemblance to a mystery woman in a few old photographs found in an old suitcase, and hence the reason for staring. "I'd like to see those. Maybe you could bring them in sometime," Livy asked. "Or maybe I could make us a dinner at my tiny apartment Saturday. You can see how the other half lives." "If you ever meet my mother, you'll see that this half is nothing to write home about. But, yes, I would like that. I'll bring one of the bottles of Italian wine I brought back." ************* On the drive back to my apartment, I had trouble concentrating on the road. It wasn't the alcohol. It was Livy. I kept thinking about her eyes. They are a beautiful shade of green and shaded by long, lush lashes. They are also near her full, red lips that I wanted to kiss. But mostly because they saw through me. She could see that the real me was that young girl sitting in her beanbag chair hiding her true self in an empty attic. I pulled the car over to the curb and stopped the car. I was still four miles from home, but I needed to cry. And I did. Some tears of regret but mainly tears of relief that I finally new what direction my life was headed. Five minutes later I was back on the road. I slept well that night. The next day and for the rest of the week, it became obvious that I had decided to conform to a particular gender. I still wore my usual blouses and slacks, but now I felt confident enough coordinate them with flats and sandals. I accessorized with jewelry. By Friday I was even wearing lipstick and had painted my nails a pale pink. Apparently Livy wasn't the only one at work who harbored suspicions about me. At least that's how it seemed. There were complements and acknowledgments, but everyone more or less treated me the same. It wasn't until I was talking to Jenna, our receptionist that I found out everyone was relieved. I overheard her on the phone talking to one of my artist clients. It was an odd conversation as I heard her constructing belabored sentences without pronouns: "Ok, I will tell Taylor that Taylor can tell Taylor's customer the price offer is acceptable." When I asked her about it, she said, "You never told us what to use. We were guessing it was 'she' and 'her', but you know..." "Totally my fault. Until just recently I didn't know either." "So is it ok now to use 'she' and 'her'?" She asked, wanting a verbal acknowledgement. I swear everybody seemed more relaxed around me from that moment on. Chapter 6: Olivia - Saturday Explorations Taylor looks really cute in a loose fitting floral sundress with puffy sleeves. She's barefoot with her toenails painted red. Her usual straight, combed back dark hair has been blown out into pixie-like style. And very noticeably, it looks like she is wearing a bra (with breast forms?). Taylor's apartment is also really cute. Granted I could fit three, maybe four of them inside my penthouse. But no one in their right mind would call my penthouse 'cute'. 'Ostentatious' maybe, but never 'cute'. I hope I didn't push her into making a decision about transitioning. I can see where she has less room for error. She told me about her life in a town not far from here. She has always erred on the side caution, afraid of losing friends, family, and possibly hurting her parents' business. They were reasonably well off. Her family sold houses. Mine built them. I grew up with generational wealth. My great-grandfather was a carpenter. My grandfather took that and amassed a fortune building houses during the postwar boom and the urban flight to the suburbs. I think he may have even built houses in Taylor's hometown. My father inherited that business even though I doubt he knows which end of the hammer to use. He spends most of his time hobnobbing at his country club. My mother dabbles in interior design. Why, I don't know. I think it keeps her busy. So what's going through my mind as I'm watching Taylor finish making a tossed salad, is that for the most part, transitioning was easy for me. Granted my father was and is unsupportive while my flighty mother now thinks it's stylish to have a transgender lesbian daughter. But I guess I never worried about losing friends because I never really had any. Sure, I had lots of playmates as a child. But they were all children of my parents' friends. By high school, that relationship still held. Friends by association. And when I started my transition, my parents terminated those relationships by moving me to an exclusive private school. But most of all, I've never had to worry about keeping a roof over my head, having food on the table, or access to health care. Even as a trans woman. I need to figure out how to be a friend, a boss, an advisor, a confidante, a supporter (maybe both emotionally and financially), while at the same time deal with my own insecurities because I am in danger of being attracted to Taylor. "Is there anything I can help you with? Although I should warn you, my culinary skills are almost nonexistent." "How about I task you with opening the lovely wine you brought and setting the