Acknowledgements

Melanie, my wife, deserves a medal for her support and patience.

Also special thanks to Joy Argento for her help.

Cover art by Joy Argento. Check her work out at http://www.joysview.com

Check me out at http://qkelly.blogspot.com and at http://qkelly.wordpress.com

yllek_q@yahoo.com

Strange Bedfellows

Q. Kelly

Ride the Rainbow Books

www.ridetherainbowbooks.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

"Strange Bedfellows" Copyright © 2010 by Q. Kelly

Chapter 1

Frances hoped the prostitute would have alcohol. Surely she would. The other one, from three years ago, had. Every time. Besides, the agency had asked again about Frances's drinking preferences for a reason, right? High class, the agency. Their people knew that drinking preferences could change in three years. Not hers, though. A rum and Coke would hit the spot exactly, calm her nerves. She would have one glass. Maybe two. If she really needed a third, fine. Any more, and she refused to risk driving home.

Frances reached the stairwell outside the Howard Johnson. She tightened her fingers around her briefcase handle. She should have worn a costume. Tonight was Halloween; with a costume, she would not look out of place. Stop worrying. You'll be fine. People hardly recognized her when she looked like this, with her glasses and with her hair down.

Florescent lights illuminated the stairwell, and Frances found the green initials by the corner. She had noticed them last week when she staked out the Howard Johnson. Tiny initials, half the length of the tip of her pinky finger. A private, yet public, display of affection: HJK + DRS = 4ever.

"Yeah, good luck with that," Frances muttered. She checked her watch--ten oh two. Perfect. No sense in coming across as eager. Frances ascended to the third floor, where a Coke machine welcomed her brightly.

"Well, hello," Frances said, just to say something. To let some of her nervousness leak out. If the prostitute did not have alcohol, Coke would be good enough medicine. "Well, hello," Frances repeated. "Remember me? I was here last week. To make sure this place was okay. You know how it goes." She set down her briefcase and held her hand out. "I'm Frances Dourne."

The prostitute would then supply a fake name. Nice to meet you. I'm Jane Doe.

Like the Coke machine, the prostitute was red. Her hair, anyway. She had hazel eyes and a mysterious-sad smile. Not the alluring, come-hither smile of the other nineteen women in the photo album. The mysterious-sad smile was somehow honest. Too honest. Plus, the hourglass necklace the woman wore confirmed Frances's initial reaction. "Yeah," Frances told the machine. "Of all things, she wore an hourglass necklace." What would the prostitute say if she knew Frances had three hundred-plus hourglasses in a room at home?

The Coke machine hummed.

"A drink? Why, that’s very nice of you. Perhaps I will." Frances stepped up to the machine. Her choices were Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite and Dasani.

I'm here visiting a friend.

I'm here to help run an intervention.

I'm here for a night to get away from the rat race.

Here to meet with a prostitute? Goodness, no. Okay, maybe. But it's not what you think.

Frances waited sixty ticks by her Mickey Mouse watch. Mickey's smirk deepened with each tick, and so did her paralysis. She should get in her car and leave. She could execute her plan herself. She did not need anyone else. Right?

She waited another sixty ticks and envisioned her life two months from now. She would no longer be running and hiding. She would not be holding imaginary conversations with a damn Coke machine.

Frances fished out her cellphone. She had gotten this far, an accomplishment worth documenting. Not by writing her initials on the wall. She turned so her back was to the Coke machine and extended her arm. "Say cheese!"

Click. Snapshots flashed in her mind's eye--Nathaniel in the coffin only two weeks ago, Marissa's sobbing eleven years ago when Frances last saw her, and strangely enough, the way Frances had sex on her honeymoon night, with her clothes on.

How she had never been completely naked with anyone.

The picture was blurry. Mostly thumb. Figures. Frances seldom took pictures.

Prostitute. Call girl. Frances’s chest was suddenly heavy. She was not sure why she was seeing a call girl again. A mishmash of reasons, probably. First, to tell someone her news. Once the news was out, once someone knew, the secret could not be stuffed back into its dingy old shoebox. Accountability, in other words.

Second, to have someone in her corner, even if the person was being paid to do it. Someone to listen to her, to sympathize with her. Someone who would not look at her with a therapist’s squinty, judgmental eyes.

Third, to have a sounding board for her coming-out plan.

Fourth…

Frances bit her lip and patted the Coke machine. "Goodbye. See you later." A right arrow indicated rooms 300-310. Its left-arrow counterpart indicated rooms 311-321. Frances crept right. 301. 302. 303. 304. 305. 306. 307. 308. 309. 310. Mickey informed her that she was nine minutes late.

She needed that rum and Coke now.

Fourth…okay, to practice. Frances wanted to be a good lover for her first girlfriend, not be a fumbling, awkward newbie. And, okay, maybe…maybe she wanted a little treat, too. Or several. But that would come later. Not at the first meeting, no siree. Probably not at all.

Frances wondered if the prostitute was as nervous as she was. If she disgusted the prostitute. Frances was afraid she would see that something in the prostitute's eyes. The same something she saw three years ago in the other prostitute's eyes.

Frances realized that part of her was hoping the second prostitute would be like the first. To remind Frances of the horrible things she had done, to remind Frances that she was the sort of person who had to sneak around with call girls.

Someone not worthy of her own respect.

Frances took a deep breath. "You're doing a good thing. The right thing." Don't ever forget that.

*****

Elena had meant to rest her eyes for a moment. A moment only. Best to do that than sit ramrod straight and be nervous about the new client. The new, late client. Instead of resting for a second, however, Elena closed her eyes and got to thinking about the sand again. Why was Kevin having such an impossible time understanding that her keeping the sand, not wanting to spread it, did not signal an inability to move on?

She refused to call the remains of their son ashes, and it annoyed her how Kevin thought that was cute. The remains were light-colored bone fragments reduced by machinery, more like heavy sand than ashes, so sand was what Elena called them. How was that cute?

A faint rap rap noise drifted to Elena. Rap, rap. Dr. Oates from college? If ever a rap could be annoying and arrogant, his was. Then Elena smelled honey and almond. Nice. Very nice. Not from the sand. Not from Dr. Oates. So from what?

"Hello," a soft voice said, and Elena snapped her head up. A woman wearing jeans was in the middle of the room. She carried a black briefcase and a magazine.

That damn urn, that damn sand.

How long had the woman been there? Was she actually...

Elena had been expecting Frances Dourne, with her trademark stern bun and bland, too-large suits.

This woman's legs were long and lithe, giving the impression she could be a ballet dancer. Even the way she stood had a grace. Wavy blond hair fell in layers around her shoulders. She wore square, black-rimmed glasses. Elena overrode the temptation to scramble from the bed and appear further inelegant. She rose smoothly, and the mirror across from the bed confirmed that the nap had done no physical damage. No lines on her face, hair was okay, suit was not wrinkled.

Elena found the woman's eyes through her glasses.

Success.

The eyes never lied. These were Frances Dourne’s catlike, almond-shaped blue eyes. The eyes that kept her from being classically beautiful, but that made her arresting. Better than classic beauty.

"Were you asleep?" Frances asked.

Why lie? She knows you were asleep. "Yes," Elena said.

Frances set down her briefcase. "I didn’t mean to be late. Traffic was, uh, you know how it is. D.C. people can’t drive."

Elena offered a reassuring smile. At least she hoped it was reassuring. "I know how it is."

"I didn't mean to startle you. I knocked. No answer." Frances held up the People magazine Elena had used to negate the electronic lock.

Strike one: Letting Frances surprise you. Strike two: Being overdressed.

Elena wore a black business pantsuit, with no hint of cleavage. The swell of her breasts and hips was barely visible. Her auburn hair was in a brisk ponytail. She wore no makeup, her usual policy, but the freckles dusting her nose and cheeks added a personal touch. Three bracelets, varying shades of green, decorated each wrist. Skimpy, sexy and lolling in bed was not the way to greet Frances Dourne. Businesslike was the approach--for now, anyway. Frances was not the kind of woman who wanted to feel like she was visiting a call girl. Elena had overdone it, however. She looked too severe. Too draconian. Too much like the image Frances herself projected to the public.

Frances Dourne was in jeans. Jeans! The high and mighty president of Gay Is a Choice in jeans.

Amanda, the booking agent, had said Frances was basically looking for a friend. Not sex. Frances had been clear. "No sex, no touching, no kissing," were her exact words. Not that Elena believed them. Her clients did not see her solely for sex, but they wanted sex too, oh yes they did. Some clients told Amanda they wanted a woman who would make them feel like they had a girlfriend: hang all over them, cuddle with them, praise them, cook for them. Some wanted to talk; they wanted companionship, someone to alleviate their loneliness. Some were honest about wanting sex. Some wanted to explore kinks that horrified their straitlaced partners.

Whatever the reasons they gave Amanda, they all ended up having sex. Frances would eventually ask for it, no doubt. Possibly tonight.

Elena took the People magazine and brushed Frances’s elbow. "Hello," Elena said, drawing the word out. Helllooo. She flashed a seductive smile, letting it say: I'm so glad you're here. Your wish is my command. She ran her tongue over her lips and lowered her hand to her breast for a slight caress. Frances fell for the gesture--who wouldn't?--but she did not let her gaze linger. She shrugged out of her coat and placed it on the bed. She wore a mock turtleneck. Interesting choice. To send off signals that she was not in a rush? That she was afraid, that they should go slow? Or did it mean she wanted to play a game?

It's a shirt. It means squat. Analyzing an item of clothing was ridiculous.

Frances held her hand out. "Nice to meet you. I'm Frances Dourne."

"Pleasure meeting you, Frances." Elena caressed the name with her tongue, especially the a and the n. Another I'm here to gratify you signal, but Frances kept the handshake brisk. Businesslike.

"Do you know who I am?" Frances asked.

"Yes." Who doesn't?

Frances got an envelope from her briefcase. Elena quickly verified that the full payment--$1,125 for three hours--was present. She set the envelope atop her own briefcase. She would take half the money. She would mail the rest of the cash to the post office box. From there, Amanda, the booking agent, received ten percent. The service got the rest.

Elena touched Frances's elbow and lowered her own gaze in submission. "What can I do for you?"

Frances stepped back, ending the contact. "Going to check the room." She examined the pillows first, plumping them with a brisk efficiency. Elena looked away. It would not do to stare. She was not sure why Frances had requested a Howard Johnson room. Specifically, a Howard Johnson in Cheverly, Maryland, right outside Washington.

"Why here?" Elena asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You had other options. Why here?" Elena usually serviced well-known people at their homes. No risk for them being recognized, but she could see how inviting a prostitute home was awkward. She worked with most of her clients at the Four Seasons hotel the service used in Georgetown. The place was dependable. Known logistics. But expensive. Maybe Frances was trying to save a buck where she could, despite having millions of dollars to her name. Some people were like that. Perhaps Frances felt safer at the HoJo. More like she was on home turf, because she picked the place. Maybe it held personal significance for her.

"Why here?" Frances echoed. She clasped a pillow to her chest. "I searched a travel site. This place came up, I think third. Or fourth. It's out of the way, but not too out of the way. Not too crowded. Not too simple, not too fancy. Decent neighborhood. Is this okay?"

"Fine, fine. Perfect. You're safe here."

"Should I have…"A shadow lurked in Frances's eyes. "You want the Four Seasons. Of course you do. You're used to finer things. I apologize. I'll find a nicer place. But not the Four Seasons. Too prominent. People will recognize me and--"

"This is fine, I promise. Like you said, here isn't too fancy. Not too simple. It's the right amount of out of the way."

Frances replaced the pillow. "I went to someone about three years ago. From your agency, too. Another, uh..."

"Prostitute. Hooker. Call girl. Whore." Elena was violating a big rule: never say what was what. Use code words. Code names. You never knew who was wearing a wire. Or where wiretaps were. Frances was the kind of woman who would appreciate her honesty, though. Her bluntness. That meant better tips.

"Yes. Prostitute. Hooker. Call girl. Whore. I actually--" Sheepish grin. "For the other one, I took out a six-month lease on a furnished apartment, just for our sessions. Isn't that silly?"

"Not necessarily. You probably saved money in the long run."

Frances inclined her head. She was a hundred and ten percent seriousness. All business. "Would you prefer I lease another apartment?"

"Here is fine. Really. I only asked why here to make conversation."

Frances wet her lips. "The bed seems all right. Spacious."

Elena's stomach fluttered. Was Frances flirting? Testing the waters? In a few minutes, perhaps the next minute, even, Elena would be touching Frances sexually. What was this? Part of her job was smiling, grinning, flirting, putting her clients at ease. She was a two-and-a-half-year veteran, not a dewy-eyed new whore. She did not get stomach flutters.

Until now.

Another sign she needed out of the trenches. On the other hand, none of her other clients had been Marissa's mother, tears replayed on CNN for days and days.

To be fair, none of her other clients had been this beautiful a woman, or this hidden of a person. Elena was going to know a Frances Dourne no one else did. Happened with pretty much every regular client. For example, hard-nosed business execs and chief executive officers turned sweet and soft. One had cried about the death of his childhood dog, a death more than forty years past. Lamar, the dog’s name was. Chocolate lab. The man was CEO of a major defense contractor. Best friend ever, the man said. Best, best, best friend ever, he added, weeping, and then wondering: Why am I thinking about him now? I haven’t in years.

Elena had whispered: "It’s okay; you’re safe here, sweetie."

Elena went to Frances, slipped her arms around Frances's waist. Their breasts pressed into each other. They were about the same height, five feet seven inches. Frances felt solid. Substantial. Elena brought her lips to Frances's ear. "You smell good," Elena murmured. The honey and almond had to be lotion.

Frances broke away, and Elena found herself disappointed.

"Please don't," Frances said. "Don’t touch me." She got a deck of cards from her briefcase. "Like I said, the bed has lots of room. Want to play rummy? And do you have alcohol?"

The bed seems all right. Spacious. Cards, my ass.

Words slipped out before Elena knew what she was doing. "I'm sorry about Marissa."

Frances blinked. Hurt and surprise played across her features.

Sorry I'm an imbecile. People went to prostitutes to escape. Not to be reminded of their shitty reality.

Frances swallowed. "Yes, well. Thank you for your concern."

Eleven years ago, Elena went into the gym and glanced at CNN behind the reception desk. Frances Dourne, then Gay Is a Choice's vice president despite being thirty-one years old, was in tears, true, fat, wet, wild tears. Ice queen breaking down, for the first and probably the last time in public. She could barely get her appeal for Marissa's return out. Her hair was askew, her eyes and cheeks red and splotchy. Some people said Frances had it coming, but Elena could never quite rejoice in their glee. From that time on, the animosity Elena felt toward Frances was tempered. Especially after Isaiah died. Oh yes, especially after Isaiah died.

Elena burned with questions to ask Frances. Questions she doubted she would ask. Questions such as how had Frances done it, kept going on, kept building and running her empire, after losing her daughter? Easy. Marissa is alive.

Elena did not know how she herself got up every day, only that some small inner spark urged her on. She brushed her thoughts aside and forced a grin. "Did you say you wanted alcohol?"

Chapter 2

"So you know who I am," Frances said after she won the first round of rummy, seventy to thirty-five.

You're Marissa's mother.

Elena pushed a flirtatious smile through. She leaned in, cursing her stiff business suit. Stupid, stupid idea. "I know who you are." She met Frances's eyes. Frances had taken her glasses off halfway through the round, and the distraction had proved fatal for Elena. She could not concentrate on her game with those eyes right there.

Felicianna, Elena's best friend, would howl if she knew Elena thought like this. To Felicianna, Frances Dourne was Satan, hell on Earth. That was the good thing about thoughts, about fantasies. They were private.

Frances reached for her drink on the nightstand. She tilted her head back to get the dregs. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails manicured and shiny. Her neck was…Elena smiled, wishing she was a vampire.

"Maybe I'll have one more drink." Frances got up from the bed.

"I'll do it."

"Allow me. Sure you don't want any?"

"I'm sure." Elena let her gaze linger on the tiny lines crinkling Frances's eyes. The only sign that she was forty-two and not the thirty or so she looked.

The bottle of rum was on the desk across from the bed, and Frances poured herself a generous serving. "Are you allowed to drink on the job?"

Elena shuffled the cards. "Yes." She was not a good card shuffler, did not play cards much. The contrast between Frances's smooth, graceful shuffling and Elena's clumsiness was painful.

"You seem nervous."

"I don't shuffle well."

"Don't be afraid of me."

Elena dealt the cards. "I'm not."

"Haven't you done anyone famous? Or semi-famous? I would think with the agency--"

"A few, yes."

"Anyone more famous than me?"

"Yes."

Amusement flickered in Frances's eyes. Appreciating the honesty. And perhaps the fact that she was not the biggest hypocrite out there. "Anyone really, really famous?"

Elena smiled. "Maybe." Meaning yes. She had serviced the Supreme Court chief justice last month--during three sessions, actually.

And last year, Albert Reginald Charles William Louis X, the seventy-seven-year-old king of England. She and two other prostitutes. He was visiting again in a few weeks and had requested them for a second go.

Frances returned to the bed for round two of rummy. She held out her glass. "Drink. A few sips."

Elena obeyed. The alcohol burned her throat and tingled in her stomach. A great feeling.

"You like it," Frances observed.

"I do."

"What's different about me that makes you nervous? Is it because I'm Frances Dourne? My work?"

"No."

"Because I’m a woman?"

Elena chuckled, more heartily than she would have liked. "No." She did not let herself elaborate. Now was not the time to reveal personal information. Not so soon. If at all.

Frances narrowed her eyes. "No?"

"No." Elena enjoyed another sip and returned the glass to Frances.

"You don’t mind female clients?"

Elena shrugged. "Apparently not. I’m here, aren’t I?"

"I suppose money is money."

"Pretty much."

"Where’s your hourglass necklace?" Frances asked.

"My what?"

"Hourglass necklace. From your picture."

Elena remembered Amanda saying that Frances had picked her out of a lineup of twenty photos. Twenty women from the service.

"In my jewelry box at home."

"Why do you have the necklace?"

Elena focused her gaze on a wall photograph: the Capitol at night. Should she tell the truth--which necessitated revealing personal information? Or some glib lie that would make everything easier? The agency recommended concocting a fake life story. Life stories based on friends or family members were easiest to remember, the agency said. Elena had no problem spouting falsehoods--as long as they were appropriate to the client.

She did not want to lie to Frances. Not when Frances’s grief had been so naked and honest and palpable and wet on CNN--hell, all the channels--for days. And trotted out every year on the anniversary of Marissa’s abduction. Plus, Elena sensed that Frances was the type of person who would rather know less than be lied to.

Elena decided to go truthful but restrained, very restrained. "It's from someone I used to watch Days of Our Lives with."

Frances grinned and laid down a six, seven and eight of diamonds. "I loved Days of Our Lives when I was in middle school and high school."

This was interesting. Frances's memoir said that her father had not let her watch TV. The explanation was probably something like Frances watched the show at a friend's house or cousin's house. Encouraged, Elena went on. "They're awesome, aren't they? Hourglasses. I like the red sand ones best."

"Depressing, too."

"Depressing?"

"Marking away your days. The end of your life."

"That's one way to look at it."

"I collect hourglasses. Your necklace is why I picked you."

"You collect hourglasses? Why?"

A shadow crossed Frances's expression, and she shrugged. An I’ll-tell-you-later shrug.

For whatever reason, Elena's nervousness, her feelings of imbalance, her fear, dissipated. She reached out, stiff suit be damned, and caught Frances's hand in hers.

Frances wore a Mickey Mouse watch. Why?

"Frances," Elena said. "We haven't gotten off to the best start, and that's my fault. I want you to know--"

Frances slithered out from Elena's touch. "I want to play cards."

"Why are you here, Frances? How can I help you?"

Frances did not answer. They played in silence, speaking only to report their scores. Frances recorded the numbers and added them up on Howard Johnson paper. The glass with the rum and Coke went back and forth between them, but Elena took tiny sips. She was allowed to drink on the job, but getting drunk with a client was a personal no-no. A buzz was far as she would go.

"What do you think about me?" Frances asked at last.

"I think you're beautiful."

"Honestly."

"I think you're beautiful. Honestly."

One corner of Frances's mouth pulled into a slight smile. Her eyes were clear. No drunken sheen. "What else? You must have an opinion on me."

Elena considered Frances a moment. She claimed that a year at camp when she was seventeen helped put her back on the righteous road to heterosexuality. A certain group of people lapped up her trembling voice when she talked about the moment she knew in her heart her conversion was complete, when her world parted and the heavens rained down on her, when she felt God's love most deeply--when she met Daniel Dourne, the man who would become her husband. Gays could, and should, choose to be straight, she said.

After all, she herself had chosen. And won.

Except she hadn't. Apparently.

Elena decided to answer. "My best friend says you're a hypocrite, a two-faced liar."

Frances betrayed no reaction. "Go on."

"She says you're probably no better than the preachers who have male call boys, no better than the family-values politicians having anonymous, gay bathroom sex."

"And what do you think?"

Elena got up so she could sit next to Frances. She took Frances's hand and kissed one of her knuckles. Frances's skin was warm, and Elena kissed another knuckle, letting her mouth linger. "I think you're like me, Frances. We act for money. We act to escape."

Frances nodded slowly. "O--okay."

Elena rested her hand on Frances's thigh. She quirked her eyebrows and let her eyes do the talking.

Frances's breathing shallowed, and Elena moved her hand up Frances's leg. Frances trembled. This was a sex-starved woman. Love-starved woman too, probably.

Desperation radiated from Frances. Desperation to explain herself. To understand herself.

To have her brains fucked out.

Elena kissed a third knuckle. "I'm very happy you’re here, Frances. Your hand is very nice. I could kiss it a long time. I would love to kiss you all over."

"Not--not now. Maybe later."

"Let me touch you," Elena persisted. Knuckle kisses were a trick of hers. A nice little touch of individual attention. Clients loved it. Frances did, too. She must have. How long had it been since Frances had sex? The area between Elena’s legs sighed. Maybe she was projecting her own desires onto Frances. Elena had not made love, had not had true sex, in years. She did not count her friends with benefits fumbling with Felicianna.

"Would you like to touch me?" Elena asked. She guided Frances’s hand to her own breast. Instead of following through, Frances got out of bed.

"I’m gay," Frances said. She looked Elena right in the eyes.

Elena smiled encouragingly. Am I the only person you've told? Elena thought yes.

"The other prostitute," Frances said.

"Yes?"

"She hated me. She tried to act her way out of it, but her hatred was deep. She tried. I'll give her that. The sex was okay. Maybe less than okay." Frances grimaced. "I hoped she would go public and out me so I wouldn't need to do it myself. How cowardly is that? My first time with a woman was three years ago. With her. And it was awful."

"I will remedy that. I promise."

"No," Frances said instantly. Harshly. "No. I'm not here for that. I’m coming out."

"Coming out?"

Frances's eyelashes fluttered. "Coming out to the world."

Elena's first thought was that Frances was crazy. The public--both gay and straight, Republican and Democrat alike--would savage Frances. Attack her. All sides would hate her. Elena shook off the thought. Maybe events would not happen that way. And if they did, at least Frances would feel right with herself. "You're brave," Elena said, her own secret gnawing at her.

"I'm not brave. It's taken me this long to come out of hiding, but I'm ready to live. To be true to myself. I've made my peace with God." Frances reached into her pocket and handed over a piece of paper.

Elena opened it gingerly, as if a creature would jump up and attack her. The paper was heavily creased, and instead of a menacing monster, a typed message in Times New Roman font greeted her.

"My rough draft speech," Frances explained. "After I come out to my family, I plan to come out live. I'll call a press conference."

Elena managed a weak smile.

Good morning. I hope everyone's had a great weekend. I have called you here today to talk to you about something, something very important and dear to my heart.

I've known joys in my life. Tragedies, too. I also have regrets, lots of them. Regrets that I haven't been true to myself. Regrets that I've tried to force my beliefs, beliefs I never truly possessed deep down inside, onto others. Every fiber of my being knows I have caused untold pain and suffering.

I'm going to keep this speech short and sweet, because when you come down to it, I only have three words to say.

I am gay.

There. I've said it.

I'm gay, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Effective immediately, I resign as president of Gay Is a Choice. I am developing a gay rights organization and an organization to track down missing children.

To the people I have hurt, to the people I have caused to feel subhuman, I am sorry. Truly sorry, from the bottom of my heart.

To the people who work at GIC, I am not abandoning you. I love you all. I will be in touch with you very soon.

I want this to be an open and honest forum, so I'm opening the floor. If you have questions, please ask them. I will answer them as honestly as I can.

One last thing. Daniel, please bring Marissa home. I will do everything in my power to make sure you're not prosecuted. I will do everything in my power to ensure joint custody. I will take care of you both. Daniel, just please bring our daughter back.

Elena read the speech twice. This was for real, and she was unsure how to react. "I’m happy for you," she said carefully.

Frances fiddled with her watch. "Do you like the speech?"

"It--it--Frances, what do you want with me?" Frances's coming out would cause a storm. A tornado, a hurricane, through the heart of the nation. And, she, Elena might be in the background of it all. Possible? Was there any way for her to lurk like a wallflower and not be glimpsed by the media? To not be outed as a whore, a prostitute? Her single mother, Brenda, had worked tirelessly since Elena was four years old to provide for her and her two older sisters. For food, for clothes, to save for college. Her mother had worked as a maid. As a street cleaner. As a McDonald's cashier. Never as a whore.

Elena made more in three months than her mother had in a year. Elena imagined her mother's scathing, biting words. There's more honor in being a maid than a whore! That's not how you go on living after the death of your child. You don't sell your body to take care of your soul!

Elena thought about Isaiah, about the police, the balding Sgt. Christopher Gates in particular, his squints, his raised, quizzical eyebrow, his eyes that said Isaiah's death was her fault. Worse had been the Washington Post reporter who dropped in on her, her mother, Kevin and Isaiah at the hospital. Wanting to do a human-interest story.

"Tell me about your son," the reporter said. Kevin talked and talked, on and on. Brenda added a few things.

