Page 2 of Crossing the Line
The purple door opened to a wall of warmth and sound that hit Carmen like a gentle assault. Lavender's Café-Bar buzzed with the particular energy of women who'd claimed this space as their own—conversations flowing over vintage sofas, laughter echoing off exposed brick walls lined with local art, and the clink of wine glasses punctuating stories she couldn't quite catch.
Carmen stepped inside and immediately activated what Julia called her "doctor mode"—the practiced smile, the confident posture, the way she could scan a room and catalog every detail while appearing completely at ease. It was a survival skill she'd perfected through years of medical conferences and hospital fundraisers.
The Victorian interior embraced controlled chaos. Mismatched armchairs clustered around low tables, stringlights wound through hanging plants, and every wall displayed paintings and photographs from local artists. A hand-lettered chalkboard near the bar announced "Lesbians Who Wine: Friday Edition" in purple script, complete with small drawings of wine glasses and lavender sprigs.
"Carmen!" Julia's voice cut through the ambient noise. She waved from the bar, where she'd already claimed two stools and what looked like her second glass of red wine. "You made it."
Carmen navigated through the crowd, nodding to familiar faces. Dr. Samira Hassan from the hospital's emergency department sat near the window, still in scrubs with a coffee cup instead of wine—probably grabbing caffeine before her night shift. Carmen offered a professional smile and a small wave, the kind of acknowledgment that said colleague without inviting conversation.
"You're late," Julia said as Carmen slid onto the adjacent stool.
"I'm here. That's what matters."
Lavender Larwood appeared behind the bar as if summoned, her silver hair catching the ambient lighting. Marriage to Police Chief Diana Marten suited her. There was a contentment in her movements that hadn't been there five years ago when she'd been running this place alone and coordinating underground networks for women fleeing domestic violence.
"Dr. Méndez," Lavender said, her voice carrying the same warmth Carmen remembered from community events she'd attended back when she still did that sort of thing. "It's been too long. Diana mentioned you've been keeping yourself busy at the hospital."
"Always something that needs fixing." Carmen accepted the glass of wine Lavender poured without being asked—a pinot noir from a local vineyard, probably. Lavender had a talent for remembering everyone’s preferences.
"Diana's working late again," Lavender continued, polishing glasses with practiced efficiency. "City council meeting ran long. You know how she gets about budget discussions."
Carmen made the appropriate sympathetic sound. She could do this: surface-level conversation, professional courtesy, the social dance that kept her connected to the community without requiring actual vulnerability. It was easier than she'd expected, slipping back into the rhythm of it.
Around them, the Lesbians Who Wine crowd represented Phoenix Ridge's particular brand of organized lesbian social life. City employees mixed with artists and small business owners, nurses from the hospital clustered near the window, and what looked like half the fire department occupied a corner table, still radiating the easy confidence of women who ran toward danger for a living.
Carmen catalogued them all with the same clinical precision she brought to everything else. Demographics, age ranges, relationship status based on body language and ring fingers, probable income levels based on clothing choices. Observing human behavior from a safe distance was a comfortable way to engage without actually engaging.
"How's the research going?" Julia asked, interrupting Carmen's anthropological assessment of their surroundings.
"Fine." The wine was good, she had to admit. It loosened the knot between her shoulder blades that had taken up permanent residence six months ago. "Publishing schedule is still on track."
"And the new techniques you've been developing?"
Carmen's hand tightened slightly on her wine glass. The new surgical approaches were entirely her own work this time. No partners to steal credit or claim joint development. No one to trust and no one to disappoint her.
"Progressing."
Julia studied her with the particular intensity she probably used during police interrogations. "You know, there are other surgeons in this city. Other people who might be interested in collaboration."
"I work better alone."
"You didn't always."
The conversation was veering into territory Carmen preferred to avoid. She took another sip of wine and let her gaze drift back to the room, watching the easy intimacy of women who trusted each other enough to laugh without calculating the cost.
Maybe Julia was right. Maybe she had been hiding.
But hiding felt safer than the alternative.
"Come on." Julia slid off her barstool and grabbed both wine glasses. "Let's find somewhere we can actually hear ourselves think."
Carmen followed her through the crowd to a small table near the front window. The harbor stretched out beyond the glass, city lights reflecting off dark water like scattered stars. It was quieter here, away from the main cluster of conversations, and Carmen found herself settling into the worn velvet chair with something approaching actual relaxation.
"Better," Julia said, settling across from her. "Now I can properly interrogate you about your hermit lifestyle."
"I'm not a hermit. I'm just…focused."
"Same thing, in your case." Julia signaled Lavender for another round. "So tell me about this research that's so important you've forgotten how to have a social life."