table. Dishes are in that cabinet, glasses, the one to the right, and silverware in that drawer." Taylor points out their locations in the kitchen. "I think that's within my skill set." Alicia the bitch never cooked either, once she figured out it was easier to order delivery with my credit card. BTW, I despise saying her name, I tried using it an initialism, ATB, but that just confused people. With the table expertly set, Taylor delivered a Caesar salad and chicken parmigiana. "This is wonderful! You can cook for me anytime!" I looked over at Taylor and she instantly smiled just as she was about to put a fork full of pasta in her mouth and got I little dab of sauce on her face. "You have a little pasta sauce here," I pointed to the left corner of my mouth. Of course she mirrored the gesture and wiped the opposite side of her mouth, "Did I get it?" "Nope, your other left." "What? Show me." I leaned over and touched the corner of her mouth. Her lips parted and her tongue licked over the spot, but not before I could remove my finger. I lost control of rational thought and let my finger glide over her soft lower lip. Taylor lifted her hand and grasped mine, held it in place and kissed the tip of my finger, and then the palm of my hand. I no longer had control of my brain, my body tensed, my center ached, and I leaned in and kissed Taylor. She didn't resist. Everything about this was wrong. We barely knew each other. She's my employee. We are both in a vulnerable time in our lives. Yet we can't stop kissing. When we broke the kiss, neither of us spoke. We ate silently, stealing glances at each other whenever we took a sip of wine. "Livy?" I looked up, "Yes." "I liked that. I liked that a lot. I knew what was happening. I'm pretty certain that I want it to happen again. But maybe we treat this like a first date. We just took care of the kiss at the beginning instead of the end. Ok?" "You are a very wise woman Taylor Barns. Yes! But I need to clear something up though. When Jason hired you it was for a six month trial. However, over the last week I knew I wanted to make that permanent. Jason agrees with me. He's going go over the paperwork with you on Monday. So, all that was already in the works. Us kissing has nothing to do with work." "I'm glad to hear that. If I thought it did, I would've quit. And umm..... Thank you! For the job that is. Well, ok.. for the kiss too." "So, how about you show me these dresses you found?" Chapter 7: Taylor - Answers "Wow! These are amazing. Do you have any idea how long they were hidden in your attic?" Livy was just as curious as I was. "Not a clue. My guess is since maybe the early 1950s". "Ok, I see two interesting things about these. First, they are as you suspected, expensive. Some of these labels are definitely haute couture. Whoever owned that suitcase had money. Second, they seem to be larger than I'd suspect for a woman of that era. I bet you or I could wear most of these." Livy wasn't wrong. I had been able to squeeze into all but one of them. I bet Livy wouldn't have any problem at all, even with her real boobs. In fact, I was curious to see if this was indeed true. "Want to try one on?" I tempted Livy. "Really? Of course I would. I'm dying to see how I'd look in the Dior." Now the problem here was, I have a small apartment. We basically just agreed to not put ourselves in situations where we could be overwhelmed by temptation. Nonetheless, undressing and trying on clothes with other women is more or less a right of passage for most women. So I look at Taylor and we strike a nonverbal agreement, and I hand her the dress. My favorite was a Balenciaga. A black evening dress with cape. The Dior was a very fitted dark green cocktail sheath with diamond cutouts, skirt tapered to mid-calf. It was the one dress I couldn't get into. Livy on the other hand, looked like she just walked off of the runway, circa 1950. She managed to slip on pair of suede pumps from the suitcase, but the others were too small for either of us. The lingerie? No thanks. After admiring ourselves in my bathroom mirror and taking selfies, Livy asked to see the photos. I took out the folder with the color fashion photos and pulled out the one where the mystery woman, either Olive or Bev, was posing in the same Dior dress Olivia was now wearing. The woman in the photo was heavily made up and she might have been wearing a wig. It was hard to tell with the bouffant hairstyle. Nonetheless, side by side, I think Livy has a similar bone structure. She stared intently at the old photo and sat down on the edge of my bed. "Can I please see the others?" The others didn't show the face of the mystery woman any clearer. "Are these all?" "There are small black and white photos." "Please. Can you get them?" Livy sifted through the old photos, pulling out just the ones where the woman's face was clear. "I..., I think I know why you thought I looked like her." Livy's voice quivered and broke, her eyes moistened, "I know where the these small ones were taken. I'm pretty sure