Elena said nothing. She only stared at Isaiah, at his prone body, the doctors' words continuing to squeeze her soul. Braindeadbraindead….

"How do you feel, Elena?" the reporter asked.

No. It was not possible. Not possible to be Frances Dourne’s call girl and stay in the background. "What do you want with me?" Elena repeated.

Frances met Elena’s gaze. "Be my sounding board. Something like that. You don’t have--" Frances sighed. Played with her watch again. "I’m thinking I’ll come out about Christmastime. I’ll stop seeing you then."

"What if people find out you've been seeing a prostitute?" Elena asked. "That you saw one before, too?"

"They won't."

"What if they do? My family and my friends don't--I mean…"

Frances's gaze was sympathetic. "I'll accept that risk. If you do this, I'll make it worth your while money-wise. You won't be on TV. Or photographed. We will meet in private, in private only. I promise you that. I'd like you with me when I come out to my family, but that isn't necessary. Whatever you're comfortable with. No need to decide on that specific topic now. If you can't help me, I understand. But please tell me."

Elena had the need to flee the room, to get as far from Frances as possible. But what was the big deal? Elena was a sounding board for most of her clients. To Elena, sounding board meant knowing how to let the other person feel in control of an increasingly chaotic life, being a friend, a lover, a person who gave critiques with warmth and concern, a person who kept another person warm, a person who seemed truly interested. "You want a consultant. A public relations firm," Elena said.

"They'll leak. Be about damage control. Not being honest. They'll try to talk me out of it or out of changing my message. And they won't understand what leading a double life is like. They'll look at me like the other prostitute did."

Something intense, yet hopeful, lurked in Frances’s blue depths. Something like: And they won't be my friend. They won't give me sex. Frances yearned for a connection. For someone she could be herself with. "Hey," Frances said. "No pressure. I can do it myself if I have to. Really, no pressure." She smiled widely, genuinely, to underscore her point.

Suppose Elena said no. She would wonder what would have happened. With Frances. Between her and Frances. A woman, a very important, beautiful woman needed Elena. A woman who caused Elena’s stomach to flutter.

If helping Frances might bring Marissa back, Elena would never forgive herself if she said no. Isaiah was gone forever, but Marissa did not have to be.

"I'll help you," Elena said. "Of course I will." But I’m gone the minute you come out. Elena was going to stay as far as possible from the media tsunami.

Chapter 3

Frances paid for another hour. The prostitute added the cash to the envelope and excused herself to the bathroom. Frances headed for the back deck. The view from her Arlington penthouse was the best. Washington looked perfect twenty stories up. Twenty stories down. The third-floor view from this Howard Johnson deck was…well, it was something. The deck overlooked a mini-forest, part of the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. The trees were dark, shadowy ghosts. Frances strained her ears, and the drone of cars came to her. Also mewling and hissing. The music of stray cats.

She looked up. Too much city light to get decent stars, but the moon was full. Frances wondered why the prostitute had tried to kill herself. On each of her wrists, the prostitute wore three bracelets--one chunky, one medium, one thin--for a total of six. All were differing shades of green and set off her hair brilliantly. Frances was sure the bracelets concealed scars from a suicide attempt. She had met many people with these scars, with these protective bracelets. Had tried to help them. Had the awful feeling she further hurt them.

The prostitute joined her. "Doesn't feel too cold now, does it? That's odd." She smelled of watermelon, a summery smell in stark contrast to the bleak fall. She must have sprayed the watermelon on in the bathroom. Or perhaps it was gum.

The prostitute craned her neck. "The moon's beautiful."

You're beautiful, too. Frances wondered her companion's name. She had almost asked a few times but did not bother in the end. Prostitutes gave fake names. These names meant nothing.

The prostitute liked her, though. Was attracted to her. The slight tilt of her head earlier, her pink cheeks, her unnaturally shiny eyes, her nervousness, gave her away.

Or maybe it was a sort of repulsion/attraction. Like gawking at a wreck because you had to see it.

Was it possible the prostitute was sexually fluid? Bisexual? Gay? Whatever the prostitute was, Frances was pleased. A little horrified, too. Mostly pleased. Maybe there was hope for her yet. Maybe the gay community would not crucify her after she came out. Maybe she would be able to find someone and settle down.

Or maybe the prostitute was that good at her job, able to fake a subtle attraction. Maybe she never attempted suicide, and the bracelets were a way to shroud herself in mystery, to raise the specter of possibility.

So many wonderings.

Isn't the moon lovely tonight, Marissa? Frances hoped that Marissa looked at the moon. From Mexico. From Russia. From Australia. Or maybe Marissa was right out there, in Frances's range, right in the D.C area. They had stood on the tenth-floor deck of their old apartment countless times, Marissa soft and precious in her arms, and gazed up at the moon. Frances saw no limit for her daughter.

Frances shifted her gaze down. Funny how a railing was the sole barrier between her and death. A leap from her penthouse twenty floors up would doubtless kill her. Would a third-floor leap? Probably.

"What are you thinking?" the prostitute asked, and Frances met her eyes. The agency picture had not done the prostitute justice. For example, gold flecked her eyes, creating a kalediscope with the browns and greens. Frances had to fight not to stare, to not lose herself.

"Whether I ought to just jump. Why I shouldn't, if the world wouldn't be better off without me."

"Marissa's why you don't jump."

"Mm-hmm." The prostitute was exactly right. If Marissa came back one day, she would need her mother.

The prostitute slipped one of her hands into Frances's. Frances stiffened but let the touch remain. Baby steps.

"Why are you strong enough to come out now?"

"My nephew," Frances whispered. "He died two weeks ago. He was twelve years old. He had my eyes. No one else does. Did."

The prostitute leaned into Frances, her breasts brushing Frances's own. Frances enjoyed the searching intensity, the warm urgency in her gaze, the shifting browns and greens. "I'm sorry. Wait. Aren't your brother's kids fifteen and seventeen?"

Frances chuckled. The prostitute had done her homework. Frances had one sibling, an older brother named Nicholas. He was a six-term congressman representing West Virginia's second congressional district. "My nephew's name was Nathaniel. My brother had an affair with his best friend's wife thirteen years ago."

"Ah."

"A ninety-one-year-old man named Benjamin Robinson killed my nephew. Mr. Robinson had no business driving, and when he saw Nathaniel, he accidentally pressed the gas instead of the brakes. He swiped Nathaniel on his bike at three-thirty after school. In front of school."

The prostitute's closeness was distracting. Very. So was the watermelon smell. Frances liked having a woman with her like this. This prostitute was nothing like the other one.

"Tell me about your nephew."

Nathaniel had probably smelled of watermelon, too. Marissa might have, but Frances had not been around enough to find out. Frances wanted to tell the prostitute not to wear that watermelon spray again, or if it was gum, not to chew it again. But that would be silly. Wimpy. It was a smell, a smell! One she was arbitrarily associating with a dead child.

Frances knew she would never be the same again--whatever same was--after seeing the boy frozen in death, the child with her blond hair and dimpled chin. The boy who looked more like her than her own daughter did. Marissa was entirely her father.

Frances knew she would never be the same again because after they got back to the motel after bribing the funeral home guys, her brother, a bear-giant of a man, wept on and off in her arms for nearly an hour.

All these thoughts. Memories. Regrets. Was this what getting old was like? She certainly felt old. Not old in the sense that her body was achy, tired and cranky, although it got that way sometimes. But old in the sense that she had regrets, lots of them, and was not sure she had the courage to follow through on her plans to address them. She had taken an important step, but there was still room to backtrack. Oh yes, there was.

Regret filled the white spaces on the pages of her memoir. She sensed the same regret in Nicholas when he told her about Nathaniel.

"Nicholas didn't want the baby. He was ready to run for the House. The potential scandal was the worst thing in the world to him, so he was glad when the Callaghans wanted him out of their lives. Better to lose his best friend and Alice and the child than his political future."

The prostitute tightened her grip.

"Nicholas's mistake gnawed at him tiny bit by tiny bit, until everything was gnawed away, leaving only regret. He shouldn't have asked me to come to the funeral home with him. Only…" Frances sighed. "He didn't ask. I volunteered. I drove him to Hartford, Connecticut. Because he's my big brother, he looked after me when we were kids, and that's what a good sister would do, right? It was my idea to bribe the funeral home to let us in after hours to view the body."

"What was that like?"

Frances shivered. "Nathaniel was me, inside. Dead. My brother could become president. Could save the world. But his son, his son he never knew, would still be dead. It didn't have to be too late for me. My heart beat. I had a chance and a child out there. Nicholas sacrificed his son for his selfish ambitions, and that's what I had been doing with my own child, too. That's the instant I decided I had to come out. That's when I told God, 'Fuck you. Screw you. Screw the suffering you've caused, the morality, the bullshit.' "

The prostitute said nothing, but her face spoke for her. Conveying that she understood, that she was quite willing to do more than hold Frances's hand. The combination of a vulnerable woman and Benjamin Franklins, Frances supposed.

"I'm a monster," Frances said, and was glad that the prostitute did not contradict her. Frances had become a monster bit by bit, like her tormentors at camp. So slight, she had not registered it happening. Until it was too late, until her husband came out as gay and was desperate enough to kidnap their daughter. And what had Frances done then? She kept going. She stepped her hate up, accelerated. Like the confused old man trying to flee Nathaniel's death scene.

She had joined the ex-gay movement with the best of intentions. She did not want people to have to endure what she had at camp. No physical or mental torture was necessary. Best to treat gays with compassion and respect. Why would they convert otherwise?

Wolf in a blue-eyed lamb’s clothing.

Some people looked at her gratefully, others neutrally, but more and more, people looked at her, hate leaping from their eyes.

No hate leaped from the prostitute. She had secrets, too. Came with the job. She was lovely, no denying it. If Frances collected beautiful women instead of hourglasses, this new woman would go in the trophy case.

Frances replayed the surprise from earlier in the prostitute's eyes. And the skepticism. Frances Dourne was coming out. Yes, ma'am. About damn time.

Chapter 4

Elena got home about three a.m. She and Frances had chatted until two o' clock, and then Frances left her the tip. Not the largest Elena had received by any means, but still substantial. One thousand dollars. One freaking thousand dollars, for four hours of…of whatever that had been. The tip, plus her take-away pay, meant Elena had netted close to two thousand dollars for four hours of card playing, talking and listening.

Elena wanted to give the money back. Wanted to tell Frances neither one of them had any business carrying that much cash around, that both of them could, and should, do better.

The usual "welcome home" awaited Elena. The living room was dark. Her mother, Brenda, turned on the lamp next to the couch and breathed an: "Elena, dear?" As if anyone else would be slithering into the condo in the wee hours of the morning.

"It's a prowler, Ma. Come to ravish you."

Her mother laugh-wheezed.

"Get that checked, please."

"Psssh." Brenda waved the comment off.

Their dialogue was familiar, but Brenda added something new. "Isaiah's father came by for dinner."

Elena's ears stang. Her mother rarely referred to Kevin by his name. Nearly always "Isaiah's father."

"Of course he did," Elena said bitingly. "Free food, right?"

"You're too hard on him."

Elena set down her briefcase. Her heart was thick and unsteady. She did not need this. Not now. Not from her mother.

"He's a good man, Isaiah's father is. He made mistakes."

"Ya think?"

"He wants to help you."

"That's his problem."

"Help me up."

Elena crossed her arms and linked hands with her mother. She felt the rough creases, the calluses on Brenda's palms. Brenda's back and knees were shot after years of hard, manual labor. "You shouldn't wait up for me, Ma. Use your bedroom for a change."

Brenda's sleeping gown was limp against her body. She had used to be Elena's height. Now she was an inch or so shorter. Prenaturally old at sixty. "That's my job. Doesn't matter if you're thirteen or thirty-two. You'll always be my baby."

Elena helped her mother down the hall. "How was the party?" Brenda asked.

"Great. The costumes were amazing. People stayed and stayed. Couldn't get enough of the food. The clean-up was awful."

Brenda yawned. "I can imagine."

"Go back to sleep, Ma."

"Elena."

"Yeah?"

A flicker of pain crossed Brenda's expression. "Kevin took the urn. I'm sorry, dear."

*****

The office door was open a crack. Elena turned on the hallway light and peeked in. She pictured Isaiah's bedroom at their old place, an apartment. The room had contained a bed with an Atlanta Braves comforter and the usual odds and assortments of a ten-year-old boy's bedroom: a basketball, a baseball and glove, model cars and trucks, books, video game cases, clothes scattered about. Messes. Elena had bought this condo six months ago. Isaiah had never set foot in it. Now, as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Elena saw the office desk she purchased during a sale last year at Felicianna's store. The desk was a handsome red walnut, a restored antique circa 1900. On the desk was a three-inch wood globe, probably her favorite piece from Felicianna's. The globe was from about 1890, and the oceans were dark olive instead of blue.

Party planners needed home offices, didn't they?

Elena replayed Isaiah's wide grin and beaming eyes after Kevin came back into his life. Isaiah even wanted to live with his father. She wanted to throttle both of them, although she understood Isaiah's pain. His yearning for his father.

Sons and their fathers. A boy drooling over a man who abandoned him only to show up in his life when he was ten. A boy discarding the woman who gave birth to him, sacrificed herself, rocked him to sleep, saw him through sicknesses and dried his tears.

Elena closed the door. She did not have the heart to search out the empty spot in the corner of the desk where the urn belonged. Isaiah's urn looked like a metallic toy truck. It had four wheels and a secure top. He would have loved it.

Part of Elena was furious at Kevin. The other half of her--the dark, quiet half--hoped he would do something with the thing. Sprinkle the sand somewhere appropriate, stow the urn in the back of a closet or use it to store coins or pins or soda can tabs for the Ronald McDonald house.

He had no right, though. Who the hell did he think he was?

Elena met Kevin Norwood in high school. He was a player, both on and off the football field. He pursued Elena for the better part of their senior year, and after graduation, she finally gave in.

Just to see. To make sure she was gay.

He wore a condom, but their son arrived nine months later. Kevin cradled the baby, kissed his son, posed for a picture, and then walked out.

Elena trudged to her bedroom and stepped out of her clothes. Logic said she should be more forgiving of Kevin. He was a different man now. Worked hard in his construction job. If she had let Isaiah live with his father, maybe the boy would be alive today. The police said Isaiah's drowning was not her fault, but the pit where her soul dwelled whispered otherwise. Elena knew many facts about drownings now, facts fed to her by her mother, Kevin, Felicianna, and Oliver, her former therapist.

Drownings rarely happen the way they're portrayed on TV. There are rarely frantic splashings, rarely screams for help. Often, the person drowning is surrounded by people who have no clue of trouble. In one case, a boy drowned while a man side-stroked beside him. What happens is that a drowning victim looks like he is playing in the water. Victims beat their arms at their sides, trying to find an anchor on the water. They crane for oxygen, going vertical in the water, bobbling up and down. They are not trying to yell for help. They are gasping for oxygen. They are gasping to live, to avoid suffocation.

In as little as twenty seconds, years of life could be over.

Isaiah had been a good swimmer, small but strong and sturdy. Elena had not seen him go down. Neither had the lifeguard or the adults and children swimming near him.

Maybe the drowning was her fault. Maybe not. What mattered was, her son died while she read a mystery novel on the beach.

If she was going to be charitable and forgiving toward Frances Dourne, she could be, should be, toward Kevin Norwood. And toward herself. Accidents happened. Kevin had told her many times that Isaiah's death was not her fault. He held her in the hospital when the doctors came out and said Isaiah was breathing with the aid of machines but was brain dead. Kevin stayed with her and watched Days of Our Lives with her for the next five days while they debated what to do with the machines and their son. Kevin had given her the hourglass necklace.

Kevin should not have taken the damn urn.

Chapter 5

Frances was awake before the alarm beeped at six a.m. Her Monday outfit, a gray, dependable suit one size too large, awaited. The transformation from the night before was amazing. Not like some silly Clark Kent/Superman thing. No, Frances could almost pass for two separate people. Almost. She dressed, inserted her contact lenses, and swept her hair into its usual bun. She pulled into the parking spot reserved for her. Big important queen bee. Big important pretender.

She had a photo session for Gay Is a Choice's new brochure. A brochure that would never reach its audience. The marketing department had no inkling of her plans. No one other than the prostitute did. While the photographer snapped away, Frances sat for the photos, shook hands with staffers and clients, and typed on her computer. Frances Marie Dourne in her natural habitat. At eleven o' clock, the photographer proclaimed himself satisfied.

At twelve, she had a business lunch with the contractor for the new teen center in San Francisco. Then a reporter from Fox News came for a quick interview. His name was Stone Jordan. He was trim and tall like a basketball player. He had wavy brown hair and piercing brown eyes. Brown/brown could be a rather boring combination, but not on him. Stone was kind of man she used to plead to God every night to send to her. The kind of man she deluded herself into thinking she had fallen in love with.

He looked eerily like her husband.

She glanced at the finger where her wedding ring had rested. She had tossed it off twelve years ago but some days felt its weight.

"Mr. Jordan." She greeted him with an enthusiastic smile.

He grinned back. They shook hands. "Ms. Dourne. So we meet. Call me Stone."

She batted her eyelashes. "Call me Frances."

"You should be on TV," he said. "Not stuck in an office building."

She "accidentally" caressed his arm. "Let's get this show on the road, Stone."

At two o' clock, the camera people and the lighting people arrived to begin production on a new promotional video. Frances had her section of the script memorized. She was to sit as part of a circle of anxious people.

"Hello, I'm Frances Dourne," she was going to say, smiling and leaning into the circle. Signaling her warmth, her accessibility. "So many people are here to help you. Me and my organization. Your new friends. Years ago, I was where you are now. Lost. Shunned. It doesn't have to be that way for you, not anymore. Being gay is a choice. I put in the hard work, and now I'm happy. I'm straight. You can be too. Are you ready?"

The anxious faces would turn grinning. The circle would explode into roars of: "Yes!"

"Then let's get to work!" Frances would reply.

*****

Thanks to Amanda, the booking agent, Elena knew her newest client's name--Darren Joseph Kendall. Like Frances, he picked her out from photos, Amanda said.

Elena was meeting him for the first time, less than twelve hours after she met Frances. Elena had grabbed what sleep she could that morning. Was Frances able to function on just a few hours' sleep?

Elena waited for Darren at the Four Seasons. When Darren arrived, Elena was sprawled, in a black nightie, on one of the two queen-sized beds. Her hair tumbled every which way.

He fidgeted, smiled nervously. Asked her name. "Your real one. Not that fake crap so people can't track you down."

She studied him, his thick black hair, his anxious green eyes, his tall, muscular physique. She never told her clients her real name. She used any manner of labels: Chelsea, Victoria, Lucy, Gina, whatever. Drove Amanda batty, but the money Elena brought in afforded her a few eccentricities.

Elena considered rewarding Darren for having three first names like she did. She could tell him her real name. Say what she had wanted to tell Frances but never would. Elena Marie Elise.

To Darren Joseph Kendall, she said: "My name is Solan Patricia May." Close enough. Still three first names. She would give him that; he was one of the most beautiful creatures she had laid eyes on. He had a rough, tousled demeanor and hands that looked nice and strong. She was not attracted to him, not sexually, but she was an observer of beauty, of people.

He was nowhere near as exquisite as last night's Frances, however. Impossible.

Darren blinked and took a tiny step forward. "Solan Patricia May? That's beautiful."

Elena had always adored her name. Not liked it or loved it. Adored it. There was a difference. When she was a child, she would crown herself Elena one day, Marie another day, Elise another. Sometimes all three in the same day. She would tell the women at the bank who fawned over her brilliant red hair that her name was Elise. At the movies that evening, she would say her name was Marie--or Elena. She did not let her three official names limit her. She spun off a whole string of names. Mary was a favorite, but she also frequently used Elaine, or Eleanor (when she was feeling old-fashioned and virtuous but didn’t want to go with Mary), or Eli (when she was in one of her tomboy moods), or Esile (Elise backward--not a real name, but who cared?).

Elena beckoned Darren closer. "I'm not going to ask your name. But feel free to invent--"

"Darren Kendall. Call me Darren."

"What can I do for you?"

His nervousness returned. "Er--I've never done this before."

"Why are you now?"

He swallowed. "Some of the boys at the firm…"

"Mmm."

"You know. You see, I'm engaged. But, oh, I don't know. She adds to my stress. Whining about me never being home, never doing things for her. I'm working my fucking ass off for her, for us, and she doesn't appreciate it!"

Elena clucked her tongue. "Terrible. She doesn't appreciate you."

Darren Kendall pulled at his tie. "Yeah," he said. "So, anyway." He sat on the other bed, and she shifted to face him.

"I'm here to make you feel better."

"Some of the guys said they're happy with--"

"Don't worry about them. We're here for you."

"The chick told me your rules."

Elena smiled pleasantly. Part of Amanda's job was explaining the rules. Some of the girls were fine with kissing on the mouth. French kissing. Intercourse, vaginal and/or anal. Some were fine with bondage, and so on. Elena's rules were fairly basic: no kissing on the mouth, no penetration in her, vaginal or anal, no drugs, no drinking urine, no scat play, and no a few other kinks.

Amazing how much business she got despite these rules.

Darren handed over a wad of cash. "Here you go."

She hoped he remembered to tip. Amanda was good about explaining that to clients. They were not required to tip but were encouraged to, especially if they received exceptional service. No set percentage, but twenty percent was good.

"My fiancee, she'd kill me if she knew. No. She wouldn't kill me. She'd go to pieces. She'd cry and want to know what she was doing wrong."

"What can I do for you?"

"I like to do it in front of porn movies sometimes, but Jan doesn't like it. She'll do it anyway. For me."

Jan. Elena was not sure she liked this name. It sounded plain and rough. But at the same time, not.

JanJanJan

She decided she liked it.

She was still getting used to the taste of the name Frances Dourne. A mysterious name. A mysterious woman. Old-fashioned but strong. Enduring.

Frances Marie Dourne.

They had the same middle name.

Darren prattled on about his Jan, and Elena listened--tried to, anyway, among the uhs, ahs and ums. Darren wrapped up his Jan tirade, and Elena smiled sweetly. "I have plenty of porn if you'd like that."

"No. Nah. No thanks. Um, how'd you become, um..." He squirmed.

Unlike with Frances, she would not say the words. Not for him. Hooker. Call girl. Whore. Prostitute.

He could be wired. Or the room could be. The service used this room a lot. She let him flail. At least he had not verbalized that he was handing over money. Amanda would have explained that, too.

"Do you consider yourself, you know--? Although you service only well-off people?"

She said nothing.

"How much do you make in a year?"

"I'm not telling you." $250,000, give or take a few. But I gotta comp my own insurance.

Would the figure dismay Darren? It dismayed Elena sometimes. She was horrified at how quickly she became addicted to the prostitute money, to the spending sprees that she pretended replaced the hole in her soul. She had spoiled--or tried to spoil--herself and her mother with designer clothes, antique furniture, nice everything. Not that her mother took advantage of it. Brenda still clipped coupons. Still scrimped and saved.

"How'd you get started?" Darren asked. Another pull at his tie. He glanced at his watch. All her clients had watches. And cellphones, Blackberries, iPhones.

Darren again: "How about--" He shook his head, a light red staining his cheeks.

"I won't judge you."

"Bet you've had some pretty kinky requests. Done some wild things."

Elena smiled and ran her tongue over her lips.

"I've never had it in the ass," Darren admitted.

"I have a nice array of dildos."

Darren loosened his tie completely. "Maybe next time. How about a little BJ for now? I don't like how Jan does it."

Elena handed Darren a fun, fruity condom. He mentioned a next time. That meant he liked her and would tip well.

*****

The list of YouTube videos was overwhelming. So many kinds of card shuffles. Pharaoh shuffle, riffle, bone 1, drunken, one-handed, the overhand, the pivot, and and and and and…

Elena chose a video labeled "Wash Shuffle." The guy laid his cards on the table and spread them around like he was washing the table. Then he collected the cards and stacked them.

Uh, no.

Talk about inelegant.

Elena wanted the regular old way--but better. She would be prepared if Frances chose cards again tonight.

Okay, so wash shuffle's out.

Elena found what she wanted three videos later. What she called "the regular old way" actually had a name--the leaf shuffle.

Prostitution had its educational side.

Elena practiced, copying the man on the video. After a few minutes, she felt the difference. She whipped through the cards, her thumb becoming an asset instead of a hindrance. With grace, she reversed and split the deck. She would be ready.

*****

Elena had not meant to fall asleep on the couch. That was her mother's job. However, one minute she was reading Frances's memoir Gay Is a Choice, and in the next moment, she heard Isaiah's footfalls. He was home from school. He was thirteen years old, perfectly chronological. His curly mop of red hair had not been tamed, and his eyes were the same blue as Kevin's. A sprinkling of freckles dusted his nose.

He greeted her with a mumbly: "Himom." Typical teenage speak. He dumped his backpack onto the floor with a clatter.

"How was school?"

"Fine." His voice was beginning to crackle.

Isaiah was small for his age. Kevin had been small, too. She noticed some broadening in Isaiah's shoulders, though. More definition in his cheekbones. Before long, he would be a man.

"Good. That's good," she said. The words--You want to live with your father? Do you realize he's going to break your heart?--threatened to burst out of her. "I made cookies." She indicated the plateful of chocolate chip cookies on the counter.

He shrugged. "Gonna do homework. See ya."

"Let's do something. Just the two of us."

"Where's Grandma?"

"At the doctor. So, how about a movie? Or a--"

Mumble. Mumble.

"What?"

A shifting of his feet. Scratching of his nose. "Igotlotsofhomework."

"Maybe a movie tomorrow?"

Isaiah reached for Frances's memoir. His eyebrows shot up. "What are you reading that for?"

"Why not?"

"Uh, Mom. Frances Dourne?"

"I'm working with her, Isaiah."

More disbelief. An incredulous "Why?"

"I'm helping her plan a party."

"Should've said no."

"Maybe I should have."

"You could still, can't you?"

"I suppose I could."

"Does Aunt Felicianna know?" Felicianna was so close to Elena and Isaiah that he called her his aunt.

"No. The thing is, Frances is a very nice woman. In person."