this is my grandfather. His name was Oliver. I was named after him. I changed it to Olivia." "How, how did these get in my attic? Did you know this about him?" I was stunned, but not as much as Livy. "Let's calm down. Have another glass of wine. Think this over." I grabbed Livy's hand and we walked back to my kitchen. "Fuck, I forgot the letters. I put them away and haven't got around to reading them yet." I ran back to my bedroom and retrieved the folder where I kept them. There were only three. "Ok, here they are." We read them together. My Dearest Bev, You must know how I treasured our time together. Meeting you at the Blue Loon Cafe was the best thing that ever happened to me. You brought calm and acceptance to my life. You understood how I suffered. I thought you might like to have the pictures from our trip to my lake cabin. Please save them with the ones you took in Paris. All my love, O. My Dearest Bev, I am lost. My son accidentally found the photographs of me in the Dior. I tried to explain but he is too young. Elizabeth told me she could not be not be married to a transvestite and threatened to divorce me and take young Oliver from me. I have destroyed all my photos. But I cannot bear destroying my beautiful dresses. I am sending them to you. Please take care of them. All my love, O. My Dearest Bev, Thank you for your letter. I understand why you have hidden everything. Congratulations on your coming wedding. I've enclosed a check to help you get a start on your married life. I've also enclosed a key to a locker in the basement of the art gallery I recently purchased. It's the one you recommended. You know what's inside. If you decide you want it, just give the key to the receptionist. All my love, O. "Key?" "Ahh, here," I handed Livy the small envelope still in my folder. "Wait!" I grabbed the envelope back. "There's a picture in there that might be unsettling." "More unsettling than all this?" She grabbed the envelope out of my hand and took out the photo and smiled. "I loved my grandfather. All this does is explain why he was the only one who fully supported me. It might also explain why my father doesn't. I am just glad he had some happiness at one time in his... in her life." Livy dumped the key on the table and inspected it carefully. "I sold the original gallery building when we relocated to the downtown location. I'm trying to remember what we did with all the stuff in the basement. Maybe Jason remembers." "Ok, you call Jason, I'm going to call my parents and see if they remember who they bought the house from and if they ever knew a 'Bev'. Go go go!" Ten minutes later we had a few clues. I found out my parents bought our house from the Johnsons, Harry and Beverly, and Beverly used to own a bar, the 'Blue something or other'. Sadly, neither were still with us. Livy found out that anything that wasn't moved to the new location was stored at the construction company's warehouse. As far he was aware the warehouse has never been cleaned out. In fact, he was sure of it because he was he was supposed to do it and never did. Livy is going to hug her lazy brother when she sees him. I might too, but I'm more pragmatic. It depends on what's in the locker if we find it. "Well, we'll probably never be sure, but I'm guessing my grandfather met Beverly while he was building houses. I suppose Jason could dig through old records to see when he might have been there. But it's not really important. The letters weren't dated. I don't care if he knew Bev before or after he married grandma." It's been a productive day. I got kissed by a beautiful woman who likes me. I found out I'm going to get a permanent job with healthcare. I found out where my mysterious dresses came from. I'm going to sleep well tonight. Chapter 8: Olivia - White Lies Taylor knocked on my office door shortly after talking to Jason. She looked beautiful and professional in a navy knee length skirt and blazer. It was also the first time she wore heels to the office. "Livy?! Are you sure you want to promote me to be the curator?" "I told you, that was all decided last week. And this was entirely Jason's doing. He recommended you." He was afraid I would never fill the position because I got involved with the last curator. He pointed out that I couldn't punish Taylor just because Alicia was a bitch. "Well, thank you. I really appreciate it," Taylor was smiling and I could tell she was desperately trying not to look at my mouth. Maybe I shouldn't have worn red lipstick this morning. "Do you have a minute? I want to schedule a meeting with you to go over an idea I have for the main gallery." "Sure, I'm free at 1:30. We should also setup a standing time, meet once a week," I bring up my calendar on my computer. It's basically empty, but I make "hmm" sounds and mumble "ok" a couple of times so that Taylor thinks I have a purpose here other than wandering around the gallery, drinking coffee, and stealing glances at her shapely legs, wondering what it would feel like to have them wrapped around me, "how