Isaiah hauled his backpack up. "Have fun reading. See ya." He trundled down the hall as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

With a start, she woke up. For a half-second, her life was bliss, and her biggest problem was that she was the mother of a typical teenager. Then the truth: that she was the mother of a drowned ten-year-old, hit her. She frantically grasped for the vanishing tendrils of memory, of what thirteen-year-old Isaiah looked like.

Gone.

She grabbed her cellphone and stabbed in Kevin's number.

"Elena." He seemed pleased to hear from her. The lying, thieving bastard.

"Bring the urn back."

"We need to spread his ashes."

"Bring the urn back!"

Chapter 6

Elena read the second chapter of Gay Is a Choice as the car took her to the Howard Johnson. She had re-read the memoir after finding out Frances would be a client of hers, but Chapter Two needed further reading. Further analyzing.

The parents chapter. The camp chapter. Elena read the chapter then began it again.

My father is a pastor, Frances started. And my mother is a pastor's wife. Dad is nearing eighty but he still preaches at Thrasher Independent Baptist, the same church in St. Albans, West Virginia, where he started as a man of twenty-three. (He'd be past eighty now, Elena added mentally.) Nicholas and I were, and are, children of a pastor. We grew up surrounded by God. An angry, vengeful God. God wanted us to eat our vegetables and be in bed by eight o' clock. God didn't want us listening to the radio or watching TV. God, in the guise of our father, whipped us if we broke any of these rules.

So, of course, when my parents caught me kissing my best friend and saying I loved her, God was furious. Off I went to Camp Meadow Woods.

Frances devoted five paragraphs to her camp experience. Five measly paragraphs. Nor did she discuss the experience in interviews other than to say camp had been peaceful, tranquil, therapeutic. In a nutshell, her camp experience was this: Hated it at first. Gradually realized the point. Left camp closer to God and looking forward to a relationship with a man.

Elena speculated that things had gone on. Things. Brainwashing, maybe. Belittling. Beatings. Forced sex with male counselors and male campers.

Mom, Dad and Nicholas picked me up on my eighteenth birthday. We hadn't seen each other in the year I was away. My breasts were a woman's now, not the rosebuds from twelve months ago. I had curves.

Mom and Dad said nothing. Their gazes, their expressions, were suspicious. I was an alien, this daughter of theirs who had shot up five inches and sprouted breasts.

They looked the same. So did Nicholas. I wondered if he was still at UCLA. How he was doing. What he thought of me, of what I had done, of what our parents had done.

He spoke first. "Welcome back, sis," he said, and took me in his arms. Mom hugged me later that night.

Dad didn't hug me for two weeks.

"Ma'am? We're here," the driver said.

The appointment was for ten p.m. Elena was an hour early, like the night before. Prep time was critical. Tonight she wore a black silk shirt and a black skirt. Dark angel. No businesswoman. She brushed her hair, pulled it in a ponytail, let it fall out, tried a bun. Could not decide which way to go.

She booted up her laptop and searched YouTube for clips of Frances from TV.

Coming out live.

Jesus H. Christ. No pun intended.

In the video clips, Frances wore a business suit. Hair up in a bun. No glasses. She spoke passionately. About morals, about values. About loving the sinner, hating the sin. "Gays do not deserve our scorn," she said at one point. "They deserve our compassion. Only with our compassion can they make the right choice."

About nine-fifty, Elena took a long look at herself in the mirror. She would wear her hair down. She looked good. Sexy as hell. She would land a big tip tonight. More than a thousand. That was why she was prepping so thoroughly for Frances. The memoir, the YouTube videos. Because of the money. Because of the cause, too. Helping Frances come out.

And the fact that they shared a name.

Elena ignored the voice whispering that she was doing this because Frances was attractive. Very. And well-meaning. Seeking redemption. On the same path, kind of, that Elena was. The voice murmured that perhaps Elena was interested in Frances as a person, interested in understanding why Frances did the things she did.

"The money," Elena muttered. "That's why I am doing this. Money." She banished the voice to a far-off dungeon, but another voice escaped.

One woman at Isaiah's funeral--a well-meaning woman, of course--had told Elena she ought to think of his death as a gift. You're young. You can have plenty more children. Or, you can live your life the way you always wanted to. The stigma of being a teenage mother--people thought the child was a forever burden.

Frances entered on time, and Elena offered a big, warm smile. Money. Like the night before, Frances did not look like herself. Or maybe she looked exactly like herself.

"Hello Frances," Elena said, again slightly drawing out her words. Embracing the name Frances with her tongue.

Frances replied with a guarded smile and surveyed the room. Elena half-expected her to inspect it again.

"You smell good," Elena said. Frances was fresh. Fruity. Clean.

"What do your clients usually smell like?"

Elena laughed. "Like sweaty businessmen and lawyers."

Frances handed over an envelope. Elena did not bother to count the money this time. Showing trust in clients was important.

Frances sat at the table. "Rummy again?" She proffered the deck of cards.

"Sure."

About ten-fifteen, a phone rang. Beep beep blip blip. Pac-Man. Not Elena's personal or work phone; she kept her phones off when she was with a client.

Frances glanced at the phone's screen and barked a "Hello?" A moment into the conversation, she said: "Two? Really?" Something like hope flickered across her face. She furrowed her brows and listened for a few minutes. She said occasionally: "I see. Yes. Okay." She ended with a: "Yes, I know you will. Thank you." She hung up.

Elena waited for Frances to explain the call, but Frances only gazed across her cards. She added a jack to the three jacks Elena laid down earlier. Her hands were steady.

"Everything okay?" Elena asked.

"Sure."

"Really?"

"Same old. That was the Marissa phone."

Elena perked up. "There's news?" The nation had seemingly divided in two loud halves when Marissa was kidnapped, with one group shouting for Daniel Dourne’s blood. They claimed he had no right taking the child from her mother. The other half said he had no other choice, that Frances's inflexible, anti-gay ways and her battles to keep Marissa from her father, made the kidnapping all but inevitable.

Shouters aside, Elena bet most people felt the way she did. She understood why Daniel took the child, but perhaps the court system would have given him his due. Frances was the so-called injured party, yes, and had power, and the favor of a judge, but Daniel was the girl's father. The courts would eventually have given him…what? Visitation? Sporadic time with his daughter?

Maybe Elena would have done the same. Maybe she would have kidnapped her child.

"I have two cellphones," Frances said. "One for both work and personal use. One for Marissa stuff. Only my private investigator and the FBI agent in charge of her case know the number. Guess how many times the Marisssa phone rings in a month. Lately."

"Five?"

"That's about right. None of these leads amount to anything. This one won't, either. Two alleged sightings of Daniel in Mexico City, earlier today."

"You don't know that this one won't amount to anything."

Frances's eyes clouded over. "Marissa is dead. Daniel is dead. They've been dead a long time. Don't ask me how I know. I just do."

"You appeal to him in your coming-out speech."

"That's for just in case."

"You told me yesterday that you have a child out there. A live child."

"I hope I do," Frances whispered.

Chapter 7

Frances continued to play rummy with the prostitute and tried to put the Marissa call behind her. She was able to focus enough to win the round by ten points. Or maybe the prostitute let her win. Last night, the prostitute had been an awkward, clumsy shuffler. Tonight, she was smoother, graceful. Much improved.

"Have you been practicing shuffling?" Frances asked.

A little, embarrassed smile. "Maybe."

Frances could not help but feel flattered. And foolish for feeling flattered. What else was the prostitute supposed to do? Her job was to draw her clients in, impress them. Flatter them. But maybe, just maybe…

At midnight, Frances brought out her time line. Part of her could not believe she was doing this. Actually doing this, after all these years. She supposed she should feel proud. She did not. The time line called for her to come out to her family Christmas Day, about two months off. Suddenly, too long off. Way too long off.

"Forget Christmas," Frances muttered. "How about Thanksgiving? I plan to come out to my family at my parents' house in West Virginia."

"Sounds good."

"Do you know yet if you'll, uh…you don't need to decide yet, but we should reserve the day in case you--"

"I'll go with you."

Frances refused to let herself smile. "Do you have Thanksgiving plans?"

"Your plans are my plans." The prostitute wore three bracelets, green, blue and purple, on each wrist.

"We'll do it Thanksgiving Day, then." We. That would be nice.

"Thanksgiving." The prostitute flashed a smile. "Great."

A strange calmness filled Frances. She was making the right move. Five weeks later, she would be out to her family. Her organization. The world.

"What was Camp Meadow Woods like?"

"Uh--what?"

"Camp Meadow Woods. It must have helped shape your life."

Frances’s heart burned. The prostitute was not playing fair, blindsiding her like this. Whatever. Frances imposed an iron control on herself. Time to ask some questions of her own. "Why did you try to kill yourself?"

Anger lit the prostitute's eyes. "What?"

Frances dropped her gaze to the woman's bracelets. "You asked me a question, I asked you a question."

The prostitute clenched her teeth. "Fine. No more questions. I asked because I thought you might want to talk about it. Are we going to fuck or what?"

"Not now. Maybe later."

The prostitute's mouth twisted. "Why not now? You’re seeing a freaking prostitute!"

Frances summoned memories she would rather leave dusty. "Camp Meadow Woods. Okay. I'll probably have to talk about it after I come out, so might as well now. Let me know if you think I should include it in my speech." She stood. What would the prostitute think of her bra? Her cleavage? Her work outfits helped conceal her sexuality, but not completely. Frances lifted weights to keep toned, and she jogged when the weather was nice. On rainy days, she hit the treadmill or elliptical trainer. She'd jogged earlier today after getting home from work.

Her pulse skittered. Taking her shirt off for the prostitute would be the most naked Frances had been with someone since the other prostitute. With the other one, Frances’s nakedness had been south.

Frances lifted her sweater above her head and dropped the garment on the floor. Her bra was a lacy, shimmery red. She suspected she looked like a woman who was hoping to get sex. Maybe she was.

Okay, yes, she was. Why was the fact so hard to admit to the prostitute?

Frances pulled her hair into a ponytail. "Feel my back," she said. "They're easier to feel than to see."

"We don't have to." The prostitute was apologetic now.

"Feel."

"I see them. Scars. You were beaten at camp?"

So you’re not going to feel? Too scared? "I call them maggots. Not scars." The marks had diminished over the years, but they would always be iron-hot inside her. "Yes, I was beaten. And made to have sex with the male campers. I guess as far as that goes, I didn't have it too bad. The guys did. There were candles every time. Nice, satiny sheets. Soft music. I felt bad for the guys. They had a hard time getting it up. Keeping it hard. We would have to stay in bed all night until…until--easy for me to fake. Not so easy for them."

"Did your parents know?"

"Probably. I ask myself why I'm bothering to come out to them in person. Why they deserve that much."

"So why are you?"

"Maybe because I'm foolish and I hope they'll accept me. Maybe they didn't know what happened at camp, that what the brochure said about camp being therapy-intensive was true."

"Maybe."

"When I left camp, I had no sense of myself. I prayed, I prayed, to find a man to love. A man who could get his dick up when he saw me and keep it hard. Gay Is a Choice welcomed me with open arms."

"Frances."

"What?"

"I'm proud of you. What you're doing."

"We need to figure out how we'll introduce you to my family."

The prostitute undid Frances's ponytail and moved her hands into Frances's hair. "I like your hair down."

"I like yours down, too."

"Strawberries and cream?" Her breath tickled Frances's ear and neck. Goosebumps prickled and swayed on Frances's arms, legs and stomach. The prostitute again smelled of watermelon, but that did not bother Frances. Not now.

Frances felt soft lips nibbling her neck. Her thoughts spun. Her insides spun. The prostitute continued nibbling. Her hands curled around Frances's waist, coming to rest on her stomach. Her hips and her breasts pressed into Frances's back.

"Your name," Frances managed. "We need a name to tell my family. Make something up."

"Later."

"Why?"

"I don't want to lie to you. Not tonight, anyway. We have time to think of a name."

"It's not lying if I tell you to do it."

"I suppose."

"Tell me something about you."

"I want you, Frances Marie Dourne. Let me please you."

Damn, she was good. You don't want me. You want my money. The next time Frances was with a woman would be right. True. She wanted deep, heartfelt kisses, excited, eager tongues. Gentle caresses, maybe whispers of: "I love you." Not a prostitute's rules, such as no kissing, no touching here or there, no this or that.

"Tell me something about you," Frances insisted.

"I brought you the necklace."

Frances's heart thudded. What?

The prostitute reached for her briefcase and presented the necklace. The necklace did not have sand in it, not technically. The "sand" was pieces of fake green crystals. No matter. The necklace was lovely, and Frances traced its smooth, gold surface. It's not the same necklace. She bought a look-alike. I hope. "I couldn't. I really couldn't."

"Yes, you can. Turn back around so I can put it on you."

She’s angling for a big tip. She’s doing her job. Well.

Frances imagined for a moment that the woman before her was her lover, not a prostitute. She pretended that maybe they would make love that night. Her need to open herself up like a flower to another woman, to taste another woman, to kiss her, have their juices mingle, was great. Perhaps too great.

She had never tasted another woman. Pathetic.

The other prostitute--Frances had never asked her name--had been utilitarian. Workmanlike. She went down on Frances mechanically. Frances had not been tempted to touch her. Contempt shone in her eyes. Yet Frances returned week after week, until shame got the better of her. Frances was not sure why she had kept returning. Perhaps to spite the prostitute. Two could play that game. If the prostitute was not going to respect Frances, Frances was not going to respect her, either. Stupid. Petty. Chicken.

This new woman, this new prostitute, was different. She would be good. Frances longed to feel the heat of bare, female skin on her. One hotel room. One night. Maybe even just one hour.

She needed this. Deserved this.

"Let’s get the necklace on you," the prostitute urged.

"I really couldn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Is it yours? Or one you bought today?"

"It's mine. I want you to have it."

"Tell me who gave it to you."

"I hardly wear the necklace. You'd wear it. It's beautiful and deserves to be worn. That's all there is to it. Okay?" The prostitute guided Frances to the mirror on the wall. The prostitute's breath on Frances's neck was hot. The area between Frances's legs clamored to be addressed. Three years was a long time. Too long.

The prostitute put the necklace on Frances. The combination was Christmassy, with the green close to Frances's red bra. Frances met the other woman’s hazel eyes in the mirror. "Thank you."

The prostitute smiled. She had a tiny chip in her front right tooth. Otherwise, her smile was white, even and bright.

"How did you get in the business?"

The prostitute drew back, some of her magic vanishing. "That's irrelevant."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"One hundred."

"One hundred and what?"

A little smile from the prostitute. "Okay. One hundred and thirty-two."

Thirty-two, really?

"Bit too old for the business," the prostitute acknowledged. "I'm getting out. Soon. I have a bachelor's degree in communications. I used to be a party planner. I'll go back to that."

"What's stopping you?" If the prostitute actually had a degree, likely it was in something opposite communications. Math, perhaps. Prostitutes constructed stories.

Frances felt the prostitute's lips, soft and sweet, on her back. Kissing her maggots. The prostitute's fingers fumbling to undo her bra. Succeeding.

Frances’s breasts fell free, and Frances stared at them in the mirror. And at the hourglass necklace. Her body was half ice and half flame. Her breasts were creamy globes, still firm, shapely. Her nipples were hard and pink. A perfect complement to the hourglass.

What she saw on the prostitute, in the prostitute--tenderness, desire, amazement, lust, a million things all at once--caught her off guard. The prostitute must have taken acting classes. She was worth every damn dollar. Frances liked it. Loved it. She felt normal. "Take your bracelets off," she heard herself saying.

Oh, Frances. Way to ruin the moment.

The prostitute's expression turned stony, but she obeyed.

Nothing.

No scars.

Damn. Frances could have sworn…just something about the bracelets, something about her…Frances realized what it was. The prostitute often, automatically, touched her bracelets. Making sure they had not slid down to reveal something. Except there was nothing to expose.

"Sorry," Frances mumbled. She would tip the prostitute more tonight. What had she been thinking, asking to see the prostitute's wrists? How rude was that? Frances's mind was warped from seeing too many women with bracelets and mannerisms like these.

"I’m leaving," Frances said.

"It’s not time."

"Yes, it is. I apologize for what I did."

The prostitute shook her head. "Shh." She wrapped her arms around Frances. Frances let herself feel the hollow of the prostitute's back, her shallowing breaths, her breasts on Frances's, her curves. The prostitute was strong, real, alive. Their touch, their closeness, was more intimate than anything Frances had done with the other prostitute.

Frances untangled herself from the woman, immediately missing her heat, her femaleness. Get over it. You’re not a teenager. "Enjoy the free money." Frances pulled her bra and sweater back on. She got more cash from her briefcase. "Your tip. Was last night's tip satisfactory?"

"Yes."

The prostitute put the bills atop her own briefcase, barely glancing at them. Playing it cool. Undoubtedly, she would be counting the second Frances left. Two thousand dollars. Maybe that would make the bracelet fiasco okay.

"Are you available Thursday night? Five o'clock or so?" Frances asked.

"Yes."

"Come to my house. I’ll tell you why I collect hourglasses. The service has the address. One more thing. A very important thing."

"Okay."

"I understand that you think you have a job to do. But this job is different. I'm different. Please don’t touch me."

The prostitute frowned.

Frances wondered if her words sounded hollow. If they had a lying tinge to them. Why was she saying these damn words? These damn words she did not quite believe herself? Perhaps because wanting sex, admitting she was a sexual woman, felt wrong. The other prostitute had not liked Frances anyway, so no big deal.

This prostitute was different. Frances wanted to be a better person for her. Not a typical client. Not a grubby, grabby client looking for nonexistent scars. "Don’t flirt with me," Frances said. "I don’t want sex. I don’t want complications. Okay? No more touching."

"I would love to be your friend. I can give you sex, too. I would like to."

Frances shook her head. "No. No." But she kept the necklace.

Chapter 8

When Frances got home, she took her shirt and bra off again. She twisted her arm and felt for the maggots. She did not want to be alone in her sterile penthouse. Did not want to be alone with the maggots, either. She should not have left the prostitute early. Way to go, genius.

Frances slid her shirt on and went to her bookshelf. She drew out Gay Is a Choice. She wanted a new book. A book true to herself. She sat at her computer and typed.

Chapter One:

I am forty-two years old, and I have not lived. I'm developmentally delayed. I'm going through things that usually happen to people in their teens. Things such as coming out as gay to your parents. Disregarding God and not missing him very much. Accepting myself for who I am. Well, I'm not sure about that last one. Do people ever actually accept themselves for who they are? Do people ever actually know who they are? Does my daughter, if she's alive, know who she is?

"Shit," Frances whispered. She flipped Gay Is a Choice to a random page.

Page 115.

His name was Daniel Dourne. He had dark, wavy hair, kind brown eyes and a strong chin. When I saw him leading an ex-gays session, I knew I was truly cured. This was the man for me, the person for me.

Five months later, he was my husband.

God, she missed him. She missed her husband, never mind that she had never been in love with him the way a woman loves a man. Their marriage was one of delusion and convenience and very little lovemaking. Twelve years ago, he said it was not working, he was gay and okay with that, he was going to go and be free.

She did not blame him for taking their daughter. She might have done the same, had she been in his place. She had the burgeoning empire. The resources. A judge who did not like gays. She kept her husband from his child.

Frances snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf. She had a speech to make--the speech of her life--and had not practiced. Other than in her head. Now was as good a time as any to say the words out loud. She retrieved the rough draft and smoothed the paper out. She went into the bathroom and laid the paper beside the sink. She lifted her eyes and met her gaze in the mirror. So much to do. Decide what clothes to wear. Shoes. What makeup. Hair. Glasses or contacts? Nail polish?

"Hello, everyone," she said. You’re mumbling. "Hello, everyone." Speaking up. Voice firm and calm. "I hope you’ve had a great weekend." Pause for a smile that crinkles your eyes. She nailed the smile on the third attempt. "I have called you here today to talk to you about something, something very important and dear to my heart."

She did not have to look at the paper.

"I've known joys in my life. Tragedies, too. I also have regrets, lots of them. Regrets that I haven't been true to myself. Regrets that I've tried to force my beliefs, beliefs I never truly possessed deep down inside, onto others. Every fiber of my being knows I have caused untold pain and suffering."

Images flickered across the theater of her mind. Daniel’s shy smile when she asked him to dinner and a movie. His gasp, the blood siphoning from his face, when she got on her knee and asked him to marry her. His shriek after a moment and his "Yes, yes, Frances, I will marry you."

Her paralysis when the pregnancy test was positive. His excitement. The look in his eyes the first time he held their daughter, when she truly knew their marriage was doomed. He never looked at her like that. Nor she him. She was not capable of looking at anyone like that. What an awesome but frightening feeling that must be, and she was never more glad than in that moment that she was incapable.

"To the people I have hurt, to the people I have caused to feel subhuman, I am sorry. Truly sorry, from the bottom of my heart.

"To the people who work at GIC, I am not abandoning you. I love you all."

Marissa clamoring for her breasts. Frances weaning the baby off as soon as possible, Daniel taking the feeding over.

"Daniel, wherever you are, thank you for taking Marissa. You did the right thing, and I admire you every day of my life."

*****

"Good night, sweetie," Brenda said the next night.

"Night, Mom." Elena pecked her mother on the cheek.

Only nine-thirty. The night yawned before her. She wondered what Frances was up to.

No way to find out. She did not have Frances's number, not that she would call anyway. Frances did have Elena's work cell number; she had the option of calling it to book an appointment instead of going through Amanda. Clients appreciated being able to call their girls directly. Darren had started using her work cell right away, but Frances had yet to take advantage of it. Elena and Amanda used a calendar application to sync the appointments. No overlaps.

Elena curled up on the couch and resumed reading Frances's memoir. She studied the photo pages. Marissa really looked nothing like her mother. By now, maybe she did. Isaiah had looked quite different at ten than he had at three. His hair had gone from straight to curly, and freckles had broken out. His skin at ten was darker, tanned. Elena doubted she would recognize Marissa if she saw the girl on the street. Would Frances recognize her own daughter?

Elena slid her bracelets up and down. Up, down, up. No way she could have explained them to Frances last night. Felicianna, my best friend, stopped me before I could cut into my wrists. I told her I wasn't going to kill myself, I just wanted scars to feel closer to Isaiah. Scars are better than tattoos.

The bracelets did okay. She felt closer to Isaiah through them than through his urn and sand. Odd, maybe, but whatever worked.

A rap rap sounded at the front door. Probably Felicianna.

Elena was right. "Come on in."

Felicianna carried a Safeway grocery bag. She set two pints of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and a DVD on the kitchen counter.

"Not tonight," Elena said, giving her voice a slight but distinct edge.

Felicianna frowned, her green eyes darkening. "Not in the mood for ice cream?"

Elena held Felicianna's gaze. "I mean the other thing."

Felicianna ran a hand through her short, spiky dark hair. She snorted. Felicianna was a great woman, smart, athletic and attractive, but Elena felt no romantic sparks with her. However, after Isaiah's death, after the suicide attempt--okay, maybe it was a suicide attempt, maybe not--Elena had gotten into the bad habit of sleeping with Felicianna. These nights almost always started with junk food and a movie.

"I wasn't even thinking about that," Felicianna said defensively.

"Okay. Good."

"Good?"

"You know what I mean." They had talked about this. Several times. They had decided they were better off as friends. However, their actions did not always reflect their words.

They settled on opposite ends of the couch, and Elena popped in the DVD: Serial Mom.

Felicianna held up Frances's book. "You reading this or is your mom?"

"I am."

"Why?"

Elena shrugged. "Why not?" I would rather be with Frances tonight, actually.

What a horrible thing to think about your own best friend.

"Didn't you read it when it came out?"

"Yes. I was bored, so…"

"Uh-huh." Dubiousness filled Felicianna's voice, but she replaced the book. Elena filled Felicianna in on Kevin stealing the urn, and Felicianna made the appropriate responses.

Halfway through the movie, Felicianna paused the DVD. "Would it be so bad if we did--if we did--if we were more than friends?"

Elena hated the pain, the apprehension in Felicianna's gaze. Few things were worse than unrequited love. Felicianna had helped her through so many things, most of all Isaiah's death. Many times, she had tried to will herself to fall for Felicianna, for her own eyes to get that spark Felicianna's did when they saw each other. "I love you," Elena said. "I do, but if we were together, it wouldn't be fair to you because I love you as a friend. Only as a friend. I wish it were otherwise. You have no idea."

"But you won't try and see."

Elena did not know how to reply. Her heart was what it was; she was not in love with Felicianna and never would be. "Trying" a relationship would only end up hurting Felicianna.

"Felicianna," Elena said. "Maybe you shouldn't come by anymore. Don't make it harder on yourself than it has to be."

"Yeah."

They watched the rest of the movie in silence. After the ending scene, Felicianna stood, collected the DVD and left without saying anything.

*****

"Don't you think it's a shame," Darren remarked Thursday during his fourth visit (he had come to see Elena four days in a row) "that people are scared to try new things sexually?"

They were naked, and Elena had just fucked him in the ass with a small dildo. Tomorrow, he wanted to graduate to a bigger dildo.

"It's a shame," Elena agreed. She fought a yawn.

"Bet a lot of your guys bitch about what their girlfriends or wives won't do."

"A good amount, yes."

"How many regular clients do you have?"

"A million." Right now, only you and Frances. She did not like to have more than three regulars at a time. Once in a while, once or twice a week or so, Amanda summoned her to service someone, but these were one-offs. People who had not seen her picture, who did not want anything lengthy, just a one-hour wham bam, thank you ma'am type of thing.

"Do you do women?"

"Of course."

Darren's eyes gleamed. "Wow."

Women made up a tiny fraction of Elena's clients, but the great majority of these women were generous tippers. Elena would bet that even the heterosexual female hookers preferred the female clients to the male clients. Sex was sex, and women clients meant money, money, money. Usually, the women were staffers or politicians--Republicans--who would die an agonizing political death if word got out they were gay, bisexual or into kinky stuff.

"Are you straight? Gay? Bisexual?" Darren asked.

"I don't like labels." If Elena told him she was a lesbian, he would never be able to let it go. He would continually be asking about her personal sexual proclivities.