about every Tuesday at 11am, that work for you?" "Absolutely. Ok see you right after lunch." Watching Taylor walk out of my office is causing a tingling between between my legs. She is either a novice walking in heels, or she is purposely exaggerating the sway of her hips. Either way, I am getting turned on. I need more coffee and a distraction. I grabbed my nearly empty cup and headed for our break room. Jason was standing next to the Keurig machine waiting for his cup to fill. "I hope you didn't take the last French roast pod. That would be grounds for dismissal." "Livy! Are you trying to make a pun? Are you developing a sense of humor?" "Maybe," I wasn't. Oh, I get it, 'coffee grounds'. "Well, I do like the more cheerful you lately. Anything to do with Taylor?" I am not going to answer that. It's a trap. I'm not going fall into it! "Maybe," damn it. Thankfully my brother leaves it alone and just smiles at me. "On a different note," I start the coffee maker, and turn to Jason, my distraction, "I have a favor to ask." ************* There was no way I could tell Jason about our grandfather. And there was no way I could get Jason to check the warehouse without concocting a lie. It was tricky. Now I could say I found a key in my desk because that was brought over from the old location. But then, Jason would want to take the key with him. That's a problem. I don't know what's in the locker, if it even exists. It could be something very embarrassing, at least to Jason and certainly my father. There maybe be more than one locker. Small locker? Large locker? So I can't ask Jason to haul back whatever he finds. "I have a potential customer that bought a painting at an estate sale. He wants to know more about its provenance. There's a sticker on the back from our gallery, but it looks like it's from back around the time when grandfather bought it. I don't see a record of it in our archives. I was wondering if maybe there's a misplaced ledger in the stuff we sent to the warehouse." Jason is listening. He's responding like my lie is plausible. "I'd like to take a look. I probably should have checked through that stuff years ago to see if there's anything worth keeping. Anyway, I don't have security access. Could you take me out there, maybe this week? I'll bring our new curator along to help look." "Sure no problem. I assume you want to go when dad isn't around?" "You mean he actually shows up there?" Nasty comment, but not sorry. "Snarky, I like this new you. Strangely enough, he has been known to stop by on occasion. Got anything on your busy calendar tomorrow?" "Let me check," I pretend to look at my phone, "just my new weekly meeting with Taylor at 11am. We'll make it a field trip." ************ I'm sitting at my desk daydreaming. After six months away, I am really having trouble getting back in the swing of things. With Jason handling a lot of the business management duties I used to take care of, and Taylor running the galley operations, I'm a bit bored. I never realized how incompetent Alicia the bitch really was. I was apparently was doing her job. Anyway, I'm excited to tell Taylor about our treasure hunting trip and a bit anxious to hear about her main gallery idea. Chapter 9: Taylor - Afternoon Delight "Ok this idea is kind of inspired by the dresses and how they were hidden away and forgotten. I was thinking about forgotten art and since I'm new around here, I wondered what was down in the climate controlled vault in the basement. So I went looking for old paintings that didn't sell, from the same era as the dresses. Maybe there was the artist equivalent of a Dior, like a Pollock, or a Rothko, or maybe a female artist like Grace Hartigan or Mary Abbott. Something too modernist for people around here in the 1950s. Unfortunately I didn't find anything by a renowned artist, but there are several abstract paintings down there that I think would sell now. I think we should set up the main gallery like a New York gallery from the 1950s. We could have a showing where you could wear the Dior, and we hire some models to wear the others. Maybe have a jazz trio playing. Advertise the dresses, they might bring in more female patrons. What do you think." Livy is sitting there staring at me, not saying a word. "Fuck, you're making me go down to Jason's office and tell him that making you the curator was the... damn it, the best thing that's ever happened to this business. Do you have any idea how much I hate telling him he's right? Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you right now?" It's my turn to stand there speechless as Livy gets up from her desk, walks around and embraces me. She stares into my eyes. I stare into hers. We both know what comes next. I part my lips and eagerly wait for hers. I don't have to wait long. I welcome her tongue with mine as we passionately explore each other's lips. Livy presses her body against mine and pulls on the hem of my skirt trying to gain purchase on my exposed thigh. She starts rocking her hips. I feel her hand searching. I need to whisper in her ear, "sorry tucked". Before we remedy the situation, there's a knock on the door. "Hey sis, mother called, I need to go pick her up. See you..." Jason never finished the sentence. My skirt is pulled up on one side and my face is smeared with red lipstick. No hiding what we were doing. "You might want to lock the door next time. And I assume there will be a next time. Actually, I encourage it. See you ladies tomorrow. I'll meet you at the gate at eleven. Ohh, and Taylor, you have a little lipstick here, and here, and here, and..." Jason is pointing at various places on his face. "Jason! Get out!" Livy is yelling loud enough that the whole staff can hear her. Then she breaks out laughing. "We might as well give up any pretense that we're not attracted to each other. Would it be presumptuous of me to suggest we go across the street to my apartment, get naked, and fuck?" "It would not be, presumptuous that is. I look forward to continuing my presentation in your bedroom. By the way, what was Jason talking about a gate?" "I'll explain later." ************* As soon as Livy closes the door to her apartment, she pulls off my blazer and throws it to the floor. Our lips are locked as she wiggles out of her pale satin silk shirt. We stumble down the hallway until I mange to pull off my tank top. We make to her bedroom before our skirts are discarded. We are standing next to her bed, each in our bra, panties, and heels. When we break our embrace, I feel inadequate. I am envious of Livy. My boobs are nonexistent. I took the step only last week to seek hormone therapy. But I know that Livy knows what I'm going through. She smiles and removes my bra first. She gently kisses each breast, winks at me and whispers "be patient". The she unclasps her bra and tosses it aside. Her nipples are hard and she offers them to me. I savor each, flicking my tongue on them, then sucking on them. Livy lies down on her bed. "One moment," I hold up a finger and slip into her en-suite and as fast as I can, free my cock and slip my panties back on. But at the moment, my bikinis are unable to hide my excitement. "Come here beautiful, join me," Livy beckons me to her bed. "It's been over a year since I've had sex," I need to admit to Livy. "Don't worry, it's been six months for me and that was with an evil bitch." "Well, that takes the pressure off," I curl up with Livy and kiss her softly before I work my way down to her breasts, revisiting each with kisses. Down across her tummy until I reach the top of her panties. After kissing her pussy through her lacy lingerie, I slip the dainty fabric down her legs, slipping off her heels on the way. A fully naked Livy spreads her legs for me. Her pussy is glistening. Bizarrely I make a mental note to ask for the name of her surgeon. I quickly purge that thought because I can't wait to bring this woman to a glorious orgasm. I kiss and suck on her clit until she begs me to be inside her. I start with one finger, then two. I sense she is very near. I look up and ask her permission. She screams, "My god yes! Now!" My cock had long since escaped my panties and it finds its way to Livy's opening. Livy's orgasm crests shortly before mine. "Well, that was..." I am at a loss for words. "It was," Livy replied, before rolling on top off me and smothering with kisses. Chapter 10: Olivia - Shock Taylor and I pulled up to the gate of the warehouse a few minutes before eleven o'clock. Something is wrong. Jason is there ahead of time. I don't know what's happened to him while I was in Italy, but he has been, dare I say, reliable. It's almost like he is trying to impress me. That can't be right. But something's up with him. "Morning ladies," Jason waves us through the gate and closes it. "Dad is golfing. Yes, I know, you're shocked. I'll show you where the stuff from the old gallery is stored." He takes us to the far corner of the warehouse. "Not much here really. Those old lockers there might have ledgers in them. If you need any help getting them open, call me, I'll be over in the office." "Thanks Jason, we will," Taylor yells as Jason strides off. "Are you excited? I'm excited!" Taylor giggles, pulling the key from her pocket. At the end of a pile of junk, there is a standing set of three lockers, the kind you find at schools and locker rooms. A cursory check indicated they were all locked. Either that or rusted close with age. Taylor tried the key in each one, but to no avail. The key didn't fit into any of the locks. There indeed might be old ledgers in them, but not whatever was left by my grandfather. Dejectedly, I slumped down on the pile of junk, and promptly slipped off as the pile fell apart. On the bottom of the pile was a foot locker. Taylor and I anxiously cleared away junk until we freed the locker. Taylor inserted the key. It fit. Gently Taylor turned the key and the lock opened. Inside, there was something wrapped in cloth. I reached in and carefully lifted it out. We unwrapped what felt like a painting. We both gazed at a small canvas. A painting of a young ballerina. I almost dropped it when I saw the signature. "What do we tell Jason?" Taylor asked. She was shaking. I looked around the warehouse until I found a box large enough to hold the painting. Taylor had carefully rewrapped the canvas and we put it in the box and left the warehouse. Taylor put it in our car while I found Jason and told him we found what we were looking for. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but since Bev never came for it, and your grandfather left the gallery and its assets to you, and we found this in a locker from the gallery..." Taylor is clutching the steering wheel and driving like we have a new born infant on board. "You're trying to ask if this is mine. I think so." I may own a Degas. We drove back to the gallery. Chapter 11: Taylor - Showtime After discretely putting the painting in the vault, we were too nervous to work so we went back to Livy's apartment and had sex. It really helped relieve the tension. "Ok, think about it. Nothing has changed. You were already rich. You're just richer." I pointed out while we cuddled in bed. "I suppose. My father might dispute that, just to be an ass." "Really? He'd go to court to get a painting his, excuse me, 'transvestite' father wanted to give to a woman who may or may not have been his mistress?" "Good point. Ok, let's forget about the painting. We don't even know yet if it's authentic. Let's get back to work and concentrate on your 1950s idea." "Great. Let me grab my iPad and we can pick the paintings we want to bring out of the vault. I took photos of all the ones I thought fit the concept we're going for." I hop out of bed, tip toe out to the entryway where I left my messenger bag and get my iPad. The fact that I am naked doesn't even occur to me. Livy and I have already reached the point in our relationship where one of us is going to accidentally drop the 'L word'. It might be me. I think I'm falling in love with Livy. ************* Two months ago when I came up with the idea for a 1950s themed gallery showing, I didn't realize that I'd be this nervous. Maybe starting HRT at the same time was not well thought out. Right now I'm trying to get into the Balenciaga cocktail dress without my hyper sensitive tits causing me to scream. I'm getting ready in Livy's guest room while she and Emily, the stylist she hired, are trying to make her look as close as possible to the photo of Olive. "Hey Taylor, when you're ready, can you come here and take a look. We need your opinion." Livy calls out from her bedroom. "Be there in a minute," I slip on the vintage pumps I found on eBay and practice my runway walk. I am absolutely stunned when I see Livy. Her grandfather would be so proud. I'm sure of it. "Emily thinks trying to duplicate the heavy makeup in the photo would be overkill. I tend to agree. What do you think?" "Totally agree, it would detract from the dress. And I do like that the bouffant wig looks more natural than the one in the photo." "Great. So I guess I'm ready if you are." "Not quite yet. Let me get my camera. We need a publicity photo of you posing just like Olive." Ten minutes later I think I got the perfect shot. We thanked Emily, and Livy and I headed across the street hand in hand. Jason was standing by the entrance ready to greet arriving patrons. He looked dashing in his vintage tuxedo. A month ago, Livy finally sat down with him. We had decided that we wanted to put the photo of Olive on the cover of program that described the paintings in the gallery showing. She was our inspiration and we wanted to honor her, even if it was anonymously. His was response was emotional, and he revealed his own secret. Their grandfather had left him a letter explaining why he was singling out Livy in his will. He wanted Jason to understand that he was afraid Livy might be cutoff by the family because she was transgender. He wanted to ensure her independence. It all made sense to him now. He asked how he could help with the gallery show. We give him a task right up his alley, hiring the models for the dresses. Livy also found out why he seemed to be much more mature lately. Sometime during the first two months of her absence, before I started working at the gallery, he didn't show up for an important appointment because he went golfing instead. The next day, Jenna our receptionist, read him the riot act in front of the entire staff. Apparently they've been secretly dating ever since. "This looks fabulous," Livy said clutching my hand tightly as we both looked around the room. The doors had just opened and the place was almost full. A young woman wearing one of the dresses approached us carrying a tray with glasses of Champagne. "Would you ladies like some... oh my god, you look just like... sorry I'm a little nervous," the young woman stuttered. "Please don't be," Livy smiled, taking a glass from the tray, "and thank you, l'm Olivia and this is my girlfriend Taylor, she's the curator who put this whole thing together." "Can I thank you? The