When he got up to leave, he tipped well--two hundred dollars for the one hour. All she needed to do to keep the money flowing was smile, laugh, listen and fuck. Easy enough. Boring, though.

Darren stopped at the door. "Do you do threesomes?"

"Of course. Threesomes and more. Anything you like."

"Wow." Everything she said awed him. "You're cool, Solan Patricia May. I’d be in heaven if I got paid to fuck all day!"

She was not in heaven.

"Ever had a client fall in love with you?"

"No." Don't tell me you're falling for me.

"I was wondering, that's all," Darren said in a rush. "Don't worry. I love Jan. My fiancee."

He had not said the name--had not mentioned her--since their first meeting, on Monday. "Right. Jan."

"Have you ever fallen in love with a client?" he asked.

"No. Goodbye, Darren."

Elena stayed in bed a minute longer. Darren did not love Jan--not as he should anyway. Elena was not judging him; she was simply saying that making a good relationship took two people. She did not fault many of her clients for seeking out a prostitute. Better that than start affairs with their secretaries or co-workers and devastate their marriages and children. However, if Darren genuinely loved his Jan, he would tell her his needs. Tell her how to give him a blow job he liked. He would not be spending more and more and more time with Elena. He had been with her yesterday from ten a.m. to four p.m. He would not be buying her candy and little gifts. He'd be getting them for Jan. He would not be telling Elena about his day or about funny moments. He'd be telling Jan.

Elena could not wait to get out of the whole dirty--but necessary--business. Let other people do it. After I help Frances come out, I'm quitting. She would go back to being a legitimate party planner. She meant it this time.

*****

When Felicianna arrived, Kevin was in a booth, downing a beer. Three empty bottles surrounded him. For a second--only a second--she felt sorry for him. Felicianna ordered a Coke, regretting coming early, no matter if only by five minutes. She felt like she was sleeping with the enemy.

She hoped her suspicions were wrong.

She hoped that Elena would never find out what she had done. What she was doing. It was wrong, on so many levels. Unhealthy. Not the actions of a true best friend. She should be taking Elena's own advice and be trying to forget about her.

Who knew what Kevin's motivations were. Felicianna suspected he was projecting his own guilt onto Elena, trying to find fault in her.

"We're doing what we gotta," Kevin mumbled, as if he were reading her mind. "If she won't be straight with us, we owe it to her and to ourselves to find out. We can't help her if we don't get the whole picture, right?"

"Right." Felicianna shoved her guilty conscience aside for the time being. "He's late."

Their guy sauntered in twenty minutes later, and she knew from his lope, from his twitchy grin that was trying not to be a grin, that he'd just had sex with her. The bastard. He didn't have to go that far. He only had to stay long enough to ascertain--

Darren greeted Kevin with a handshake and a: "Hey, man. How's it hanging?" Felicianna got a nod.

Kevin's gaze darted around, his furtiveness reminding Felicianna of a rat's. "Well?" he asked.

Darren sighed, but he did not do a good job of feigning heaviness. "It's not drugs. She's a call girl."

"You're sure?"

"Let's step out back."

The alley was quiet, isolated from the hustle and bustle of Georgetown. Darren pressed play on his iTouch.

Don't you think it's a shame that people are scared to try new things sexually?

It's a shame.

Bet a lot of your guys bitch about what their girlfriends or wives won't do.

A good amount, yes.

How many clients do you have?

Darren sounded convincing, Felicianna would give him that. Elena sounded like she was trying to cover up being bored.

A million.

Do you do women?

Of course.

Wow.

Kevin was turning pale. Felicianna kept her composure, although her insides twisted.

Are you straight? Gay? Bisexual?

I don't like labels.

Do you do threesomes?

Of course. Threesomes and more. Anything you like.

"Stop," Kevin hissed. He slumped against an alley wall.

"That's all, anyway. I'm sorry, man."

"Yeah. Well."

"What are you going to do?" Darren asked.

"She's the mother of my child. What the hell do you think I should do?"

Felicianna kept her thoughts to herself. She's the mother of your dead child. Big difference. Felicianna had been more of a parent to Isaiah than Kevin had been. The jerk.

"She's doing it to help pay Isaiah's hospital bills," Kevin said glumly. "That has to be it. Because of her mom, she has a thing about debt."

"Maybe she's doing it because she likes it," Darren suggested.

Kevin snorted. "Not Elena."

"She's good at what she does."

Kevin's eyes narrowed, and Felicianna spoke for the first time since Darren arrived. "Don't, Darren. Don't fucking go there."

Darren pretended innocence, his eyes wide.

"How many times have you seen her?" Felicianna asked.

"What?"

"You heard the question."

Darren shrugged. "Few times."

"You were supposed to see her one time."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't be sure until--"

"Spare me! You got us the information we wanted. We have no more business to conduct with you, nor you with her."

"Yeah, yeah."

He's going to see her again. Oh, Christ.

Three weeks ago, Kevin had corralled Felicianna at Antiques by Anna, the antiques shop she owned.

He was worried about Elena, he confessed.

So was Felicianna, but she said nothing.

"I think she might be into drugs," Kevin whispered. "Dealing."

Felicianna kept her mouth shut. Kevin's guess was good, but wrong. Probably. The possibility of Elena being into drugs had crossed Felicianna's mind more than once. Little things here and there about Elena's party planning did not add up. Her hours were too odd. The phone calls at noon, or at midnight, at all hours, that had her grinning apologetically and saying goodbye.

Felicianna asked Elena what was going on, that Elena could tell her anything, but the response was the same: a vacant smile, a: "Everything's fine."

Plus why was Elena on birth control? Felicianna had found the pills by accident--okay, maybe not so accidentally. She was sick of worrying that Elena was into drugs, so one night about six months ago, Felicianna grabbed her chance when Elena was in the shower. Felicianna inputted Isaiah's birth date into the combination lock on Elena's briefcase.

Right on the first try.

Not only were there birth control pills, but there was cash. Lots of cash, hundred-dollar bills. Handcuffs. Lube. Leather whips. Condoms.

She had not told Elena. There was a rational explanation, and Elena would talk about it when she was ready.

"She hasn't told you anything?" Kevin pressed when he came to see her at Antiques by Anna.

"If she had, I sure as hell wouldn't tell you."

"I talked to her mom."

Great. Just great. Bring that poor innocent woman into it.

"Brenda told me to leave it alone, that Elena's coping with stuff in her own way, but I can't."

"Brenda said that?" Sounded like an admission, all right.

Kevin continued: "I called up an old buddy of mine. He works at a hotshot law firm but used to be a PI. Owes me a favor. Problem is, the favor's not that big. I can't do this without money. I have some saved, a couple hundred or so, but we probably need more."

"Let me think about it," Felicianna found herself saying.

That night, she broached the topic with Elena in a roundabout way. "You know you can tell me anything," Felicianna said. "About your life. Or your job." She was too afraid to mention the cash and the handcuffs--violating Elena's privacy.

"Of course I know that." A blank smile.

Roundabout was not working. Felicianna asked straight out: "Are you into drugs? Or, uh, prostitution?"

Elena gave Felicianna a long, probing look. "What did you say?"

"You have to admit, the calls are--"

"I am going to pretend I did not hear your question. Thank you."

"You can tell me. I won't judge you. Please tell me." Elena probably thought Felicianna would break their friendship. Felicianna had never been shy about speaking out against the ills of pornography, of prostitution, of sexualizing and objectifying women.

"There is nothing to tell," Elena said through clenched teeth, her face white with anger. "My job is my job. Understand?"

So, Elena was not confessing anything. She was keeping on lying. Felicianna considered for two days, then called Kevin. "All right. I'm in. How much do you need?"

Now, though, the gleam in Darren's eyes unnerved her. Elena was a complicated woman, not the usual prostitute fare--not that Felicianna had frequented prostitutes and knew what an average one was like, no way, never--and Darren had better not take advantage of her.

Chapter 9

The car from the service dropped Elena off at four fifty-five. Frances's building was a gleaming black high rise just across the Potomac River from D.C. Elena smiled at the doorman and followed the instructions Frances had left with the service. "I’m Ms. Dourne’s party planner." You knew you were in the big leagues when your clients had doormen: popular in New York City but rare in the D.C. area.

"She’s expecting you. Go on up."

Elena pressed the button for the twentieth floor, the top floor. The elevator moved slowly, rhythmically. The trip would be a bear if the elevator broke down. Good exercise for sure. Not that Frances needed it. She was well-toned. Probably had a home gym.

Elena hoped they would not play cards again. She could take only so much rummy, and Frances had requested her until midnight--five hours. Elena stepped into a short hallway with a door at the end. Frances answered the knock, and Elena’s heart thumped uncomfortably. No fair Frances looked so good. She wore the hourglass necklace. And she was sharp in a yellow T-shirt that complemented her hair. No glasses.

"Hi," Frances said with a shy grin. "Come in."

Frances's penthouse had sky-high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows, but it fit the public image Frances projected: reserved, contained. The space was minimalist. Sleek, black lines. Nothing homey. More like a modernist art museum than a home.

A Bechstein Baby Grand Piano added to the museum effect. "Wow," Elena said. "You play?" Frances's memoir had not said anything about her playing the piano.

"It was Daniel's. Still is, I suppose. When Marissa cried, his playing calmed her. He taught me a few lessons. I didn't get into it. He was wonderful. Is. This is hard. I can't keep my verb tenses straight. Even if he's alive, who's to say he still plays?" An uneasy laugh. "He'd play for me. I'd lay on the couch, relax, close my eyes and lose myself in the music and in his voice. At these times, I thought our marriage was going to work."

"That wasn't in the memoir."

"A lot didn't get in."

"It's a beautiful piano." Shame it doesn't get any use. "You've kept it up well."

"The keys are the original ivory. Do you play?"

"No."

"A few years after Daniel and Marissa left--five years to be exact--I called a piano teacher."

"You took lessons?"

"Yep. Still do, half an hour each week. I'm pretty good. Nowhere near as good as Daniel. I don't sing like he did. Does. Anyway, long answer to your question."

"I'd love to hear you play."

"Anyway," Frances said, "I thought we could have dinner soon. Out back, on the deck. The views--the lights at night--are gorgeous."

Elena let the piano matter drop. "Sounds great. You cook?"

Frances laughed. "Heavens, no. Why cook for myself? I have someone who cooks on Sundays and brings the food here. I freeze the meals and eat them throughout the week. Tonight we're having crab-stuffed chicken. If you don't like that, I have a few other things."

"I could cook for us sometime," Elena said.

"That sounds good. You cook a lot?"

"Nah."

"Why?"

Because I'm single. Because my mother lives with me, and she likes to cook.

Elena avoided Frances's gaze. "I could cook for us sometime if you wanted."

"All right. I'm not a picky eater, so surprise me. Tomorrow night, same time?"

"Perfect. I'm free."

Frances grinned. "Free, you're not. Here's your money."

After Elena put the envelope on her briefcase, Frances led her to a closed door. "So, why I collect hourglasses. This is Marissa's bedroom. She would be fourteen now. Is, I mean. She is fourteen. Not would be."

"How did that Mexico City stuff turn out?"

Frances shook her head. "Nothing. Yet. Of course not. That man was not Daniel. Impossible."

"Hmm."

"Do you have children?"

Elena crossed her arms. A client had never asked that question. Did she have children? Maybe yes, maybe no.

Frances's mouth went tight, and Elena registered that the question had been rhetorical. Frances had not considered the possibility that she, Elena, a prostitute, a woman Frances was paying, some sort of cardboard figure, might have a life. A child.

"No," Elena said.

"Oh." Disbelieving. "Boy or girl? Boys or girls? Both?"

"I told you I don't have children."

Frances cleared her throat. "All right. Anyway, I could come out a hundred times and promise Daniel a hundred times I'll do my best to share joint custody and make sure he isn't prosecuted. He won’t bring her back. The risk is too great. Maybe one day, when she’s older, she’ll see a picture of me or see me on TV and start to remember: ‘Hey, that woman’s my mother.’ And she’ll find me. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But I don’t have memories from when I was three. Do you?"

"No."

"I hope he takes good care of her," Frances muttered. She opened the door and flicked on the light. "I update the furniture every once in a while. Even when I lived at the apartment. When I got this place, Marissa would have been nine. Was nine, I mean. She’s fourteen now. She shouldn’t have to come back to a bed made for a three-year-old. Or a seven-year-old. Or an eleven-year-old."

The walls were empty. On the bed was a gift covered in silver "Happy Birthday" wrapping paper. Dust clung to the present. "That’s right," Elena remembered. "He took her on her third birthday."

"She loved Snow White, so I got her a Snow White hourglass that plays music. After she was gone..." Frances tucked her hair behind her ears. "I kept buying more and more hourglasses." She turned off the bedroom light and led Elena to another room. "Three hundred and fifty-two. That’s how many I have right now."

A knot rose in Elena’s throat as she surveyed the hourglasses. Red sand, black sand, purple sand, blue sand, regular old white sand. Plenty of hourglasses that were music boxes--no sand. Dragons, witches, Cinderella, Wizard of Oz, fairies, and more, more, more, more. What could she say to Frances? Nothing would minimize her pain. Too bad she could not tell Frances about Antiques by Anna, the store Felicianna owned. Its hourglasses were intricate, local, hand-carved. No matter; Frances probably already knew about the store. But telling her might…nope.

Client.

Prostitute.

Besides, Felicianna hated Frances. Elena was not about to send Frances into the lion’s den.

*****

Frances was silent through dinner because her mind was a cornucopia of questions. The words "mother" and "call girl" did not mesh.

Who is the father? A client of yours? Is that why you have the rule against vaginal penetration, because a condom broke before or...You haven't been a call girl long enough to get pregnant, have the baby, and get back into shape, have you? Maybe you have.

Why did such an intense pain cross your expression?

"What is your child's name?" Frances asked after dinner. They were on the back deck.

The prostitute kept her expression immobile, but she cupped her wineglass. She took a long sip. "I told you I don't have kids. Look, we're not here to discuss me. We're here for you. Remember? You don't want distractions. You don't want sex or messiness. Fine. Is Jan okay? Jan Kendall. That's the name we'll give your family."

"I want to know." Frances's reply came out hard and petulant. The opposite of what she wanted. "I want to know," she said softly. "You can tell me." Maybe the child did not live with the prostitute. Maybe the father had custody. Or maybe the prostitute had given the child up for adoption. Maybe it was guilt over an abortion.

The prostitute poured another glass of wine. Her movements were almost vicious. She wore four bracelets, all purple, on each wrist. "No, Frances. We're here for you. Tell me about Marissa. Was she a happy baby?"

Frances suppressed a sigh. She had been wrong about the bracelets, but she was right about the child. She was sure of it. Fine. We'll do this your way, and then maybe you'll tell me about your child. "Marissa smiled a lot." Frances formed a steeple with her hands. "Every time that phone rings, my world stops. What if she's dead? Or what if she's…what if she's been found, what if she's back? What do I do with a fourteen-year-old girl who at best doesn't know I'm her mother? What do I do with a fourteen-year-old girl who probably hates me?"

"Do you think Daniel's poisoned her against you?"

"Maybe. This sounds terrible, but I'm afraid of her. Always have been. That part didn't get into the memoir, either."

"Afraid of Marissa?"

"Maybe afraid to be her mother. Maybe afraid to love her. As much as I could, anyway. Every time I told her I loved her, or told Daniel I loved him, I felt like a fraud. So I didn't say it much. Daniel loved her. He loved her to his core. I worked all the time. Long hours. Sundays. GIC was growing fast. He stayed home with her. Bought her dresses and toys. Tended to her when she cried. Fed her. Changed her diapers. She was his little girl. I had a couple of hours with her at night, at most. I'd take her on the deck, and we would look at the night sky."

"Why were you afraid to love her?"

"You sound like Horace. My therapist." Frances poked her index finger into her wine. The night had chilled the Merlot. Refreshing. "I kept canceling appointments with him. I was supposed to see him once a week for an hour. Skipped half the time. Six months ago, I dropped him entirely."

"What are your parents like, Frances? Different from how they're portrayed in your memoir? I don't imagine they are too thrilled with how they come across."

A thrill ran through Frances at how the prostitute said her name, like a caress. A foreign, exotic dessert.

Frances.

Frances.

Frances.

"What are your parents like?" Frances asked. Maybe the prostitute would talk about them, if not about her child.

The prostitute offered a wry smile. "So, is the name Jan okay? Jan Kendall."

"Where did you get it?"

"Why does it matter where I got it?"

"Jan's fine. Thanks."

"How is Nicholas doing?"

"Would it kill you to answer a question about yourself?"

"I've told you plenty. You know I'm thirty-two and have a bachelor's degree in communications. You know I used to be a party planner."

"That's questionnaire information."

"My favorite color is purple."

Frances fingered the hourglass charm on the necklace. She had come to terms with it. She liked having the hourglass with her, close to her heart, reminding her that she was not alone. Nope, she, the prostitute and a bunch of dead white men were real close. "Do your rules say you can't answer personal questions but you can give away your jewelry to clients?"

"I do my job."

"You won't even give me lie-answers."

A shadow crossed the prostitute's expression. "I can if you want."

Her child is dead. The realization popped into Frances's mind out of nowhere, but something about it felt right. Her child is dead. Frances studied the prostitute, took in the freckles, the shadows in her eyes, and then her side profile as she gazed into the distance.

Frances's chest squeezed. She was an ogre for hammering the prostitute with nosy, intrusive questions about her child. Her child who was dead. "Do I have a number? A client number?"

"You're Client F83."

"Why are you allowed to tell me that?"

The prostitute cracked a smile. "I'm not."

If physical currency was what the prostitute wanted--not emotional currency--Frances could go along with that tonight. Maybe if she gave in a little physically, the prostitute would give in a little emotionally. Wow. Nice justification. Just admit that you want a little sex. She won't care. She'll be relieved.

Frances reached for the prostitute's hand. Cold. "I don't mean to come across as intrusive or nosy. You're doing a job. I know that. I don't forget that. You don't need to answer my questions. I'll try not to ask so many."

"Hmm."

Frances let go of her hand. "Okay. Okay, then." This is hard. What now? "Have you--have you been with a woman?"

Raised light eyebrow. "Sexually?"

"Yes."

The prostitute’s lips tugged up and exposed her white teeth. "Yes, Frances, I have."

For work or for pleasure? "Do you like it?"

"Yes, very much."

Frances got the feeling the prostitute was telling the truth. "What do you like best about being with a woman?"

The prostitute sipped from her wine. Once. Twice. At last, she said: "Shall I show you, Frances?"

"Uh--I guess. Okay."

"You have a nice bathroom. Smooth Jacuzzi. How about a bath? Bubble bath."

Chapter 10

Elena got the protection from her briefcase. Then she slipped out of her clothing item by item. First, her boots. Then her socks. Her sweater. Her jeans. Her underwear and bra she left on, for now. They were a silky black pair. "I match the Jacuzzi," Elena said with a grin. That's right. Keep the conversation funny and light.

Frances's bathroom was like the rest of her penthouse. Minimalist. The Jacuzzi was black on the outside, white on the inside. It had an overhead arch and was impersonal, like an art piece. Probably cost more than most people's cars. Earlier, Elena had counted twelve whirlpool jets and six lights--four in the tub part, two in the overhead part.

Frances was filling the tub with water and putting in lavender chamomile honey bubble bath. Her way of trying not to stare at Elena.

"You can look," Elena said teasingly. "That's the point, isn't it?"

Frances straightened. Her cheeks blushed a light pink, and Elena found herself enjoying the reaction. More than she should. Way more than she should.

"I'm pathetic," Frances said.

"Oh, come on."

"No, listen to this. I've never been completely naked with anyone. Not even my husband. Not even at camp. We had blankets and swaddles and--anyway. Oh well. Best to get it out of the way now, right? So when it happens for real later, with a real lover, a real girlfriend, I'm more relaxed."

Elena kept smiling, masking her horror. Never been naked with anyone? "I can't wait to be naked with you," she said. A prostitute line, yes, but perhaps also true. In a small way. Only a small way. "Skin to skin is great."

"Uh-huh." Frances was not buying Elena's sweetening tactics. Made no move to undress.

"Come on. Touch me. Touch my breasts."

"Your bra is on."

"You can touch my breasts through my bra. Or take my bra off."

Frances rubbed her forehead. "You know what? Can we make this really quick? Skip touching and foreplay and--and--can't you just do me really quick?"

"Have you had an orgasm, Frances?"

"An orgasm? 'Course I have. With the other one. Several times. Most every time."

"And with yourself? Do you masturbate?"

The pink blush returned, deeper.

"Do you masturbate?" Elena repeated, making sure her expression and voice were soft.

"Uh. Some--sometimes."

Elena turned the bath faucet off. Bubbles, lots of bubbles, beckoned. No water was visible. "You’re able to come by yourself?"

"Yes."

Elena nodded encouragingly. "Good. You have to know how to please yourself."

Frances started to say something, but then stopped.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Look at me," Elena said, and Frances did, a tentative meeting of her eyes. Elena pretended that her heart did not flutter, not a tiny bit. "I want to give you mind-blowing sex. But you have to talk to me. You have to trust me and tell me things. That helps me help you."

Frances let her gaze drop, to Elena's bra and breasts. "It still feels dirty. Masturbation. Sex."

"I'm sure it does." Frances had grown up with the mindset that most pleasurable activities had to be dirty. She was not going to get over that in five minutes. Especially by paying a call girl and not having sex with a woman she loved.

"The first night with the other prostitute, she went down on me, and…" Frances trembled. "I hadn't expected--it felt so--" Her eyes glittered. "I said before that sex with her wasn't good, and it wasn't. That's true. It felt like a scientific experiment. She didn't talk. I didn't talk. We were only missing clipboards and lab coats. But I could orgasm, most of the time. I've known how to for a while. Even while I was with Daniel, I'd take a shower or bath and--" She grinned. "We had a showerhead massager."

Elena smiled. "Ah, massagers. Okay, so please do what you want. Touch me. Or help me touch you. I don't judge. I don't. I promise. You can look at me all over."

"I want something quick."

"All right. May I help you out of your clothes?"

Frances's expression was skeptical, but she said: "Fine."

Elena helped Frances out of her jeans and underwear. Elena had to fight to not stare at Frances's pussy: light-colored and trimmed. Delicious.

Jesus. Maybe Elena ought to give Felicianna a call. Horny, horny, horny. Elena snaked a finger into the beginnings of Frances's southern blond hairs, and Frances gasped. Gasped even though Elena had not been near her clit or opening.

Ripe. So ripe.

God, Elena wanted to make love. With a woman she had genuine feelings for. Genuine chemistry with. Not Felicianna. Not Frances. Because prostitutes did not make love. They "serviced." Elena wanted to be a woman who made love to a woman, not a prostitute who fucked a client.

Elena slid out of her own underwear. Frances's gaze was brief but hungry. Very.

Okay. Time to turn this on full throttle. Earn her pay. Elena tugged Frances to her. Murmured into her ear: "Like what you see?"

Frances inhaled an uneven breath. "I thought you'd be shaved. The other one was. She said most prostitutes are."

"Forget about her. Let's get in before the water ices over." They took Frances's sweater and bra off, and Elena undid her own bra. She made a point not to look at Frances's chest. Would make Frances uncomfortable. More so than she already was. Or maybe staring would help. Make Frances realize she was desirable.

They stepped in the Jacuzzi. Frances darted to the side opposite Elena, as far from her as possible. Frances, sweetie. I can't do anything, much less quickly, if you're going to play leper.

Elena crooked a finger. "Come here."

Frances pressed her back into the Jacuzzi. "If this was for real…"

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure what to do. I guess I should--I should ask what you like. Kiss your neck and ears and your breasts. Foreplay, right? Do you like foreplay?"

"That's a great way to start. Communication's important."

"I want something quick. Will you do me now?"

"Yes. Come here. Straddle me. I'll hold you."

Frances swallowed. "That's all right, I suppose."

"That'll do it?"

"Yes."

"Come here."

Elena welcomed Frances into her arms, into a tight clasp. Frances wrapped her legs around Elena, her breasts just above Elena's.

God, this is good. Too good. Elena's nipples tingled, and her pussy clamored for attention. At ease, mate. This is not for you. Maybe when we get home.

Frances shivered.

"You feel good," Elena said.

"I like how you feel," Elena repeated. Couldn't go wrong with telling clients they felt good. Frances was smooth and smelled of strawberry. She was soft and hard at the same time, all woman, pure feminity.

Frances drew back. She glanced at the package on the side of the Jacuzzi. "Are we using them? Are these finger condoms?"

"In a minute." Elena moved to return Frances into her embrace.

"What are you doing? I said to be quick."

"I'm trying to get you used to the feel of me. My body. To the feel of us together."

Frances furrowed her brows.

"I want to give you what you deserve. We will be quick. I promise. This part takes a minute. Not even that. It's just us getting used to the feel of each other." Elena cupped both of Frances's cheeks in her hands. Kissed Frances's forehead, her eyelids, caressed her ears.

Frances only stiffened.

"All right," Elena said. Her plan was not working. Time to move on. "One second." She put on the finger condoms. "Nothing like these to spice up a party, huh? Forget I'm wearing them." She lowered her mouth to Frances's right nipple, kissing it, sucking it, and rousing a melting groan from Frances.

Frances was ready to pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

"What about you?" Frances asked, her voice strained.

Huh? "What about me?"

"Well, I--you--I--you should get something. Like a good tip, which I will--or--"

"We could worry about me later." Elena resumed her ministrations on the nipple. "Is that good?"

"Yeah. Yeah." Very labored voice. Frances trying her damnedest not to let go.

Elena switched to the other nipple.

"God!"

Frances started to rock. She grabbed Elena's right hand. Guided Elena inside her--two fingers.

More rocking. Groaning. Whimpering.

To say Frances was wet would be an understatement.

Water splashed onto the floor. Splash, rock, rock, splash.

Elena found Frances's clit and tried to step outside herself. She had a little trick. She detached her mind from her body. Her mind watched, often in bemusement, while her body did what it had to do.

Elena's clit throbbed, though. Swelled with blood. Detach. Detach. Detach! She couldn't. She liked Frances in her arms, the feel of Frances, her cries.

Frances buried her head into Elena's neck, screamed, and Elena held her.

Chapter 11

Afterward, Frances caressed a lock of Elena's hair.

"Water's cold." Elena reached for the faucet in order to break the contact. Usually, snuggling, cuddling, was all right. But not when the mission was compromised.

Hot water flowed forth.

"Was I too loud?" Frances asked.

"No. Please don't worry about being loud."

Frances reached again for Elena's hair, and Elena forced her body to lighten up. Frances needed this connection. Not Frances's fault Elena was caught up, too. Frances held Elena's face and kissed her, as Elena had kissed her: forehead, eyelids, ears.

Relax. Relax. Relax.

Too intimate. No wonder Frances had stiffened when Elena did it.

"What can I do for you?" Frances asked.

"Nothing."

Hurt shone in her expression. "I did something wrong."

"That's not what I meant. I meant that you don't need to do anything."

"I didn’t turn you on."

"No. Jeez. No. You really think that, feel my pussy."

A mischievous grin. Elena liked it. Frances's orgasm had empowered her. "Look at the lake on the floor. We did that," Frances said.

"Dangerous out there."

"I want to hold you. I wanna have my fun with the finger condoms."

Elena turned the hot water off. "You can, sure. Knock yourself out with the condoms. But remember that I don’t allow vaginal penetration."

Frances wrinkled her forehead. "I thought that was for--I never thought about fingers. Right. Forget it."

Elena took pity on her. She did not want Frances’s newfound buoyancy draining away so soon. "Please touch me. Touch my pussy. Touch my clit."

"You’d fake."

Yes. Yes, I would.

"Look at me. Look at my breasts. Touch my breasts."

Frances stayed still, so Elena guided Frances's hands to her breasts. Puppet master. She let go of Frances.

Frances's hands stayed on Elena's breasts, but her touch was timid. So was her gaze. Her magic was gone. She probably thought Elena was lying about being wet. Thought Elena was a mannequin, and it was destroying her self-confidence. Illustrating starkly that Elena was a prostitute, only a prostitute. Elena brought Frances's hand to the slickness of her pussy. "See, Frances. I’m wet."

"Wow. That's--I didn't think you could feel that in water. Ahhh. Yes. You're wet." Amazement. Admiration.

"Okay, now. I'm going to put the condoms on you." After that was accomplished, Elena returned Frances to her pussy and did some maneuvering. "This is my clit."

Felicianna. Pretend she's Felicianna.

"Rub my clit. Gently."

Elena would still fake, but Frances would never know the difference.

"I can't--the angle is--"

Elena shifted. "Better? Use your thumb."

"Yes. Okay. How do I rub? Up and down, or clockwise, or--"

"Just do it. I’ll tell you if it’s not working."

"Okay." Frances did something, Elena was not sure what--what the hell was she doing, it was pretty good, actually, think, think, think, don't feel--

Frances’s breaths were hot and quick. Elena’s, too.

Elena squeezed her vaginal muscles. Okay. Fake. Shudder. Fake it. Then go home. She would not have an orgasm with a client. Nope. Never had.

She would be convincing but would not make a spectacle of herself. Not like Frances had. No burying her head in Frances’s neck, no screaming.

Elena really liked fireworks. She and Felicianna saw them every Fourth of July. Amanda knew she was not available these nights. Elena perched herself in a lawn chair and folded her hands behind her back. She took in the exploding blue stars, the American flags in the sky. Never left early to beat the crush of people. Orgasms were like fireworks. Sometimes starting with a lone aerial shell, sometimes quickly joined by several others. Up and up they went, exploding in a downpour of green, purple, red, blue and orange.

Time to leave this show early. Right now. Elena leaned forward, tensing and squeezing her vaginal muscles. She let a moan escape. More tensing, more pressing. Faking contractions. Another moan. She dug her nails into Frances’s back. Nice, personal touch. She brought her face near Frances's, readying herself for the grand finale. She removed herself from her body and tiptoed to the doorway. She would watch the conclusion from a distance. Every time she faked, no matter which client she was with, a piece of her withered inside.

She saw Frances, figure shadowy, kiss her. The kiss was like a whisper, a brush of mouth against mouth. Frances’s lips were soft, and Elena saw herself sink into them, all the while thinking My God, my God, you can’t do that, Frances, you can’t, you must stop.

Elena saw herself marveling at how…whatever the word was, how ___________ Frances’s lips were. Unlike Felicianna’s. Unlike anyone else’s.

And then a second kiss, longer, hungry. The taste of the wine on Frances’s tongue was bracing. Startling. Jolted Elena to her senses.

"You can't kiss me! Jesus Christ!"

Frances flinched. "I…I…"

Elena shook her head. "Oh, Frances. Didn’t the agent tell you my--"

"I didn't mean to. I got caught up. I’m sorry. You were going to…"

"I was going to what?"

"Nothing," Frances whispered. "I got caught up. I apologize."

Elena pressed her hand to her forehead. I think I kissed her back. Maybe. Perhaps. Right, we’re done for tonight. "I better go." Elena got out of the Jacuzzi and ran a towel over her body. She threw her clothes on.

"I'll tip you tomorrow," Frances said weakly. "I’m sorry. I really am."

Chapter 12

"I'll dial," Markie said.

"No!" Victoria yelped.

"You'd think that phone was your boyfriend, the way you keep mooning over it."

"Markie."

Markie flipped her shiny purple hair back. "Fine. Let's go over this again."

Victoria flashed her best friend a grateful smile. "I don't know how we can be absolutely sure the call won't be traced to me."

Markie ticked off the reasons on her fingers. "Prepaid. Paid in cash. By me, when my hair was blond. Disposable. Minutes already on the phone. You'll stay on the line maybe fifteen seconds. You'll disguise your voice. The phone's never been with you. It's been at my house, always. We'll wipe our prints off and toss the phone in the Wal-Mart dumpster. No information whatsoever to connect the phone to you. Or to your father."

The last part was the most important. Victoria did not want her father in trouble. Absolutely not. He had done the right thing. Back then, anyway. Now…now was a different story. She felt like his prisoner. But she was still his daughter.

Problem was, she was someone else's daughter, too.

"I can't do it," Victoria said. "They must have some secret tracing way or…"

"I'll call. I'll say I'm a friend of yours and that you're okay."

Victoria's stomach churned with anxiety and frustration. Markie had had the phone two weeks, and their conversation was nothing new.

"I have an idea," Markie said. "Let's practice your call."

The suggestion was appealing. "Sure."

Markie retrieved scissors from her desk and wrangled the phone out of the box. She frowned. "I think we need to charge it and activate it."

"Later. That way there’s no risk of the call going through." The phone was black, and Victoria did not let herself look at the brand. The less she knew about the phone, the better. Victoria knew the toll-free number by heart, and she pressed the digits. She stopped at the next-to-last button. Because this was practice.

Markie nodded encouragingly.

Victoria held the phone to her ear. "Uh, hello, I…" She snapped the phone shut. "I feel silly talking to no one."

"I'll pretend to be someone from the hotline."

"Okay. Yeah." Victoria erased the numbers she had dialed and repeated their sequence.

"Ring, ring," Markie said. She answered herself. "Hello, this is the Marissa Dourne hotline. Your call is being recorded. Thank you for calling. What is your news?" She did a decent imitation of a man's voice.

"Why'd you answer like that?"

Markie shrugged. "It sounds right."

Victoria's heart pounded. She should not be doing this, not for practice, not for real. They would find her father. He would spend the rest of his life in jail. A small part of her did not object. She was fourteen years old, and her cabin had not gotten a TV until last year. Her father did not let her have a phone. He denied her much access to the world while he had men in and out, some staying as long as a month. Sometimes her father's friend Rick, a doctor, came and checked her out. He did not stay nights, though. No man had stayed nights in a while, not since her father got fat and drunk and passed out so much. Before this school year, the extent of her access to the outside world consisted of dentist runs, a weekly trip to the movie theatres and to the library, monthly trips to the grocery store, sometimes a shopping mall, and the occasional hotel in winter when it was too cold to stay in the cabin. Her father had home schooled her until he saw something in her eyes last summer and relented. Or maybe the liquor relented for him.

So, she was fourteen years old, and freshman year of high school was the first time she had been with kids her own age on a regular basis. The first time she heard of Facebook. The first time she realized she might one day live in a world that existed outside of library books.

Markie was her only friend, the only person her father let her hang out with, and even that had been accidental.

"Say something," Markie hissed in her own voice. "Hurry up!"

The time. Right. The time. Some Internet sites said that traces could start at twenty seconds.

"Hello, how may I help you?" Markie was a man again.

Victoria closed her eyes. Forgive me, Daddy. Please, forgive me. "H-h-hello. I am Marissa Dourne. I think I am. I'm pretty sure I am." Her voice was little and weak. She forced herself to speak up. "I'm calling to--will you--I'm just calling to ask you to please tell my mother I'm okay. I'm okay." And to stop searching for me, to leave my dad alone, so he won't be paranoid and maybe we can have normal lives.

Or to keep searching for me, to take me away from his prison.

Victoria realized she wanted to stay on the line. The pretend line. A hatred, deep and disgusting, for her father, welled from her depths. "I live in--my address is--I live in…Tell her. Tell my mother I'm okay."

Victoria snapped the phone shut.

"You forgot to disguise your voice," Markie said. "Good thing we were practicing."

*****

In this very house, downstairs, Victoria had begun to realize she might not be who she thought she was.

The first time she was at Markie's house, actually. It was the end of August, a couple of weeks into the school year. Victoria's father had not been at school to pick her up. She figured his truck had broken down; the ride from their place to school was thirty minutes on a good day, and bumpy. Or maybe he was passed out drunk.

Victoria waited and waited. Markie, who lived next door to the school, noticed her. "Come on in," Markie said.

"Thanks," Victoria replied, ignoring the inner voice that said her father would kill her. She felt intimidated for another reason, too. She was small and wiry, looked closer to ten than fourteen. Markie was all young woman, already five feet eight inches and with real breasts.

Humans were funny; impossible to believe she and Markie were both fourteen.

Victoria could tell Markie's parents found her and her father interesting. His ways. His introversion. His homosexuality. Their questions made her uncomfortable, so she said she had to pee. She was not exactly fibbing--she had a trickle's worth.

Bathroom reading consisted of a book. The picture of the blond woman on the cover captured her right away. This woman was easily the most magnificent Victoria had seen.

Her eyes!

Beautiful, alien eyes. Victoria had never seen eyes like these. Or had she? A faint stirring of deja vu began inside her.

She looked at the title: Gay Is a Choice.

Uh-oh. Her father was gay, although he did not fit the limp-wristed, flaming queen stereotype the high school kids used to act out a gay man. His in-and-out boyfriends did, however. Her father was a hunter, a lumberjack who recited Shakespeare, who made his living off their land, who was quiet, reserved--and, yes--eccentric.

Now an alcoholic, too.

Drunk or sober, he could have an awful temper. The temper had chased away many boyfriends. He especially hated people who thought being gay was a sin or was a choice. Victoria would not tell him about this book or this woman.

She opened the book, never mind that she had finished peeing. In the middle were six pages of color photographs.

The first photo showed a little girl, maybe two or three years old. She was cute, in the way Victoria supposed little girls were, but kind of plain. She had brown hair and brown eyes. She looked nothing like the exotic woman on the cover.

The last photo of Marissa before her kidnapping, the caption read.

Another photo showed the same girl, in the arms of the woman from the cover. The girl's mother.

Victoria wondered yet again what it was like to have a mother. Her own mother had died in a fire when Victoria was six months old. The fire destroyed their house, photos, everything, but her father said Victoria looked like her mother.

Her name was Susan, and she was from her father's "straight" days. She'd had no living relatives.

Daniel, the week before he kidnapped Marissa read another caption. Victoria did not recognize the man, but then why would she? The man looked like the little girl. Same brown hair, same brown eyes, same nose.

Victoria turned the page.

Age progression of Marissa, age 11.

Victoria blinked and thought: "Wow, she looks like me." Especially since Victoria looked ten.

Age progression 1 of Daniel.

Age progression 2 of Daniel.

Nothing noteworthy.

Victoria replaced the book and wiped. She washed her hands.

She ate dinner with Markie's family. She noticed how different the family was from her father, the only family she knew. They had TV. Computers. They talked about traveling and their old life in San Diego. About enjoying life close to shopping malls.

"Bet it’s peaceful being in the middle of nowhere," Markie's mother said.

No. Not at all.

Her dad never showed up, and Markie's father took her home. Her father was passed out on the couch. Markie's dad pretended not to see and left. Whatever had driven Timothy Cove to be a control freak was finally catching up to him, Victoria supposed. The next time Victoria was at Markie's house, she did not need to pee. She locked herself in the bathroom anyway, and scoured the photos again.

She saw him now, she saw her father in the picture of Daniel Dourne. Oh, he had a beard now, bushy and wild, and he was about seventy-five to a hundred pounds heavier and was years older, but they were the same guy.

She thought.

She could not be a hundred percent sure. The two age progression pictures of Daniel were far off the mark, but the computer program people could not know how Daniel Dourne might disguise himself.

She took the book upstairs. "I think I might be Marissa Dourne," she told Markie.

*****

Over the next couple of weeks, they read the book together, cover to cover, inspected the photos, and explored the Find Marissa website for updated age progression photos. Victoria told Markie all about her odd life, her odd father, and they came to the same conclusion: She was, quite probably, Marissa Dourne. Her father's former boyfriends could be accomplices to the kidnapping. Some of them, anyway.

The prospect that she was Marissa filled Victoria with a trembling excitement. She felt like a princess, like a long-lost heir.

The next time her father passed out, she fished the keys from his pocket and opened the safe he kept in his closet.

Nothing. Except one picture. Taken outdoors. Could be anywhere. Bunch of trees, blue, cloudless sky. The sole person in the picture was a younger Frances Dourne, her hair bleached blond, her smile white.

This sealed it. Had to. Frances Dourne was her mother; Victoria was the child of one of the most famous women in the country. She was no silly pretender to the throne, nope, no way.

*****

You forgot to disguise your voice.

The line rang through Victoria's head while her father drove them home. He never came in to meet Markie's parents. He did not meet anyone's parents. Tried his best not to meet her teachers.

She had been relieved when she figured out why. Relieved because there was a method to his rudeness. Dismayed because--because, well, she was a kidnapped child. Probably.

She reached for him and squeezed his shoulder. Her good old daddy. She belonged with him, not with her closed-minded mother. He had not been drinking today, and he smelled good. Of pine trees.

"The school is taking a trip to Little Rock on Monday," she said. "To see the Capitol."

"Oh."

"Sign my permission form. Please?"

Her father heaved one of his not-again sighs. "I don't like the idea of that, honey."

"Nothing will happen to me."

"You're not going. That's final."

Victoria sat back in her seat and watched the dark night pass her by. No more. This could work both ways. "I'm going, Daddy," she said. "Because if you don't let me go, I'll tell people who you are. Who I am. We can work on this together, can't we? We can be in this together."

Chapter 13

Frances lay in bed, her nightstand lamp on its lowest setting. At her side was the plastic bag that held her sex toys. Not that they got much use. She drew out a purple silicone dildo. It formed a looming shadow against the wall. Washington Monument. Shame--and excitement--burned her insides. I kissed her. I kissed the prostitute. And ruined everything.

What the heck had Frances been thinking in the first place, asking the prostitute what she wanted? Of course the prostitute did not want anything. Except money.

Frances tossed the Washington Monument dildo aside. Hard to imagine just how caught up she had been in the afterglow euphoria of a good--okay, no, good was a weak, weak word for this--amazing, exuberant, brilliant, alive, so alive, sexual encounter and orgasm.

The prostitute would not be back. The horror in her expression, the speed of her departure said as much. Frances would get a call tomorrow saying she was to be reassigned. Or perhaps dropped from the service.

Frances truly had not meant for the kisses to happen. They just had. The prostitute felt so good, had been so close, that was all. Frances was not disrespecting the prostitute’s boundaries or developing feelings for her. Okay, maybe she was, but nothing unhealthy. She knew her role: client. She could handle whatever little crush she had on the prostitute. A crush on a prostitute was safe.

"Come off it, Frances," she muttered. You planned the kisses. The first one, anyway. Perhaps she had. While Frances had held the prostitute, as the woman’s movements and moans got more intense, a shadowy corner in Frances’s brain had been thinking: She’sgonnafake gonnafake abouttofake…

Frances did not want to look in these hazel eyes and play the let’s pretend I’m not lying game.

A game with no winner.

So maybe she was guilty, had done it on purpose. Maybe to sabotage the relationship too, the way she had with her marriage--taking to working long hours right after the honeymoon, practically ignoring her husband and baby. Why work on her union, right? She had a marriage certificate that proclaimed her heterosexuality.

The second kiss, though--that had been the prostitute kissing her back. Yep. After the first, the prostitute had moaned a little moan--a genuine one--and returned the kiss. Probably the prostitute did not realize what she was doing. Of course Frances had responded hungrily, urgently, with tongue. Of course she had.

The prostitute’s nails continued to sting Frances’s back. Frances enjoyed the pain of them--so unlike the pain of her maggots. A good sting. Frances again heard the prostitute’s hot moans, and her pussy responded. Frances got another dildo and made a shadow giraffe. Then a dinosaur. Damn. Damn. Damn. The prostitute had been such a good one. That was like Frances, wasn’t it, to have the best and ruin it?

Frances squirmed. She had no idea how good, or bad, her kissing was. It was not embarrassing, it was plain pathetic. Daniel and Frances had only kissed a few times with tongue. She had kissed Violet, her best friend in high school, only that one time. There had been kissing at camp, but not the good kind. Frances had pretty much no valid kissing experience. Sex, okay, maybe she could learn that as she went on, with the person, or get caught up in the moment and do fine, but kissing? She did not know about that.

So you see, she wanted to tell the prostitute. The last thing my rational mind would have done was kiss you. If I could do the tub scene again, I would have simply sucked up the fakery and played the game. Scratch that. I would not have asked you what you wanted. I like being with you. You’re nice and sweet. Pretending you came would have been fine. Sugary spicy sweetly fine. Really, really. Believe me, I am not about to kiss you again.

Frances dumped the entire contents of the sex toys bag on the bed. Three dildos, rubber, silicone and latex, because she had not been sure which she would prefer. A couple of straps for the dildos. Lube. Her newest "massager." A washcloth for the lube. The prostitute’s briefcase probably had lots of toys. More interesting toys.

"Okay," Frances said. She chose the silicone dildo and applied lube. She eased the dildo inside her. Pretended it was the hard fullness of the prostitute’s fingers. She replayed the fluttering of the prostitute’s eyelashes, the flecks in her eyes, the rocking of her hips, her breasts pressing into Frances's chest.

Why did I have to kiss her? Fuck, fuck. Frances turned the massager on.

*****

Felicianna awoke with a headache. And she was in Elena's bed. Without Elena, but wearing Elena's pajamas. She reeked of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

Ugh.

The events from the night before gimped back to her. She went out drinking with a few friends. About one a.m., she worked up the courage to go to Elena's condo to confront her. To tell Elena she knew Elena was a prostitute but that she still loved Elena, Elena could be honest, Felicianna would not judge her. Felicianna still wanted to be with her.

Instead--and Felicianna's memory got hazy here--she passed out.

Did I say anything?

Felicianna hoped not. Not drunken like that.

She checked the clock on Elena's nightstand--almost nine. She was late for opening the store. Not a huge deal--her assistant had a key. She'd call him, go home, shower and get fresh clothes. Your breath smells like Bigfoot crawled in your mouth and died. Elena kept gum and candy in her nightstand, so Felicianna slid the drawer open. She popped three sticks of Big Red. Her head was killing her. She'd get Excedrin from the bathroom.

She got to her feet and dressed. Elena's briefcase was on the floor, sandwiched between her dresser drawer and the wall.

Hmm. No. Don't you dare, not again.

Felicianna tiptoed to the door and locked it. She inputted the briefcase code. The case refused to unlatch. Damn. Felicianna tried Isaiah's birthday again, in case she had pressed wrong. Then Elena's birthday. No dice. What's Brenda's birthday? Felicianna could not remember. She tried her own birthday. Nothing. Tried the day Isaiah died. Nothing. Maybe the day he went down. Nope. Maybe reversing the numbers would work.

Success, with reversing the date Isaiah went down. How morbid.

The briefcase contents were much the same as before, but with one glaring exception: Frances Dourne's book. Not only was it in Elena's briefcase, but sticker tabs stood up in various places. Felicianna counted six: four pink, two green. All in the first half, so maybe more tabs were to come.

Felicianna opened the book to the first tab--page 34. Several passages were highlighted. She flipped through the book and saw many more highlights, on tabbed and non-tabbed pages alike. She returned to page 34 and read the first highlighted section.

I had a bunch of Barbies--blond and red-headed. All white. Back then, there were not many Asian or black Barbies. I gave each Barbie her own special name. I was determined that none would be stuck with the name "Barbie." I paired the Barbies with my Kens and GI Joes. Sometimes, I paired the Barbies with each other. But only when I was alone.

Felicianna skipped to the last tab.

When I took over GIC, I based my tenure on this principle: Being gay is a choice. Being straight is a choice. People can, and should, choose to be straight. It's God's law.

It took me a few years to realize I could choose to be straight, that through hard work and millions of tears, I could persevere. What I want to do is help struggling people--people who used to be like me--see the light. I do not support torture--physical or emotional. I do not support belittling people. I do not support homophobic slurs.

What I give thumbs-up to is intensive, supportive counseling. People will slip. When they do, I offer a hand and help them back up. I don't shove them back down. I've been there. I've slipped, I've lusted after a few women. I know what it's like. I am all about helping hands, helping people up.

Felicianna felt like a sleaze, violating Elena's privacy again. But what was Elena doing, re-reading Frances Dourne's memoir, analyzing it like this? Keeping it in her briefcase? The answer came to Felicianna right away. Elena was a call girl. Frances was a hateful, homophobic, deeply in the closet lesbian. The sort of person who would hire a prostitute.

Felicianna had attended a gay-rights rally on the National Mall four years ago. Near her were protesters from Gay Is a Choice. Felicianna did her best to ignore them, but near the end of the rally, a rumble started up among the Gay Is a Choice protesters.

Their queen bee had landed.

Felicianna went up and introduced herself to Frances. Then Felicianna said: "I hope you rot in hell and never see your child again." She turned around and did not give Frances a second glance. Felicianna had wished immediately that she could take her words back. She should not have stooped to that level.

She closed the briefcase and replaced it. She took an Excedrin in the bathroom and discarded her gum. She squeezed toothpaste onto her finger and brushed her teeth.

Elena was flicking through TV channels in the living room.

"Whatcha watching?"

"Nothing." Elena handed her the remote. "How you feeling?"

"All right. I'm sorry about last night. Did I do anything?"

"Mumbled hello and passed out."

"What you up to today?"

Elena rolled her eyes. "I’m meeting Kevin at noon. To get the urn back."

"I’ll go with you."

"No need. I want to go alone."

"Sure?"

"I'm sure."

Felicianna flipped through the TV channels. Runaway Bride on HBO, a cartoon on Showtime, white talking heads on CNN, gray talking heads on MSNBC, a sexy weatherwoman on The Weather Channel, more talking heads on Fox News. A ticker at the bottom of the screen relayed news: Consumer confidence down, Hoffman apologizes for gaffe, Boston, New York and Washington ready for Albert X's second U.S. visit in two years. Felicianna moved to another news channel.

"Can't believe Kevin," Felicianna muttered. "What an ass."

Elena did not reply.

Frances Dourne popped up on the screen, along with reporter Jonathan Carruthers. Felicianna moved switched to Cinemax. Then on second thought, she returned to Frances.

The interview was live. Frances seemed in high spirits. She chatted about a new teen center going up in San Francisco. The center would have the latest technology, and the focus of the interview was how various systems were touch-free. Frances talked animatedly. "Clap, clap, the lights are on. Simple as that. If you prefer remote controls, we have a setting that…"

Felicianna half heard the words. What she really noticed, what she focused on, was the hourglass.

She’s wearing Elena's necklace.

Stop.

Of course she's not. She has a necklace that happens to be like Elena's. Elena isn't screwing her. She would never. Elena has principles. Felicianna surveyed the wall on her right. A bookcase covered the wall, floor to ceiling. Even had a ladder. Elena had requested that part of the condo be custom-built. She loved books, especially biographies and autobiographies. And for whatever reason, she had a temporary fascination with Frances. That's what this was.

"Why are we watching her?" Elena asked.

"What a freak."

"Okay."

"Hey. She has a necklace like yours."

"She does? Oh. I see it."

"Another teen center. You know how many teen centers she has?"

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"Twenty, not including the five big ones. One here, near GIC headquarters. One in Boston. Two in New York City. One in Atlanta. Now San Francisco? She gets her claws into these kids, warps their minds, makes them feel like shit about themselves."

"It's not right."

"Damn well it's not!" So why are you reading her book again? With highlights and tabs?

Elena took the remote and shut the TV off. She smiled, but her eyes held a deadly coolness. "Don't let that woman get to you. Aren't you late for work?"

*****

Felicianna went home, showered and dressed in fresh clothes. At noon, she took her lunch break, leaving her assistant in charge of the store. She returned to Elena's condo, about a ten-minute drive from Antiques by Anna. She had a key, but Brenda let her in.

"I left my wallet in Elena's room," Felicianna explained. The briefcase was gone. No matter; she wasn't here for it. She checked Elena's jewelry box. No hourglass necklace. Had Frances been wearing Elena's necklace, after all?

Elena and Frances Dourne.

Frances brainwashing Elena.

Shit. It's true.

*****

An hourglass would provide a temporary lift to Frances's spirits. Get her weekend started on as positive a note as possible. The call reassigning her to another prostitute had not come, but when it did, Frances wanted a shiny trinket for comfort. But it had to be just the right hourglass, and she was due back at work in forty-five minutes for a meeting.

Frances could not stomach the thought of a third prostitute. When the call came, she would tell the booking agent to drop her. Frances was forty-two years old. Get a grip. She did not need to pay someone to be her friend.