other girls and I are so excited to have this opportunity." "You're more than welcome, but I think I see some more thirsty patrons and a little Champagne might loosen their wallets." "No worries, I'm on it!" "She's cute, Jason did a good job..." Livy looked around at the other models walking around through the crowd. Simultaneously it dawned on both of us. They were all young trans women. I looked over towards him, still at the front entry. I caught his eye, pointed at the departing girl with her tray, and gave him a thumbs up. He laughed. Chapter 12: Olivia - Drama I am so proud of Taylor. She is absolutely glowing. She's working the room, enthralling our patrons with descriptions of the paintings and whatever background she had found about the artists. She even had managed to track one down. A retired art professor from a local college, in her eighties, was in attendance. Three of her works were on display and had already sold. We decided to give her the proceeds. As the crowds started to thin out, we relaxed and gave each other a congratulatory kiss. Then my parents showed up. I more or less expected my mother to wander in at some point in the evening. I did not expect to see my father who had yet to see me in the three months since I returned. Mother was effusive, looking around the gallery, taking time to look at each vintage dress and the displayed artwork. Father was still standing by the door, making small talk with Jason, and looking bored. He occasionally glanced over at me. His expression hard to read. It could be anything from discomfort to disdain to disappointment to disgust, or maybe simply constipation. When I next took a look back at him, he had one of the programs in hand. He was staring at the cover photo, then back at me. I could see even from a distance that he was about to lose it. So did Jason as he firmly pulled our father, face bright red, away and into my nearby office. I gave Taylor a hug then excused myself. She ran after me. "I'm not letting you in there without me! The photos belong to me, the dresses belong to me. They were in the house when my parents bought it. If your father wants to throw a tantrum, he can yell at me. This showing was my idea. I love you and I am not letting him hurt you." "Taylor," I have tears in my eyes, "I love you too!" So hand in hand, we storm into my office! My father, fists clenched, is momentarily speechless seeing me closeup, holding my girlfriends hand. "You had no right to..." he stammered, looking more lost than angry now. I knelt down next to him and held his hand for the first time in years. "When I, when we, Taylor and I, discovered grandfather's secret, I understood why he always looked so sad. Can I ask you, we're you afraid I would end up the same way? Sad and unhappy? Dad I am so happy with my life. I just wish you were in it." He went limp and started to cry. Mother, who was sitting on my desk, stood up, "Oh for Pete's sake Oliver, take a look at your gorgeous, successful daughter. She needs you and you need her!" My father was paying attention. "Olivia, please stand, let me take a look at you." I got up, but reached for Taylor's hand. I needed support. "You are beautiful.... a beautiful woman, and I am so sorry for rejecting you. You're right, I was afraid. Your grandmother was ashamed of your grandfather, I'm afraid she instilled that in me. I had no right to do that to you. Please forgive me." "Of course, yes," and I hugged my father. "Now, I assume this lovely young woman is, did you say 'Taylor'?" He asked, extending his hand. "Yes, this is Taylor. She is the gallery curator, my girlfriend, and I am deeply in love with her." I wrapped my arms around her and we kissed in front of my family. "Right after we close up, I suggest we all go across the street to our apartment. Jason, bring Jenna. We'll order a couple of pizzas, open some wine, and we'll tell you an interesting story about a suitcase." Epilogue: Olivia A year later, Taylor and I returned from our honeymoon in Milan. It was far more fun for me this time, exploring the Italian countryside, sampling good wine, and enjoying fine cuisine with my wife. Back in our apartment, we snuggled in bed, and binged on a few favorite shows that we missed while we were gone. This time I had no worries about our gallery while we were gone. We had left it in Jason and Jenna's capable hands. I'm looking forward the being Jason's Best Woman at their wedding this coming Spring. At the moment though, I'm staring at the small painting hanging on the far wall. We took the Degas out of the vault a few months ago. We still don't know if it's authentic, but my beautiful curator is pretty sure it is. For now, we are just going to enjoy it privately. Someday, I suspect, we'll donate it to a worthy cause. We did auction off all the dresses and donated the money to a LGBTQ charity. Well, all the dresses except the Dior and the Balenciaga which are carefully hanging in our closet. Taylor just turned off the tv. I believe that is a sign. Newlywed sex is the best.