Shop after shop had boring, bland hourglasses or hourglasses Frances already had. She entered Big Ben's Old Stuff, and heat enveloped her. She shivered, not from the November cold, but in anticipation. Excitement. She inhaled one of her favorite scents: the smell of history, of dust, of Victorian-style clocks, of hand-carved mahogany furniture, of yellowed, old books, of the past. Her eyes drank in goblets, vases--squatty, bulbous, flaring--daybeds and love seats, and porcelain dolls, and old coins. And much more. A Louis XVI style daybed sat against a wall. The daybed was beechwood, with fluted legs, headboards and footboards. Its price tag read: $1,700. The tag on the Queen Anne lowboy table in the corner stated: Mid-18th century, $2,500.

The clerk's name tag read Elliott. He did not recognize her. The hourglasses, five of them, slouched on a shelf in the back. Nothing leaped out to Frances. They did not have distinctive designs or sand colors. Sand trickled down the hourglasses, to Frances's stomach.

Jan Kendall. What’s your real name? I liked kissing you. A lot.

Frances bought a clock for $534.67, including tax. Refreshing change from hourglasses. Frances would wrap it when she got home--if the call had not come. If the prostitute showed up for the appointment, Frances would have the clock ready as an apology gift.

*****

Elena jammed her hands into her pockets as she approached the Starbucks. She had not slept the night before, and she looked it. The problem was not Felicianna’s intrusion. No, the problem was Frances. The thoughts of her ricocheting in Elena’s mind.

The kisses. The Merlot smell of Frances’s breath, the softness of her mouth, the explorations of her tongue. Explorations Elena only vaguely remembered because she had detached, she had been in the doorway, part of her anyway.

Elena’s overreaction. Because overreaction was what it was. A proper call girl--a professional--would have stayed. Would have accepted Frances’s apology. Moved on.

Elena shook her head. The kiss was a blessing in disguise. She was getting too close to Frances, but she would be regrouped by tonight. Bolstered. Have a new wall up. She would talk with Frances, warn her that Elena would be gone if another violation occurred.

Elena entered the Starbucks and found Kevin right away, thanks to his favorite accessory, a red trucker cap. Kevin's eyes were raccoon-like, and he greeted her with more concern in his voice than usual. "Elena. Looking good. As always."

"Where is it?" She eyed the backpack at his side.

"Elena, how have you been?"

"Stop saying my name." Stop being so damn solicitous.

"You're okay?" he asked. "With money? Work going well?"

"Fine and dandy. It better be in that backpack."

"I realized I never helped you with Isaiah's hospital bills. I didn't think to. I'm sorry. I couldn't have afforded to anyway, but--"

"Insurance got most of them."

An arched eyebrow indicated Kevin's doubt. "Oh? What about your hospitalization and therapy bills after--"

"What's this about?"

"I know," he said, and his eyes were so serious, so solemn, that Elena's flesh prickled.

"What do you know?"

"About, uh…" He tugged at his ear. "You're not a party planner. You used to be, but you're not now."

You don't know shit, Kevin Norwood. "The urn, please."

"Where will we sprinkle his ashes?"

"Nowhere."

"We need to."

"No, we don't."

"Why did you become a call girl, Elena? I don't like to think about you doing that. That dangerous business is no place for a good woman like you, Elena."

Her lungs squeezed tight. She could not breathe. She stared at him, at his raccoon, rat-like eyes. Who the hell did he think he was? Did he think he mattered so much to her that she would answer him such a thing?

He was guessing, of course. Stabbing in the dark. Pathetic guy. "Stop saying my name."

"Why did you become--"

"My life is no business of yours."

"I'm your son's father."

"You're not his father! You showed up a month before he died! You're not his father! His father would have been there when his first tooth fell out. You're not his father!"

"If you had been watching him swim like you were supposed to, I would have become his father. A father to be proud of."

Elena did not permit herself to absorb Kevin's words. "He is dead. Stop bothering my mother. Stop coming over for dinner when I'm not home. Stop bothering me. We have no reason to see each other."

"We do, until we sprinkle the ashes."

"I'll give you half, and you do what you want with your half."

"I'm doing this for you. Not for me. You need to move on."

"I don't want you in my life, Kevin. Leave me alone. Keep the urn and sprinkle the sand if you must. Goodbye."

Elena stalked off. Five minutes later and a measure of calmness later, she grasped that she might never see the urn again. Might never again see these tiny bone fragments from Isaiah. Oddly, she felt liberated. At the same time, her chest hurt, worse than she dreamed possible. She hoped Kevin would choose a good place to sprinkle the sand. All that remained of their child would be scattered for the wind to carry off.

Chapter 14

At four o'clock, Elena had the driver stop at the grocery store nearest Frances's building. Kevin had kept calling and leaving messages. Elena deleted them without listening. At Starbucks, he had sounded supremely confident that she was a call girl. Maybe he had not been flailing around. What if he told her mother? Elena shoved the thought aside. She would choose to believe Kevin was guessing.

Dinner would be stuffed shells. Elena filled her shopping cart with jumbo pasta shells, olive oil, pancetta, pepper flakes, garlic cloves, marinara sauce, whole milk ricotta cheese, Parmesan cheese, eggs, parsley leaves, basil leaves, mint leaves, salt, black peppers and mozzarella cheese. She paused at the cards display but decided not to get Frances a peace offering. Elena had nothing to apologize for. I didn’t kiss her back.

*****

Elena knocked on Frances’s door, and Frances answered with a wide grin. She helped Elena set the grocery bags in the kitchen. "Be right back." Frances returned with a box covered in purple wrapping paper.

Purple. Frances had been paying attention.

Her smile was sheepish, but cautious. "This is a--let’s call it a I-screwed-up-and-I’m-glad-you’re-here present. You still get your tip. Don’t worry. This is extra."

"You didn’t have to. You should not have. Really."

"If you don’t like it, say so."

"Look, Frances. Last night happened. It’s over with. I believe you. You got caught up in the moment. So, let’s move on. You won’t let it happen again."

"Right."

"Because then I’d have to drop you."

A strained, wobbly smile. "Of course. Naturally."

Elena opened the gift. It was an antique mantel clock.

"It’s Italian," Frances explained. She went on, detailing various features of the clock. Elena loved it. Matched the olive globe on her desk perfectly.

But.

But.

"You don’t like it," Frances said.

"I love it. It’s a perfect match with a globe I have. I love antiques."

"I’ll take it back. No problem."

"I am trying to say that you do not need to bribe me."

"I’m not."

"You don’t need to be buying me anything." Elena held the clock to her chest. Damn, the thing was heavy. "Thank you. I will treasure it. No more, okay? No more gifts, please." I’m sorry I compounded your mistake. More like quadrupled it. Yes, she had kissed Frances back. Bless the woman for not mentioning the fact. "Come on. Dinner."

*****

"I saw you on TV this morning." Elena used a slotted spoon to drain the pasta shells. "New teen center in San Francisco."

"It's a beautiful building."

"So, you’re setting up two new organizations."

"Yep. I signed the lease on a space a couple of weeks ago. The space is small, but it’s a start."

"Mmm."

"Hope to not be there for long," Frances said. "If we fundraise right, we can be in better digs by this time next year."

"You have business plans for the organizations? Names?"

"No names." Frances shrugged. "Possibly Rainbow Rights for the gay one. If you have ideas, let me know."

"I will."

"Yeah, I have rough draft business plans. I’ve…" Frances gave Elena a little smile.

"What?"

Frances shook her head. "I’ve had these rough draft plans for five years."

Five years?

Frances bit her lip. "Sucks it took Nathaniel’s death to kick-start my ass."

"At least his--" No. Oh, no. Don’t dare say that.

"At least his what?"

"Nothing." Elena began the sauce and stirred the ricotta, the Parmesan cheese, egg yolks, the leaves, and the salt and pepper. She preheated the oven. "So, we should talk logistics. How do you want to handle coming out to your family? Do you want to do it in a public place, a restaurant or…?"

"Of course not a public place. I promised you. No, we'll do it first thing Thanksgiving Day at my parents' house. Tell them and get it over with."

"What do we say about me?"

"We're friends. We met when you were planning a party for me. You’re Jan Kendall."

"What exactly do you want me to do?"

"What were you going to say earlier? Something like: ‘At least his death wasn’t for nothing?’ "

Elena pulled on one of her bracelets. "Mmm. But I didn’t mean it."

"I know," Frances whispered, but with an edge.

Silence.

Awkward. Tense. Elena drank from her wineglass. Frances drank from her own wineglass. Same bottle from last night.

Elena met Frances’s eyes. Replayed Frances’s mouth on hers. I don’t deserve the clock. I hope my wine breath was not too bad last night.

The client who had Lamar, the chocolate lab. The defense contractor CEO. His name was Theo Willoughby. The first client Elena had let kiss her on the mouth.

Fact was, she let about half her clients kiss her on the mouth. Sure, she started with a no-kissing rule, but what better way to gain clients’ trust, to make them feel special, than to let them think she was breaking one of her rules for them? Special them.

The kissing rule was such an easy one to discard.

Theo was a sloppy, sloppy kisser. Like his lab must have been.

Her best tipper, though. She had seen him for a full year. Was not sure why he had stopped coming. Just had. Gave her and Amanda no explanation. She Googled him once in a while. He was alive. Doing well. Raking in money at the same job.

"You okay?" Frances asked.

"Fine."

Frances nodded briskly. "With my family," she said. "I don't know what I want you to do. Just be there. Be with me."

Elena finished preparing the food and put their dinner in to bake. "Be about forty minutes. Do you have a script?"

"Not for my family. I'll play it by ear."

"What do you think your parents will do?"

Frances laughed. "Kick me out. We'll be done in five minutes. We'll drive back and you can have your Thanksgiving."

"They might surprise you."

"They won't."

"Maybe Nicholas will react well. Especially since you helped him with Nathaniel."

"Maybe." Meaning no.

Elena had never liked Nicholas Wellington, although his sister fascinated her. At least Frances said gays should be treated with compassion. As recently as one year ago, Frances had put forth her support for gays to visit their partners in the hospital. Nicholas Wellington opposed anything gay. If it looked and breathed like it was gay, and quacked like it was gay, it deserved to be shot.

Frances reached for a blue folder on the kitchen table. "Read this. It’s a revision of my speech. Mostly at the end."

This paper was fresh, crisp. Times New Roman font again.

Good morning. I hope everyone's had a great weekend. I have called you here today to talk to you about something, something very important and dear to my heart.

I've known joys in my life. Tragedies, too. I also have regrets, lots of them. Regrets that I haven't been true to myself. Regrets that I've tried to force my beliefs, beliefs I never truly possessed deep down inside, onto others. Every fiber of my being knows I have caused untold pain and suffering.

I'm going to keep this speech short and sweet, because when you come down to it, I only have three words to say.

I am gay.

I'm gay, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Effective immediately, I resign as president of Gay Is a Choice. I plan to develop a gay rights organization and an organization to track down missing children.

To the people I have hurt, to the people I have caused to feel subhuman, I am sorry. Truly sorry, from the bottom of my heart.

To the people who work at GIC, I am not abandoning you. I love you all.

I want this to be an honest forum, so I'm opening the floor. If you have questions, please ask them. I will answer them as honestly as I can.

One last thing. Daniel, please let me see Marissa. I admire you every day of my life. Know that, if nothing else. You absolutely did the right thing. I wake up every morning, and I think of our daughter. How lucky she is to have you as her dad. I fall asleep remembering you and her laughing together. She belongs with you. I know that. But please bring her back. I want to know her. I want her to know me. I’m her mother, and I’m a better person now. Please, Daniel. I will do everything in my power to make sure you're not prosecuted. I will take care of you both. Daniel, just get in touch. Contact me. Our landline number is the same. We’ll meet. No one has to know. I don’t want to take her from you. I just want to meet her and maybe, if you’re willing, get to know her.

Elena swallowed. She felt the intense pain, the agony, of Frances’s words. No washing them away.

"Well?" Frances asked.

"The change is significant."

"More effective?"

"Will you let me know if he calls? If he gets in touch with you? Even if it’s a year later or…you’ll let me know if you get to see your daughter?"

Frances gave her an odd, probing look. "Yes," Frances said. "I’ll let you know."

"More effective, yes. What if people accuse you of coming out to get Marissa back?"

"I'd say yes. Heck, yes, I am. But I'm also doing it to be true to myself. So, what do you think? Of the speech as a whole." Frances's voice was smooth, emotionless, completely unlike the churning angst of the words on the paper. "What do I need to add to the speech or subtract from it? What do I need to polish and smooth out?"

"Nothing. It's to the point. It's from your heart. It's perfect."

"Right. Okay. Well, uh…we have time to kill. Hair, clothes, shoes, whatever. What do I wear when I come out?"

*****

Frances’s closet was half the size of Elena’s old apartment. Bigger than Isaiah’s bedroom. Three colors stood out: gray, brown and black. Both for suits and shoes.

"You should wear something with a little color," Elena suggested. "Have anything blue to match your eyes?"

"A couple of shirts."

Elena riffled through the suits and through librarian-type browns and greens. She found a dark-blue shirt. Too dark.

"I’m thinking about getting a makeover the day before I come out. Haircut, chic clothes. Get red highlights. Be a new person inside and out."

"But you won’t be a new person. You’ll just be gay. I think you’re fine simply sprucing up your usual appearance. You want people to recognize you. You want to look authentic, not contrived. Not like a caricature of yourself."

"Good point."

"Do you prefer pants or skirts?"

"Pants."

Elena surveyed a few more suits. No gems. Sameness after sameness.

"My clothes are stuffy," Frances said.

"Don't wear a suit jacket. Wearing a shirt will make you seem accessible."

"Hair up or down?"

"I’d say up. As you usually wear it."

"So I should have my contacts in, too."

"Probably." Elena shifted her focus to the shoes. Maybe she would discover a prize winner. "Are you going to stand at a podium?"

"Yes. GIC has a conference room that doubles as a press room. That’s where I’ll do it."

"At GIC? Wow. Okay. Look, I have a few blue shirts at home that will work. We’re about the same size. I’ll bring them next time. Pair one of my shirts with one your pants, and you’re set."

"I appreciate it."

Elena flashed a grin. "That’s what I’m here for. Do you have earrings?"

"Some."

Elena went through Frances’s jewelry until she found a pair of round blue topaz earrings adorned by white gold and four tiny diamonds. "This is perfect."

"Daniel got them for me. Our first anniversary."

"You okay wearing them?"

Frances attempted a smile. "Maybe he’ll see them and remember the good times."

"So you had good times."

"As much as a gay man and a gay woman married to each other can."

"Okay, forget these earrings. I have something at home that’ll work. Or do you want to look online now? Maybe have something brand-new for your big day?"

"Can I wear the hourglass necklace?"

"It’s your necklace."

Frances fingered the charm. "Hmm."

Elena stole a glance at her. Envisioned her with her hair up--maybe a few strands loose, to give her more humanity, more softening---the brilliant blue of her eyes, of her shirt, of her earrings. And the hourglass at the base of her throat.

Elena should have let the kiss last. And last. She wanted to feel Frances around her again, lose herself in the wetness of her, her groans, the waves of her orgasm.

"What are you thinking?" Frances asked.

"You’re going to be stunning."

A self-conscious smile. Light pink cheeks. "You think?"

"I know."

Frances breathed in a deep breath. Breathed out. "Sometimes I can’t believe I’m doing this."

Elena almost reached for her. "And you’ll do it in style," she said instead.

*****

Frances checked Mickey on her wrist. Dinner was over, and she and the prostitute had two hours to kill. Two hours to fuck. Two hours to sit in awkward silence. Two hours to play cards.

"I can cook, too," Frances said. "I know how. You’re not my mother’s daughter if you don’t learn how to cook. I just don’t see the point in cooking for myself."

"Next dinner’s on you, then."

Frances grinned. "Sounds good." Tomorrow night? was on the tip of her tongue, but she stopped herself. She needed to space out her meetings with the prostitute. Frances had bought a Nintendo Wii about a year ago. She had not bothered to take it out of its box. She had never played Wii, but people at work loved it. Maybe they could try that. Or watch a movie. Snuggle on the couch and--No.

The prostitute had been going to come. Maybe she was going to fake and cut out early, but she had been on the route to orgasm. No mistaking the pulsating, the hardness and expansion, of her clit and the rocking of her hips. Her nails in Frances’s back.

More awkward silence. Last night continued to slouch in the third chair at the table. Sex would help. Workmanlike, utilitarian sex, like the other prostitute gave. Would get rid of the discomfort, and the next time they met, it would be as if they never kissed.

Frances summoned her courage. She ran her hands, one after the other, over her breasts. She was ready for another orgasm. One that didn't come from her own fingers or from a vibrator. Make me come. Again.

She swore that hunger flared in the prostitute's eyes. Frances used her fingertips to graze one of her nipples. Despite the layers of her shirt and bra, the nipple responded. Her body responded. The prostitute did too--slightly parted lips. Frances quirked an eyebrow. All right? Make me come. As many times as you can before the two hours are up. Earn your keep.

What Frances actually said--stammered--was: "Hey, uh, let’s play Scrabble."

Chapter 15

Brenda was reading The Washington Post when Elena got home. Elena touched a hand to her hair. Dry, but the touch was habit. Making sure her lies were behaving themselves. She carried a mini blow dryer in her briefcase. Had to shower sometimes after work to wash off the smell of sex, and she needed a blow dryer for these times she was not at the Four Seasons or another hotel. Her hair had been damp the night before, from the bubble bath. She’d blown dry her hair in the service car.

Scrabble.

Really, Frances.

Elena should’ve yanked down the damn woman’s pants and gone down on her. Instead, she was an obedient little prostitute, with seven wooden tiles and the appropriate oooh, niiiice when Frances laid down a good word.

Elena could’ve nudged Frances. Turned the shower on. Pulled Frances in with her, clothes be damned. Could’ve sucked on her nipples through her shirt, could’ve--stop.

"Hey, Ma. Couldn't sleep?"

"Acid reflux is acting up again. What's that?"

Elena drew out the clock.

Brenda's eyes widened in appreciation.

"Where should we put it? Maybe where Isaiah's urn used to be. Matches the globe, don’t you think?"

"You didn't get Kevin's message? He came for dinner. The urn's back."

Elena almost dropped the clock. Not out of shock, but out of anger. Stuck with the damn urn again. Great. "I wanted the clock there," she said, hating the snappish shading of her tones.

"Then put it there." Brenda's voice was reasonable. "Help me up. We'll figure out where to put the urn."

I made a mistake. Elena should not have left Frances. What was the appeal of coming home to a wizened woman and a soulless condo? She could be in a large, warm bed now, with a beautiful, soft, responsive woman. But what the hell else was she supposed to do? The appointment was over.

"Elena, dear? Fetch the Pepcid, will you?"

*****

Elena had a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast with her mother, then took a hot shower. The water massaged her shoulders, and she imagined Frances was with her. Kissing her, her lips, her breasts, her pussy. Elena detached the shower head and let it get to work. Her orgasm was tremendous but only sharpened her desire. She got out of the shower and dried off. Enough.

She checked her phone calendar to see what the day held so far. She had two appointments, one new. She already knew about D45 from one-thirty to two-thirty. The new one was F83 from eight to ten. Yay! Elena’s heart and stomach jumped.

She inspected her closet and selected three blue businesslike shirts. One was deep blue, long-sleeved and collared. Another was more of a robin’s egg blue, short-sleeved, also collared. The third was twill, medium blue, with white collars that jumped out. Too much for Elena’s taste, but maybe Frances would like the shirt. Next, Elena went through her earrings. She had a pair of Japanese Kanji eternal blue. From Felicianna. Nope. She did not want Felicianna’s mojo anywhere near Frances. Elena picked out a few other pairs.

*****

"Hey," Elena said, approaching Felicianna at Antiques by Anna.

"Hey."

"How are you?"

"Good. Good." Felicianna cracked a hesitant smile. "The armoire sold. Finally."

Elena made small talk. Her neck and her mouth burned with memories of Frances from the Jacuzzi. Frances’s legs around her body. Frances’s screams. Moans. Her rocking. Her sweat.

Was making Elena perpetually horny. If only she were a smidgen attracted to Felicianna, both their lives would be so much easier. They would be a boring, happy enough lesbian couple.

"I'm going to look at the hourglasses," Elena said.

"Why?"

"Gift for a client."

Felicianna turned keen green eyes on her. Elena wondered what her best friend saw. Maybe a lying flush to her cheeks? A guilty gaze?

"You've met someone," Felicianna said. Not a question. A statement.

"A client, I said."

"You know where the hourglasses are."

Elena sighed. Okay. The hourglasses. She tried to see the hourglasses through Frances's eyes. Frances would be pleased with any of them. Elena particularly liked an hourglass with five tiers, instead of the usual two. The sand was multicolored. Something about the hourglass was off, however. It would be good, wonderful, for Frances--but not perfect.

The solution came to Elena. The hourglass was not for Frances. The hourglass was for Marissa. That would make the gift okay. The gift was not for the client.

Chapter 16

Felicianna seethed after Elena left with the hourglass. The hourglass that would no doubt end up in Frances Dourne's greedy, hypocritical, greasy fingers. Elena thought Felicianna was no better than the trinkets at a dollar store. Fine.

The look in Elena's eyes had broken Felicianna's heart. If only Elena would give her a shot. Why? Why did the world work like this? Why did people such as Felicianna, people who worked hard, paid taxes, fought for equality, get stomped on by homophobic, Bible-thumping conservatives? Get their girls stolen by such people?

When did Elena get so stupid? Maybe Isaiah was not the only one who had been brain dead. Frances Dourne, really? She was the best Elena could do? That closeted, frightened little blonde bimbo beaver of God?

Felicianna’s insides twisted. She did not like being shut out of her best friend’s life. This best friend whom she had found with a knife in a bathtub. This best friend whom she had stayed in bed with many nights, holding her as she cried, as they both cried about Isaiah, this best friend who could make a bad day turn into a great day by merit of a little smile or a caress from her eyes.

This best friend whose briefcase Felicianna had broken into. This best friend whom she had investigated. This best friend whom maybe she did not know anymore.

This best friend she could not talk to.

Felicianna must be misreading the situation. Elena did not know Frances Dourne. Certainly had not bought an hourglass for her. Felicianna was being paranoid, protective. Still.

Maybe Elena did know Frances. Maybe Elena saw something worthwhile in Frances. I hope you rot in hell and never see your child again. Felicianna never should’ve said these words. Maybe she would pay a little visit to GIC. Meet Frances again. Figure out what Elena saw in her. Or maybe she should leave the damn thing alone and move on with her life.

*****

Darren brought flowers, calla lilies.

Give them to Jan, Elena’s mind said, but her mouth grinned. "For me? Oh, Darren." The lilies were lovely. Purplish-pink, healthy and tall. Give them to Jan. To the woman you love. To the woman you're going to marry.

For a second, she thought he was reading her mind. He pulled his teeth back. He looked like a wolf, feral and angry. She found his hand, covered it with hers. "Thank you, sweetie."

He searched her eyes. She had not planned the sweetie. Mistake. "We have something special, don't we?" he asked.

I'm a prostitute, and you're my client.

"Of course we have something special. But don't fall for me."

"I'm not." He dropped the lilies into a trash can. "Let me see the dildos."

*****

Elena turned on her phone as soon as Darren left. A new appointment was on her calendar. Room 245, three o’clock booking. B89z. The z meant this was probably going to be a one-off. If she wanted, Elena could call Amanda and ask about names and information, but she usually did not bother to with the z’s.

The client was a woman who did not give her name, but she looked like a Barbara. She appeared to be in her early sixties and was about a hundred pounds overweight. She was adorable, a grandmotherly type.

"Why, you're a little slip of a thing," she cooed to Elena. "You look like my daughter-in-law."

They made small talk, and eventually Elena put the client at enough ease that she could reveal the purpose of the appointment. "Barbara" wanted to wear a diaper, be tied up and whipped.

Looks were deceiving, but Elena had learned that long ago.

*****

Elena knocked on Frances’s door. She would hold off on giving Frances the hourglass. Shirts and earrings were enough for one night. Frances answered in a red terrycloth robe. And with a smile. Her hair was up. No glasses, so her contacts must be in.

Elena followed Frances to her bedroom and laid the shirts side by side on the bed. "I suggest gray pants. Black or brown will be too much. Hard edges."

Frances selected a pair from her closet. Pinstripe. Actually not half bad. "Turn around while I get dressed," Frances said.

Elena went to the corner where Frances’s desk was. On it were a folded MacBook, her Mickey Mouse watch, and her cellphones. The personal/work one was off. The Marissa one was on. "Your watch is cute. Why Mickey?" Why the bland business suits with the Mickey watch?

"My nephew Christopher gave it to me. Okay, turn around."

Frances wore the long-sleeved, deep blue shirt. Their eyes met, and while Elena’s voice said: "That’s the one," she was afraid her gaze said much more.

"I think these earrings." Frances indicated a pair of cobalt blue ball studs. She stuck them in. "Do they look okay?"

"Your hair’s too tight. Get a few strands loose."

Loosened hair and a pair of shoes later, Frances inspected herself in the full-length mirror next to her desk. "Not bad."

"Not bad? How about pretty damn amazing?"

Frances rolled her eyes but could not conceal a smile.

"Really. I could look at you all night."

"Thanks. Thanks. Well, uh…okay." Frances got a video camera. "How about a dress rehearsal?"

*****

Frances took a deep breath, and her gaze slipped to her hands. "Should I wear nail polish? When I come out, I mean."

"White or clear, sure."

"Okay, push play."

Elena pressed the red button. "We're in business."

Frances nodded. "Here we go." A pause. "Good morning. I hope everyone's had a great weekend." Frances smiled widely, a smile that crinkled her eyes, but that mirrored a certain somberness in her gaze.

Oh, yeah. Shit. How did she do that? Perfect. The next few sentences came fluidly, and she continued: "I'm going to keep this speech short and sweet, because when you come down to it, I only have three words to say."

Here it comes.

Slight flutter of Frances's eyelashes. "I am gay," she said, her voice strong and self-assured. "I am gay, and there is nothing wrong with me."

*****

"I need a new bra," Frances said, pausing the recording on her computer. She had changed back into her terrycloth robe. "I need to practice again."

"No. Look, don’t overanalyze." Elena wished she could make Frances understand. "This tape is great. You know why? Because it’s unrehearsed. It’s from your heart. Your soul shines through. Don’t beat that away. You over-rehearse, you’re going to come off as a robot."

Frances frowned. "I suppose."

"Come with me." Elena led Frances to the bed. Eased her onto it. Kissed both her cheeks. "Please believe me. It’s perfect."

"What are you doing?"

"What I should’ve done instead of playing Scrabble." Elena moved her hand under the robe. She skimmed Frances’s hips and thighs. Frances arched, and wetness puddled between Elena’s own legs. She freed Frances’s breasts. Perfection. Protection.

"Be right back," Elena said. She returned a moment later and found the rhythm Frances needed.

Chapter 17

Time to get back on the bus, time to return to school.

Already.

Victoria was going to miss the Capitol. The building was the biggest she had been in. Arkansas did not seem worthy of such a handsome, stately building. Of course, as Victoria reminded herself, much of her knowledge about the state was concentrated to her home, barely larger than a shack but, thankfully, with plumbing.

In the summers, mosquitoes the size of pears.

Rains and flooding so bad the shack might as well be a boat.

Winters so cold and severe she and her dad sometimes got a hotel room.

The lack of plows that kept her road inaccessible for weeks at a time.

This Capitol was a different Arkansas.

Last week, after she issued her ultimatum, her father pulled over the truck. "Exactly who do you think you are?" he demanded.

She was not able to say at first, because she saw in his eyes that she wrong, she was not Marissa Dourne, she was Victoria Cove, plain, boring Victoria Cove, and he was eccentric Timothy Cove. Plus something far back in his stare, something primitive, scared her. The thought that he might hurt her, tie her, strike her, whatever, occurred for the first time. His temper was not the physical kind.

Now it might become physical.

"Who do you think you are?" he repeated.

She closed her eyes. "Marissa Dourne."

She heard laughter. And more laughter. She opened her eyes. His belly shook. "You crazy girl."

Of course he would deny it. But like this? His reaction seemed so…genuine.

"You're not Marissa Dourne."

"Then who am I?"

"You don't want to be Marissa Dourne. Frances Dourne is…she's…"

"What was she like when you met her?"

He grinned. "I knew her once, actually. A long time ago."

"When? Where?"

Timothy frowned. "You're Victoria Cove, my daughter. Your mother died in a fire when you were a baby. Put these nightmares out of your head, eh?"

"If I'm not Marissa Dourne, why do you keep me like a prisoner?"

"I'm sorry you feel that way, honey."

She went in for the kill, damn the consequences. Let him hit her. "You have a picture of my mother, your wife. It’s the only thing in your safe!"

Anger flushed his cheeks. "You been going through my--"

"Daddy."

He was silent for a long minute. Turned the engine off. "Fine. I'll tell you, but then we never speak of this again."

"Okay."

"We were at Camp Meadow Woods together. We, uh…it wasn't a good camp, Vic. I was made to have sex with her. She was the first woman I…" He shrugged. "Stupid sentimentality, I guess. That's why I have the picture of her. Not because she's your mother. You crazy girl."

He let her go on the trip, anyway.

First the class toured the grounds of the Capitol. Victoria passed the Memorial Fountain and the Arkansas Medal of Honor Memorial. She felt more than ever that she was Marissa Dourne. Maybe yearned, desired, more than felt. The logical part of her said to listen to her father, that she was not the kidnapped girl. The events, the resemblances, were mere coincidence. His explanation made perfect, dismaying sense.

No harm in dreaming though, no harm in daring hope her life had greater significance than as the daughter of some gay Arkansas redneck who had a recent predilection for hitting the bottle.

Marissa Dourne had no birthmarks, no identifying marks. No nothing. If only Victoria could remember her life from before she was three. If she were Marissa, wouldn't she remember something? The trauma of being three years old--two, actually, Marissa had never made it to her third birthday party--and then never seeing her mother again--would leave some sort of imprint. Right?

Maybe she did remember something.

She’d had a recurring dream since she was little. Had not in months, until the night before. Maybe it was not a dream, but a memory. She could not believe she had forgotten about it.

At lunch, McDonald's on Broadway Street near the Capitol, Markie dug out the memoir. Victoria never kept it on her, never took it home, in fear her father would find it.

She looked at Daniel Dourne's picture again, at his eyes. The eyes she swore were her father's.

"I had a dream last night," she told Markie. "I was little. A woman was holding me. Outside. It was nighttime and cold. I remember the moon and the cold most of all. Not the woman. But she was crying. Her crying made me cry."

"That’s intense."

"I’ve had that dream since I was little. It might explain the deja vu I got when I saw Frances’s picture. If something happens to me, if I disappear, call the hotline. Tell them everything. My name. My address. Give them my picture."

"What do you think he might do?"

"I have no idea."

*****

Frances sat at her desk at Gay Is a Choice. Another late night. Paperwork to soothe the horny mind. That morning, Frances had awoken at four. Hopped onto her treadmill for a brisk run. Then got back into bed. Among the smells and memories of the prostitute, she masturbated and came, came, came.

Ugh. This idea to stay late was not working. Frances was unable to concentrate on the stacks of papers requiring her signature. Why didn’t she just call the service? Or the prostitute’s work phone directly? Schedule another appointment? Have more fun?

Because it still felt wrong. Enjoying sex still felt wrong. But she was getting better, lessening the mental block, yes, she was. She was letting herself masturbate more, and that was huge.

In any case, she needed to back off and not spend so much time with the prostitute. They had been together Sunday, Monday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Frances had seen the other prostitute once a week, sometimes twice a week. She had planned the same with this one.

Randy Germain stuck his head in. "I’m out of here. See you tomorrow."

The prostitute's agency also had call boys, and Randy had come to Gay Is a Choice for counseling after his wife busted his extracurricular activities. So, in a way, Randy Germain was responsible for Frances meeting the prostitute. Randy had a natural-born ability for public relations and had stayed on to do outreach and counseling. That was five years ago, and apparently Randy and his wife had been happy since. But he worked long hours. Like her. Longer hours, actually.

Frances remembered sitting at this same desk five years ago. Working on her business plans for the two new organizations. Continually peeking at the phone number on Randy’s "release of burden." One of GIC’s things was for people to type or write how they had sinned. Once the sins were on paper, the person was clean and free to begin anew. Something like that. Every year, GIC had a huge bonfire and burned the papers.

"Randy?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you happy? Truly happy, I mean. You love your wife?" You don’t miss or crave dick?

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah. What’s this about?"

"I’m not sure."

"You happy, Frances?"

"Not really. But I’m getting there."

"Shall I pray with you?"

"No, Randy." She injected lightness in her voice. "Get the heck out of here. Tell Nora I said hi."

After he left, Frances signed more papers. She retrieved a key and opened a drawer. She drew out Randy’s "release of burden." Fifty typed pages, single spaced. More like an autobiography.

Frances turned to page 23, and her heart, like it had five years ago, thrummed guiltily.

I met Joseph at a fund-raiser. One of Nora’s museum galas. I never minded going. Plenty of eye candy. Anyway, I knew right away that Joseph was queer. I winked at him. He winked back.

We excused ourselves to the bathroom five minutes apart.

Frances skipped to page 28, after Joseph had broken up with Randy because Randy refused to leave his wife.

I missed Joseph. Some days it was like an elephant reared up and--

Frances skipped to page 29. Here it came. The payoff. The number. I saw Joseph about a month after we broke up. He gave me a number. (202) 858-5555. Told me to call it and ask for "Gabriel."

Joseph was a male prostitute now. I could not believe it.

I was happy, so happy. He wanted to see me again, he wanted to see me again!

As long as I had money.

Frances had taken two years to dial that number. She had been so nervous, a wreck. Don’t need to meet in person, don’t need to see pictures, sight unseen is fine. Nice orangey fake-tan prostitute she had ended up with, right?

Frances turned her shredder on and ran Randy’s burden through, a few pages at a time. "Sorry," she whispered. "Sorry I didn’t burn you."

She turned back to paperwork. Her hormones were out of whack. Her heart, too. Dear God, the prostitute was good. She did this thing with her tongue. And she did this impaling look with her eyes. Made Frances feel like the world was only her and the prostitute. The prostitute made fucking resemble lovemaking. Frances wanted to make the prostitute come tonight. For real.

Wanted.

Would not. Was not deluded enough to try.

Frances checked the time. Ten p.m. She decided she did not care. She dialed a few florists. None open. She would stop at a grocery store. No more gifts. She would get roses, anyway. Getting them did not mean she had to give them. They’re for me. They’ll liven the place up.

She called the booking agent. "Could I see her? At midnight until two? Tonight. My place."

"Of course. Have a good evening."

"Goodbye." Shit. Shit.

Frances Marie Dourne, get your gay head on straight.

"She's a prostitute," Frances muttered. "She's doing her job. She wants you to fall for her. So you'll give her more clocks and money and little gifts and…ugh." Frances rubbed her temples. She signed a few papers, adding an extra oomph to the end of her signature. Remember, she has other clients. She's screwing other people. All her clients are probably in love with her. Don't let her screw you out of your money and your sanity.

But.

But.

She kissed me back. She looks at me in that way that…

Stop. She does this with all her clients. It’s her shtick. But what if…

"Franny."

She looked up.

Nicholas was slumped against the doorway. His suit was wrinkled, as if he had slept in it all weekend.

"Nicholas!"

"I told Hannah," he said. His wife. "About the affair and about Nathaniel."

Oh boy. She coaxed him to the loveseat. "Sweetie, Hannah will come around. It’s a shock. Give her time."

He sniffled and wiped the back of his hand across his nose. "She forgave me."

"Huh?"

"She forgives me." Nicholas’s gaze was empty, stunned. "How can she forgive me? Something’s wrong with her."

Chapter 18

Frances’s heart thrilled. And thrilled some more. The prostitute had brought a present, covered in shimmery blue paper and adorned with a silver bow. But the prostitute kept a careful distance, a few arms’ length. "Did I book too late?" Frances asked. "I hope I didn’t interrupt your evening."

"Let’s see. Being here or listening to my mother yammer again about acid reflux. Yeah. I’m real angry at you."

Your mother?

The prostitute perhaps realized her gaffe and quickly extended the gift. "This is for--please don't think me presumptuous, but when I saw this, I knew it was perfect for Marissa."

Frances inhaled a quick breath. "Marissa?"

The prostitute nodded earnestly, and her faith initiated more thrills in Frances’s heart. The prostitute was on her side. Supporting her, rooting for her, for Marissa's return.

"What is it?" Frances asked.

"You can open it."

"I’ll let Marissa do it." Frances laid the gift next to the eleven-year-old present. "Wow. The room is brighter already."

"Okay," the prostitute said. "We’re going to play a game. I don't know what it's called, but we'll start by you naming a room."

A sex game? "Kitchen," Frances said, not sure why she had. Sex in the kitchen was bound to be uncomfortable. Hard floor, counters, appliances, not much open wall space. Maybe that was why she had picked the kitchen--to challenge the prostitute.

The prostitute led her to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Okay, pick three things."

Frances surveyed her fridge. Plenty of obvious items: whipped cream, chocolate syrup, yogurt, cake, strawberries. Up the ante. She selected an onion, an egg and a box of leftover pizza.

"Interesting," the prostitute said.

"What’s the game?"

"I think you’ve figured it out. We’re gonna have sex right here, baby, with the assistance of your items. You get to figure out how."

"Me?"

"Yep. No help from me."

Frances glanced toward the refrigerator. "Can I switch my items?"

A laugh. "You stinker. No."

Frances liked the light in the prostitute’s eyes, the teasing in her reply. "At least I didn’t pick three onions."

Another laugh, longer and deeper. "Can’t wait to see what you do." The prostitute shrugged out of her jacket and plucked off her sweater. Her bra was a lacy hunter green.

"Nice," Frances complimented. Perfect with your hair.

"Got it for you."

"Really?" Of course not, you idiot. Or--yes, yes, of course, you idiot--because it means higher tips.

"Yes, really." The prostitute pulled Frances’s shirt off. Blue bra. "New for me?"

"Might be." Meaning yes. Bought during her lunch break, along with bras in several other colors. Frances was not going to wear the same red bra every time.

"I love how blue goes perfect with your eyes," the prostitute said, injecting the right mixture of admiration, awe and eroticism in her voice. How does she do it?

"I bought a blue shirt and earrings today. For the coming out. No sense in me wearing your clothes."

"I don’t mind," the prostitute said. Was it just Frances, or did the prostitute seem disappointed? Frances decided it was just her.

The prostitute eyed the three items Frances had set on the kitchen counter. "So, what ya gonna do?"

Frances opened the pizza box. Three slices left. "Do you like cold pepperoni?"

"You bet."

"Bacon?"

"You bet."

"Possum?"

"Uh--what?" The prostitute laughed. More of a giggle. Yes, Frances decided, she needed to make the prostitute laugh as much as possible. Make them laugh more. "Did you say possum? Yes, yes, my favorite."

"Aardvark?"

"I can’t have pizza without it."

"I hope you like skunk, too."

"So that’s what the smell is."

Frances picked off a piece of pepperoni. "Eat aardvark off my chest." She positioned the pepperoni between her breasts.

The prostitute kissed the crook of Frances's neck. Kissed the crook on the other side. Let her mouth linger. Then worked her way up and down the crook. Does she have this easy intimacy with her other clients? Yes, probably.

The prostitute smelled of citrus spray.

At last, she moved to the pepperoni. She took her time nibbling, her lips supple and sweet.

"That’s good aardvark. Best I've had. Or maybe it's your breasts."

Frances drew back. "I would love to know how to please a woman. How to kiss a woman. I don’t mean on the lips. But like how you kiss me, on my neck."

A muscle flickered at the prostitute’s jaw. "Each woman is different. They have different sweet spots, different pleasure points."

"I know. I’m not that out of touch."

The muscle flickered again. Hooded, wary eyes. Then the prostitute smiled. But not enough to erase her uneasiness. "Yes, Frances, you can practice on me."

How does she say my name like that?

"Do you get clients who want to practice?" Frances asked.

"Not often."

"I don’t want you to feel weird."

A chuckle. "I will be all right. I will live."

"You were fine with me touching you in the bath tub."

"And I'm fine now."

Then why the cautious eyes? "If you had a prostitute, what would you ask her to do? Or him."

Another chuckle. Embarrassed. "Hell if I know."

Frances snaked her arms around the prostitute’s waist. The prostitute's breaths were steady. Calm. Unruffled. Frances’s pulse certainly was not. She lowered her mouth to the softness of the prostitute’s breasts. She kissed the top of each breast. She slipped her hands farther down, into the prostitute’s underwear. Her butt was the right balance of hard and smooth.

"Nice ass," Frances said.

"Yours too." The prostitute’s breathing continued to be calm. But she was rigid, reminding Frances of herself, before. Frances freed one of the prostitute’s breasts from her bra.

First time she had held another woman’s breast. "You really are beautiful," Frances murmured. She studied the nipple, noting similarities and differences between it and her own. Frances's nipples were pink too, but a bit darker. Perhaps a little larger, too. The prostitute seemed to have more bumps on her aureole. Not that Frances was going to count. If the prostitute was her lover, she would. In bed, after lovemaking. During pillow talk.

Frances pinched the nipple lightly. Brought her mouth to it. Sucked it for a couple of seconds. The prostitute twitched.

"Do you like that?" Frances asked.

No reply. Frances heard a thumpthumpthump--the other woman’s heartbeat. "Are you sure this is okay?"

"Of course it’s okay, Frances."

"I like how you say my name."

"I haven’t forgotten about the onion."

Frances replaced the breast. She fished a Sharpie from a drawer. She drew eyes, a nose with a moustache, and a mouth. "I have no idea what to do with this thing, so he’s some guy watching us."

"Lucky guy. Debonair. You don’t see moustaches like these anymore. Is he Poirot?"

"Sure. He’s watching us and twirling his moustache." The egg would be easier. Frances got the prostitute's other breast and ran the egg over its erect peak. "What does it feel like?"

"Smooth. Cold. Awesome. Let me do you."

Frances went for a kiss in the curve of the prostitute’s neck. The prostitute took an uneven breath. More like a shudder. Frances ventured another kiss and tasted goose bumps.

"I have to go to the bathroom," the prostitute said. A moment later, Frances heard the bathroom door shut.

They fit, Frances realized. Their bodies. They fit. She would not say so out loud, of course. Because they did not really fit. They were two women of the same height and the same approximate body shapes. One experienced, the other inexperienced--and all too eager to devour, to smother their connection like a forest fire, until nothing was left but blackness. Thank goodness the prostitute was able to temper Frances’s fervor.

But.

My touching her is bothering her. A lot. Because she likes it. Frances was not sure what to make of the matter. Yes, she could see how it would be awkward for the prostitute. But surely the prostitute was used to clients touching her. Surely they had aroused her before. That was a physical, natural reaction. Her honeymoon night, Frances was kissing Daniel's arms and face. She bit the back of his neck just so--instant sproing, and he pulled up her dress and took her right then.

Back of the neck, instant sproing for Daniel--never failed.

Was there some smooth way to convey to the prostitute that she need not be embarrassed? That Frances knew not to interpret the prostitute's arousal as more? But the prostitute knew that. She had let Frances feel the wetness of her pussy in the tub, after all. Did the prostitute fear another kiss?

Or maybe it truly was as simple as a need to pee.

Frances stuffed the pizza box and the egg into the trash. The Poirot onion was cute. She would keep him out for a few days. No more touching her tonight, he said.

Frances grinned. "Does she like me?"

She pictured Hercule Poirot, playing coy and twirling his moustache.

"Okay, I won't touch her. I'll show her my toys."

*****

"So, I have three dildos," Frances said. "And a vibrator. Obviously."

Elena surveyed the selection. She approved; the dildos fit her own tastes, too. She and Frances were in Frances’s bedroom, on the floor. Both of them had pulled their shirts back on. "Do you like your toys?" Elena asked.

"I think so. Do you?"

"I do. I can’t stand these--" Elena made a face "--these dildos that look like the real thing, with balls and veins."

"But you can stand the real thing all day?"

"Well." Elena laughed nervously. "I suppose I can."

"How?"

"I think about other things. How did you with your husband?"

Something flickered far back in Frances’s eyes. "Are you, uh, are you gay? In real life, I mean. Or bisexual or fluid or--sorry. Inappropriate question." She dropped her gaze and busied her hands with a dildo.

Elena ran her tongue over her lips. Which answer did Frances want? Probably best to say straight. Maybe that’d dissipate the chemistry between them. But Frances would likely pick up on the lie.

Tell the truth. Elena would play it off as if it were not a big deal. Because it was not. Really.

"I’m queer, Frances," Elena said. "I’m a lesbian. But I’m not crazy about that word. It’s rough. I like queer. Nice big umbrella. Lots of people fit under queer. Inclusive."

Frances raised her gaze. Searched Elena’s face. Elena could not tell if her being gay was good or bad news. "Are you really?"

Elena smiled. "Yep."

"And you don’t hate me." Frances said this wonderingly.

Elena took Frances’s hand in hers. Kissed each of her four knuckles. "I don’t hate you. And I hope you’re done hating yourself. Good people do terrible things. Bad people do good things. The world is gray. Thank goodness. I like it better that way than black and white."

"Have you done terrible things?"

Like letting my son drown? Elena ignored the knot in her stomach. "Probably. Who hasn’t?"

"Is it weird for you being gay--queer--and having to, you know, with men? Do you enjoy that?"

"I probably enjoy it the same as you enjoy your job. We all have to make a living." Change of subject. "Want to see what’s in my briefcase?"

"Sure."

Elena went to the living room to get her briefcase. She unlocked it and took a deep breath. She'd had to wipe three times in the bathroom, she was so wet.

Why did a client have to do this to her? She ought to go out soon, pick someone up and have a good fuck. That'd help. She did not want to think about what could have been if she had not excused herself to the bathroom. Frances losing herself even more in Elena's neck. Moving to her breasts. Elena responding, doing the same. And then kissing Frances, kissing her on the lips. Never lose yourself with a client. Personal rule of Elena’s. Not all call girls were like her.

Elena took Frances’s memoir out of the briefcase and tucked it under a magazine. She glanced at the clock on the wall. An hour left. She would make it. She rejoined Frances. "Open and see. The birth control pills are because menstruation gets messy in this line of work."

"I'm on birth control too," Frances said. "In case I meet a guy and…" She rubbed her forehead. "Time for me to go off, huh?"

"Yes."

Mini blow dryer.

Handcuffs.

Whips.

A dominatrix outfit.

Dildos and more dildos. Some realistic.

Lube.

Condoms.

"Wow," Frances said. She looked toward her stash, and Elena could read her thoughts. Paltry in comparison.

"See anything you’d like us to do tonight?" Elena asked.

"Heh. Maybe later. Much later. Not tonight. It’d be like graduating from kindergarten and going straight to high school."

"You will make a great girlfriend," Elena said. "Not only are you beautiful, inside and out, but you’re open-minded. Willing to try."

"Me?"

"No, I was talking to Monsieur Onion in the kitchen."

Frances rolled her eyes. "Do you whip a lot of clients? Or do they whip you? Both?"

"I whip them. Haven't lately except for one. Maybe they're on vacation together." Elena chuckled.

"What do you look for in a girlfriend?"

"Uh…"

"That was too personal, wasn’t it?"

"I can answer," Elena said. "Humor. Kindness. Inner beauty. Passion. And the click. Because without the click, without chemistry, there’s nothing." Like with me and Felicianna.

"Put this on." Frances handed Elena one of her dildos and a strap.

"Do you want me naked?"

"It's cold. Keep your shirt on."

Elena stepped out of her pants and underwear, and Frances grabbed a couple of pillows from her bed. She pulled several blankets from the closet. "I've always wanted to do it on the floor." She unbuttoned her jeans. "Are you going to put a condom on the dildo?"

"Not for your dildo, if you don't want me to."

"I don't."

"Want me on my back?"

"Yes."

The blankets were soft. Fleece. Elena felt nothing of the wood floor’s hardness. She propped her head on the pillows, and Frances straddled her. Elena pressed her legs together, and Frances guided the dildo in.

"Go slow," Elena warned. "Do you need lube?"

"Don't think so. It's in."

"Does it hurt?"

"I've had it inside me before. Position's a little different."

"Wriggle around until it--"

"Got it."

"Feels good?" Elena's hands moved to Frances's hips. Her butt.

"Yeah. Yeah. I like your hands there." Frances moved up. Down. Testing the dildo. It did not pop out. "Are you okay?" Frances asked. "The pillows, the blanket? Am I too heavy or--"

"Everything's perfect."

Frances closed her eyes and moved. Her shirt came down to her belly button, and Elena could see the light hairs of Frances's pussy, the pussy moving with the purple dildo.

Jesus.

For sure Elena needed a lay. Too late tonight, but tomorrow she was going to a bar. Pick up a woman. She had not done so since Isaiah's death.

Partly because of her fear of possibly exposing someone to diseases, but the truth was with her rules and her protection, she was probably one of the cleanest women in the United States.

Partly because her sex drive had been dormant since Isaiah's death. Sex with Felicianna, after Elena became a prostitute, mainly consisted of kissing and riding each other's legs. Before Elena became a prostitute, she'd gone down on Felicianna a few times. Let Felicianna go down on her, too. Nothing to write home about.

Heavier rocking from Frances. Clenched teeth, eyes still closed. "Where should I go to meet women after I come out? How long 'til you think it's safe?"

"Uh…uh." Elena fought to get blood up to her brain. "Probably about three months. The usual places. Bars, bookstores, online, through friends. Is there an ex-ex-gays support group?"

"Hmm." Frances leaned forward. Elena knew that motion--so Frances could rub her clit against the dildo, Elena's stomach or the strap. Her eyes were still closed.

"What do you think you’d like to do on dates?" Elena asked. She kept her gaze on Frances's face. Every moan, every pant, every sigh, every sensation--it was there. The veins in her neck constricted, then contracted. In and out, in and out.

Elena felt Frances's wetness dribbling onto her stomach. More groans, more rubbing. Something was off, though. Frances was not quite on an orgasmic path. She needed more stimulation. Elena would wait a few moments then suggest Frances take her shirt off. Easy access to her breasts.

"Traditional fare," Frances said. "Dinner. A movie. The zoo. Bowling. Hiking. I like arcades. Maybe an arcade. Skee-ball. I'm really good."

"Me too."

"Not as good as me," Frances said.

"Someone has an ego."

"I'm very good. It's true."

"What do you look for in a woman? In a girlfriend?" Elena asked.

Frances paused in her rhythm. Opened her eyes. Let out a laugh. "Ask me again when I have actual experience."

"That's a cop-out."

"Yeah, yeah." Frances's tone was dismissive, but her sly, shy gaze did funny things to Elena's heart. A new redness colored Frances's cheeks. "I maybe fibbed--okay, not fibbed--left out a few factors when I said the hourglass necklace was why I picked you. The other prostitute was orange."

"Orange?"

"Fakey tan orange. Do you know her?"

"No."

"She was orange, sent to me sight unseen, and I wasn't going to make that mistake again. I met with the agent, we went through pictures, each girl's rules, blah blah blah, and I told the agent the rules didn't matter because I didn't want sex. When I saw your picture, I knew I wanted you. Whatever your rules were. Then I noticed your necklace. It confirmed my initial reaction."

"So you like redheads?"

"Particular to them, yes. There were a couple of other redheads, but…" Frances shrugged. "I dunno. I really liked your smile and the look in your eyes."

"What about my smile?"

"It was honest. Mysterious. And sad."

"My eyes?"

"Dark."

Elena felt like a fossil. A fossil laid out on a blanket for study and examination. Dissection. A live fossil.

"The women I date will have to be gracious losers," Frances said. "For when I beat them at Skee-ball."

Elena giggled. "You're awful."

"I want to be on bottom for a bit. Missionary position."

They switched. Elena slid Frances's shirt and bra off, then her own. Elena held off on entering Frances with the dildo. Instead, she brought her lips to Frances's stomach, kissed her around her bellybutton.

"Will you eat me again?" Frances whispered tentatively.

"Of course, my lady." Elena got the dental dam, and Frances closed her eyes.

Elena flicked her tongue across Frances’s clit. "Ahh. That's good," Frances rasped.

Elena closed her own eyes, too. She did not want to be caught looking when Frances came.

*****

After her orgasm, Frances peered at the clock on her nightstand. Ten minutes left. She curled up on the blanket with the prostitute. Frances wanted to ask more questions. When did you realize you were gay? How did you come out? What do you like to do on a date? Where do you go to meet women? Do you do that, with your job? Do you use protection with them? What do you like for sex? Do you like dildos, being eaten, what? Do you have a sex toy stash at home?

"Do you think you could come sometime with me?" Frances asked. "Not tonight, because of the time. But some other night. Do you think you could?"

"Yes."

Her answer was too quick. Too steady. "Not a fake?"

"Not a fake."

"Really?"

"I--Frances, I--" the prostitute sighed.

"Are you allowed to come with clients?"

"Yes."

"Have you?"

"Yes."

You’re lying. Responding a heartbeat too fast. "Does your mom have acid reflux often?"

"Sometimes."

"Were you on the phone with her?"

"Mmm."

Frances weaved her fingers into the prostitute's hair. She let the silky auburn strands fall and picked them up again.

"No," the prostitute said.

At first, Frances thought the prostitute meant to stop fiddling with her hair. No, I was not on the phone with my mother. Frances's heart leaped. Something important and truthful. "You were with her in person?"

"Yes," the prostitute said.

"Tell me a story."

"A story?"

"Start with 'Once upon a time.' "

"Okay." The prostitute removed the dildo and strap. "Once upon a time lived a woman. This woman was three inches tall. She had four children, three inches tall like her. They lived in a cupboard."

"Will you visit again? Day after tomorrow? Five o'clock?"

"Of course, Frances."

"Please don't fake. If you're going to fake, I don't want to do it in the first place. Waste of time. Be honest with me. Tell me if you're going to fake, and we'll do something else instead."

"So, this woman, she wasn't sweet. Nope. She was a witch, and she was not creative. Her children were named One, Two, Three and Bob."

"Bob?" Frances laughed. So did the prostitute, and she took Frances into her arms.

"Two was the mama's boy," the prostitute said. "Bob was the troublemaker, the rebel. One was a vegetarian."

"And Three?"

"Three had gambling problems. So, this woman and her four kids lived in a cupboard with Cheerios and Cocoa Puffs."

Beep. The prostitute's cellphone, signaling the end of the appointment. "I'll finish next time," she said.

"Your skin is so nice," Frances whispered.

The prostitute tightened her embrace around Frances. The cell alarm kept buzzing, but they stayed for several long, long seconds. At last, the prostitute kissed Frances's forehead. "Can I use your bathroom to wash up?"

"Yes. I'll get your tip."

Chapter 19

"What's wrong?" Darren asked in the morning. He and Elena were on the Four Seasons bed, doing their usual post-ass-fuck cuddle.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not listening to me."

"I am."

"I asked what I should get Jan for her birthday, and you didn't answer."

"I was thinking," Elena said, although she had not heard the question. Her mind was on Frances, Frances, Frances. "Make Jan dinner. Take a bubble bath together in candlelight."

"I don't cook."

"Learn how to do one meal. Trust me."

He nuzzled her neck. Kissed her eyelids. It felt good. Of course it did. She had goose bumps. Same as with Frances.

But.

But.

No urge to flee, no urge to excuse herself to the bathroom. No urge to kiss him back, no urge to taste him, no urge to feel his fingers and tongue inside her.

Darren Kendall was not Frances Dourne. Elena would never come with him.

I need to drop her. But Elena would not. Why punish Frances for Elena's inability to keep her emotions separate, why penalize her by making her start over with a new prostitute?

"I brought grapes." Darren rolled out of bed and returned with the fruit. He fed her one, and she tasted the length of his finger.

"Juicy," she said. "I like."

He ate one from her fingers. "What's eating ya, Solan?"

"Was that pun intentional?"

"It was bad, huh?"

She teased him with another grape. "Disgustingly bad. I forgive you."

"So what's eating you?"

"Nothing."

"I never asked what I should get Jan for her birthday."

"What did you ask?"

"If you wanted grapes."

"Guess I did. They're yummy." Elena accepted several more. Darren liked snuggling after sex, as Frances apparently did. They both liked kissing her. But only Frances had expressed the desire to please her. But that's because she's single and has little experience. You're her guinea pig. Darren has years of experience.

That was what Elena had to remember. She was Frances's guinea pig, and Frances was paying her loads of money. Frances deserved her money's worth. Elena was doing her a disservice by running off to the bathroom. Elena saw three choices.

One, drop Frances.

Two, keep Frances and let Frances do her thing. Somehow find the willpower to fake, to draw back at the proper time. Right. How could she fake after last night?

Three, keep Frances but explain that--explain what? I'm in lust with you, so you can't touch me?

Okay, two choices.

Maybe there was a Bob choice. Keep Frances, let Frances do her thing, Elena would give in, have her fun while it lasted, because they would be over soon. Plenty of prostitutes had orgasms with their clients. Plenty of prostitutes were in lust with their clients. It was inevitable, they said. The trick was making it part of the fun.

*****

After Darren left, Elena used her personal cell to call her friend Cindi. Cindi had worked with her on servicing the king last year. At the time, Cindi was engaged to a former client. She and Elena had gotten along well at the king's appointment, and Cindi invited Elena to the wedding.

Interesting how sex really was a job. Elena, Cindi and another prostitute had engaged in a threesome for the king's viewing pleasure. Kissing, on the mouth, eating, all that. No protection, because that would ruin the "royal" illusion. Lots of fake orgasms that night.

Afterward, there was nothing awkward between Elena and Cindi. It was work. Elena did not feel odd attending the wedding, congratulating Cindi and her husband. Cindi's husband had no problems with her job. Supported it wholeheartedly.

"Hey, what's up?" Cindi asked.

Elena got to the point. "There's a client."

"Uh-oh. I know that tone. Your first one?"

"Cindi, I've been seeing her only about one and a half weeks."

"Pssh. Time doesn't matter. My first time, I fell right away. His name was Walter. He was fifty and had ear hair like he was a scarecrow. But his smile and laugh…I was smitten right away."

"What'd you do?"

"What you're doing. Called other people for advice. They said that what I was feeling was okay. It happens to most everyone at some point. We're not robots."

"Right." The agency had said the same thing at her orientation.

"So, I let myself go with Walter."

"What do you mean, let yourself go? Told him your name or--"

"No, but I let my guard down. I bent some of my rules. I told him things I wouldn't have otherwise. It was one of the best times of my life, but when we stopped seeing each other, I was all right. Because deep down inside, I knew it was a job. I always did, every moment with him."

"Did he like you back? Why did you two stop seeing each other?"

A chuckle. "His wife found out he was seeing a hooker. He begged me to quit and to shack up with him. Hell, no. You know it's a job too, Elena. You can let yourself go but still know you're only doing a job. Let me ask you something."

"Okay."

"This client, is it an open-ended arrangement?"

"No. Just until the end of the month, I think."

"There you go. Perfect. The situation will resolve itself. Have fun."

"Did you tell him you had feelings for him?"

"Not straight out. They know. No need to talk about it. Mark says hello, by the way."

"Hi, Mark!"

After they hung up, Elena ate the rest of Darren's grapes. She would be all right. She could let herself go, and then the time would come when Frances stopped seeing her. The issue would mend itself, and that was all there was to it.

So why did she feel so queasy?

Chapter 20

"He's funny looking," Victoria said. "His nose is a purple potato."

"Lots of old people are gross," Markie whispered so only Victoria heard.

They were in Markie's living room with her parents and five-year-old brother, watching clips from a speech last year: King Albert X addressing Congress about British-U.S. relations.

"Prince Frederick's cute," Victoria said, and Markie’s mother nodded in dreamy agreement. Frederick, heir to the throne, was the thirty-seven-year-old son of Albert's deceased younger brother.

Perhaps Markie was right that many old people were gross looking, but Victoria’s grandparents were not that bad. If her parents were Frances and Daniel, anyway. Daniel Dourne’s parents, Martha and Alan, were both broad-shouldered. They were church people. On Frances’s side. Rumor was that they even had had an informal agreement with Frances that while Marissa wouldn’t be allowed to see her father, she could visit with his parents. No wonder her dad drank.

Daniel had a twin sister, Sally. Being a twin would be cool. Victoria and Markie had found a few pictures of Sally online. Sally could be Victoria in a few decades: the stature, body shape, hair color, eye color.

Frances’s father, Francis Wellington, was still tall and strong and had a full head of white hair. Frances’s mother, Lucille, was regal and patrician. Victoria did not like what they had done to their daughter. Sent her off to camp for a year and had no contact with her. They could not be warm, loving people. Victoria could not get a handle on Nicholas, Frances’s brother. He said awful things about gays, but his eyes were kind and soft. He might be okay. Maybe not. In any case, no wonder Victoria’s mother and father turned out screwed, with parents like these. Victoria would turn out fine, though. She would make sure of it. Take care of herself.

What would her grandparents would think of her? What would her father think of her? What would Frances think of her?

She had green hair now.

She and Markie had skipped school after second period and caught a ride with a couple of senior boys to a sketchy-looking place on the outskirts of Little Rock. She and one boy, Casey, got their hair dyed. Markie and the other boy, Gabe, got mohawks. And then Gabe got busted for pot.

Her father was going to kill her. The idea had seemed good at the time. Liberating. Going along with the crowd. He would not pull her out of school, would he? Home school her again? Not over someone else’s pot and over green hair? Not when it would cut a chunk out of his drinking time.

Victoria could hope.

Markie's parents had grounded Markie for the next month. Forbidden Victoria from coming over for the foreseeable future.

For the foreseeable future!

That could be two months. The rest of the school year. Two years.

Victoria saw headlights begin at the bottom of the hill and wend their way up Markie's driveway. Good old Daddy. She needed to run up to Markie's bedroom and grab the phone since she did not know when she would be back. If she would be back. She would probably have to call from school. Her dad had a cellphone, but service around the cabin was so-so.

Maybe she would make the call now. Get it over with. I am Marissa Dourne, and please tell my mother I am okay. The phone was good to go. Markie had activated it and gotten a number with the area code 619, from San Diego.

Adrenaline jackrabbited Victoria’s heart. Yep, she would make the call right now.

From the TV, year-old applause for the king. Victoria hurried up the steps and dialed from the upstairs bathroom.

Ring.

She didn't want to be a monarch. A prison. Goldfish bowl. A better prison than the one her father constructed for her, though. Yes, definitely better. She hoped Albert X knew how lucky he was.

"Hello," a man said. His tones were warm and welcoming. "This is the Marissa Dourne hotline. Your call is being recorded."

What are you doing, Victoria Anne Cove? Someone's going to be banging on that door in a second, screaming "Victoria! Victoria! Your dad’s here!" and give away who you are. She hung up. She would call from school tomorrow.

But the school bathroom would be too loud. Probably. Girls giggling, toilets flushing. Someone might overhear her. Maybe she would wait for her dad to pass out tonight or tomorrow night, sneak out of the cabin. Walk until she got a decent signal.

Or maybe she would call from school, after all. Do it after school in the handicapped bathroom or a supply closet or something. She was smart. She would find a place.

A knock. "Your daddy’s here! Mommy’s going to talk to him." Markie’s brother.

Oh boy. I’m grounded for sure. "Be right there!" Victoria studied herself in the mirror. Offered herself a smile. When she smiled like that--had to be just right--she looked like Frances. A hell of a lot like Frances. They could be on magazine covers together. Beautiful Frances, and Victoria, not so bad looking with her green hair. Victoria pictured headlines and subheadlines.

Long-lost daughter comes back!

Reunion of the year!

"I never lost hope," Frances Dourne says, tears in her eyes, and daughter Marissa adds: "I love my mom to bits."

Victoria smiled her smile again. The Frances smile. She would be famous. Very famous, beyond her wildest dreams. Cameras trailing her everywhere, snapping pictures of her.

Maybe she would like to be a monarch after all. Just had to know how to handle the cameras. Get used to them. Arkansas was not her life, not her future, no matter if Frances was her biological mother or not.

Victoria would make the call. Soon.

*****

Felicianna gave Frances credit for one thing: Frances knew pretty buildings. Gay Is a Choice's headquarters for the past six years occupied the first two floors in a fifteen-story glass building. The building reflected other buildings and the sky, which, at the moment, was full of sun and white clouds.

Here we go. Felicianna bypassed the GIC welcome lobby on the first floor. She took the steps to the second floor and checked the display on her BlackBerry. Couple of minutes early. She found Room 201 easily. She had expected something like puke yellow paint on the walls or a vomit shade of green, shaky lighting, and cheap tables and chairs. That was how support group meetings looked on TV.

Wrong.

The room was inviting. Plush couches and chairs formed a circle, and cookies and brownies were heaped on a table. Ten people or so milled about or sat, eating their lunches or the treats. No Frances. Yet.

Felicianna had picked this specific meeting for a reason. The GIC website said that Frances liked to keep involved with what her organization was doing on the lay level. She had been busy lately with the San Francisco teen center and other matters but was resuming her support group duties today. She ran an ex-gays support group most weekdays at twelve o' clock. She was known to attend many other support groups as well.

Felicianna sank into a blue chair and opened her brown bag. Peanut butter and jelly. What am I doing? What is the point? I am overreacting. Elena does not know Frances Dourne. Felicianna told herself that was immaterial. She would get info to use in a future anti-GIC protest or something.

"Hey, everybody." Frances.

Felicianna looked up from her sandwich. People crowded around their queen, some hugging her. No denying she had a presence. She radiated power and magnetism. She had not always. She'd definitely learned how to play people, how to play the media, over the years.

A few minutes later, the meeting started. Frances surveyed the participants--fifteen by now--and her gaze lingered on a few, including Felicianna. She doesn't remember me. How can she?

"Welcome, everyone." Frances did have a nice voice. Some wolves did. "We have a few new faces, so let's--oh. Where are my manners?" A laugh, color in her cheeks. "I'm Frances Dourne."

"Hi, Frances!" From about half the group.

She continued: "I'm the moderator for this session. We are so happy you are here. Remember that what we say here is confidential. We do not criticize or judge. Please talk about what you're feeling or experiencing. Okay. We'll go around really quick. Share your name if you're comfortable doing that, and any other information you want. You probably know my background, but you're stuck listening to me for one more minute." Another laugh. "When I was seventeen, my parents--"

Felicianna tuned out. She knew the story. She surveyed Frances, her black business suit, the severe bun, the yes--yes, the friendly blue eyes. She was dangerous, that one.

A few people introduced themselves, and then the guy next to Felicianna said his name was Chris. "I'm an accountant. This is my first time here. I'm trying to decide if I should, uh, if I should go into the counseling program here. I'm not sure about financing, so…"

"Don't worry about the money, Chris," Frances said. "We'll discuss financing after the meeting. So glad you're here!"

An expectant gaze for Felicianna.

"I'm Anna," Felicianna said. "I own a store. I'm here to just, you know, I'm curious."

"Curious about what?" a woman across Felicianna asked.

Felicianna refused to tolerate this harpy brownnosing bullshit any longer. "I'm gay, and I am proud of it. This organization is a disgrace. I'm curious to see how you all put up with this shit and with that woman, that's what I'm curious about."

A chorus of heated replies at once--no criticizing, Frances Dourne saved my life, get out of here, this is a safe place, blah blah blah.

Frances rose from her chair. "Sam, will you take over?" Her friendliness was gone, her eyes steely. "Come with me, please, Anna."

*****

Frances's office was what Felicianna called a fat-cat office. Her furniture dripped money and included a love seat, art and pointless office toys such as a chrome Newton swing.

"Why did you bring me here?" Felicianna asked.

"So we could talk. Please have a seat." Frances selected the loveseat, and after a moment's hesitation, Felicianna joined her. She could reach out and rip off the hourglass necklace, if she so desired.

"I have nothing to say," Felicianna remarked.

Frances held up her hands. "All right. Answer this, then. What are your concerns? Why are you angry?"

Felicianna gaped. Her nerve! "Are you serious?"

Frances blinked, big pretend innocent blue eyes. "Let's try to avoid hostilities."

"Who gave you that necklace?"

"A friend." Smooth voice, smooth reply. Eyes still innocent.

"Let me tell you about a friend of mine. His name was Trevor. He killed himself five years ago. Because of people like you!"

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. You don’t care about Trevor. You don’t care about people. This is not the office of a sorry person. What gives you the right to tell other people what to do? What gives you the right to cherry-pick the Bible?"

"I present a choice, and--"

"It's not a choice!"

"GIC does not encourage or condone belitting and--"

Felicianna rolled her eyes. "Spare me." She got to her feet. "Get back to your group. Your sheep need you."

"Wait, Anna. You have valid points." Frances rubbed her forehead, suddenly looking weary. And old. "I'm sorry, Anna. I've hurt people, I know that. Please sit back down so we can--"

"Baaaa. I hear them bleating for you."

*****

Felicianna sat outside for a few minutes, watching the clouds move across the GIC building. Rage swirled inside her. You better not be screwing that woman, Elena. Aiding her in her hypocrisy. Or you're no friend of mine.

Chapter 21

Frances got home at four o'clock. She changed into jeans and a T-shirt. She fixed a bowl of strawberries and took the time to enjoy each bite. The piano beckoned, and she pulled up the bench. She warmed up with easy versions of Fur Elise and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Then she launched into Debussy's The Little Shepherd. One of her husband's favorite pieces, and one of hers too. She'd mastered it last year. The section marked plus mouvemente…poco animato had used to give her trouble. Now, Frances breezed through the section. Maybe she would play for the prostitute this evening. Frances had never played for anyone, save her teacher. First time for everything, right? Piano playing was like sex, in a way. Perhaps more one-sided. Because people watched you. You opened up your expressions, your body language. Sex with the prostitute was one-sided, so this piano playing would be no different.

Frances kept thinking about the visit from Anna. Frances got these visits once in a while. She had wanted to tell Anna: "You're exactly right. I'm a monster. I'm gay. I admit it."

Why hadn't she?

Why was she waiting so long to come out? So what if she had moved up her coming out from Christmas to Thanksgiving? Why didn't she come out now? Why had she not come out two weeks ago?

Maybe because deep down inside, she did not plan to come out.

Frances played The Little Shepherd again. She would come out. She would.

*****

"Were you playing the piano?" Elena asked as she followed Frances into the penthouse.

"Yep. Want me to show you how to play a simple song?"

"Sure."

"Okay. Sit."

Elena sat, brushing her leg against Frances's. She let her hand rest on Frances's knee. She would do that with any client. But this isn't any client.

Frances closed her own hand over Elena's. "I can't concentrate if…"

"Right, of course." Elena withdrew her hand. Problem solved. Except their legs still touched.

Hum hum hum. Not the piano, but Elena's pussy.

"What do you know about pianos?" Frances asked.

"They're black and white."

Frances laughed. "This will be fun. Okay, I'm going to teach you how to play a piece called Chopsticks. It's the first piece most people learn. All music has the basic notes a through g. These are the white keys on the piano. The black keys are sharps and flats, like f-sharp or b-flat. You don't use the black keys for Chopsticks."

"What's the difference between a sharp and flat?"

"Sharps have a slightly higher pitch, flats slightly lower. If you're going this way, the black keys are flats. If you're moving this way, they're called sharps." Frances demonstrated.

"I hear the difference."

"You don't need to know any of this sharps and flats stuff for Chopsticks. Think of the keyboard as a number line. The white keys are whole numbers. One, two, three, four and so on. You can think of the black keys as halves." Frances grinned. "Should I shut up and show you how to play the thing?"

"You can talk all you want. I like your voice." On impulse, Elena leaned over and kissed Frances's cheek. She let the kiss linger.

"What was that for?"

Elena shrugged and met Frances's gaze. "A thank-you. For teaching me. For your patience."

"Patience?"

"Mmm. I'm--I won't fake."

Frances blinked then focused her gaze back to the piano. "Uh. Uh." She stared at the Bechstein Baby Grand as if it was an alien object. "Is that--are you--like I said, if you're going to fake, be honest. I won't take it personally. I'd rather do other things if you’re going to fake."

"I'm not faking, Frances."

"Why?"

"You're paying me good money. You deserve your money’s worth." Elena winked. "Besides, I like you." The flirtatious wink and the I like you phrase, delivered with a sultry undertone, was how Elena let her clients know it was okay, it truly was okay, that they could kiss her.

Frances licked her lips. Shook her head. "See how the black keys are bunched into twos and threes?"

"Wow. I never noticed that."

Frances held down a white key which was to the left of a group of three black keys. "This is f." She moved her finger to the key to its right. "This is g. I'll make a diagram."

Frances drew in pencil. Her drawing showed a pattern of CDE with the pairings of the two black keys, and groups of FGAB with the three black keys.

"Got it."

Next, Frances pointed out octaves on the piano. "Chopsticks uses only one octave. Doesn't matter which one, but start with f and g. Watch." Frances moved her hands and fingers quickly, then said: "That was Chopsticks."

"That was fast."

Frances guided Elena's hands to f and g. "Six times each. Together, same pace. Then e and g six times in a row. Then…"

*****

Five minutes later, Elena had the piece down cold. She liked Chopsticks. Playful, energetic. "This is fun. Will you play something longer? What's your favorite?"

"I was playing Debussy's The Little Shepherd when you arrived. It's a moderate-advanced song."

"Play that."

Frances closed her eyes and launched into the piece.

Wow. She can play with her eyes closed? The song was elegant, but Elena did not pay much attention to the music. She did to the woman and to her fingers. Frances's fingers were long, slim and sensual. They would be good inside me. Frances did not have her glasses on, and Elena took in the featherlike lines around her eyes. Her high cheekbones, her full lips. The pleasure, the concentration in her profile.

I could kiss her. Right now. Not one of those stupid cheek kisses, but on the lips, long and tender, with their tongues meeting.

I could fall in love with her, too.

Temporarily.

The situation would resolve itself.

"I'm done," Frances said.

How long was I staring? "You were lovely."

"You look sad."

"I'm not. I just…I just…"

Frances gave a little smile. "I understand."

Yes, you probably do. "Nice roses." Elena indicated the vase on a corner table.

"I bought them two nights ago. Thought about giving them to you."

"Why didn't you?"

"Didn't feel right. No more gifts, like you said. We’re even with the clock and Marissa’s gift. I have something else for you, though. I wrote it today during a rather boring meeting. PowerPoint abuse."

Frances reached into her pocket for two pieces of yellow stationery. Blue, graceful cursive greeted Elena.

Hello:

I know we shouldn't get too personal. I know we WON’T. You said something the first night we met, though. Something that has stayed with me. You said we are alike. We act for money. We act to escape. So, if you ever want to talk, if you ever need my help, I am here. Not that you need me. You have people to talk to, I’m sure, and a trash bin stuffed with letters and dead flowers from clients. Still, there are things you might not be able to tell people. Like you said--also the first night we met--your family and friends don’t know what you do.

In summary: I'm here if you need me. You can call even after I stop coming to you. My phone number is (703) 555-4555.

I want to ask you many questions. Some you are willing to answer, I hope. What it is like being in love. (I think I was in love with Violet. She's the friend my parents caught me kissing. She's why I went to camp. She's married now. To a man. Happily. I see it in her eyes every time we meet for lunch. I was in love with her a long time ago. Too long ago for me to remember what it was like.)

I want to ask you what it is like to make love with someone you love, someone you truly care about, someone you're attracted to from the depths of your soul.

If you will celebrate my coming out with me. I doubt anyone else will. I have this vision of us the night of my coming out. We’re back at the Howard Johnson room (the media would be staking out the penthouse building). We’re eating a sheet cake from Safeway and drinking punch. Big dreams.

I wonder if I'll get a girlfriend. Never mind, I can answer that. It'll take time, but I will find someone. I'm scared that when I do, I won't know how to please her. She'll have years of experience. If you’re faking your sighs and moans and all your little noises and breaths, please don’t tell me. Ever. Not even if I ask you tomorrow or next week if you’re faking.

I want to ask you to stay with me one night. You can pick which night. Not for sex. Just to be with me, sleep with me in my bed, so I'm not alone. Just for the touch. Just to hear you breathing. Just to not feel alone.

I wonder why you have the no-kissing rule. Is it so you have a place on your body you only share with the one you love? Do you already have that special someone? I also wonder if you're afraid of catching a disease. The service is really good about testing you and us. Still, do you worry? I would like to be with you, without the condoms and the dental dams.

I wonder why and how you became a call girl. If you like it. If you'd like me if I wasn't paying you. If maybe we could have become friends.

I wonder other things too, but I won't ask any more. Just know I'm here if you want to talk. If you want, crumple this paper up. Pretend this letter never existed. Thank you for helping me.

- F83

"All right?"

Startled, Elena glanced up. The letter had shaken her so much she had lost track of time. Of her surroundings.

"I overstepped, didn't I?"

Maybe Frances had, but her letter filled Elena with--with what? Excitement? Mush? Cheesiness? This was the sweetest letter Elena had received in her life. "You--no. You're very sweet. The letter is sweet. Thank you."

Frances went to a window, and Elena wrestled with herself. What was the worst that could happen if she opened herself up, answered some of Frances’s questions?

Remember, it's temporary.

"Your letter has a lot of questions."

"I'm new at this, what can I say."

"A few of your questions--yeah, I can answer them."

A broad, genuine grin. "Good. I’m glad."

"You sure you want me to stay with you one night? It’s going to cost a small fortune."

"I can afford you." Frances paused. "Will you get in bed with me now? Just for a bit."

"Of course."

In the bedroom, Elena stripped naked, and Frances followed her lead. They got into bed, and Elena tried to relax. Go on the offensive.

"You will get a girlfriend." Elena sealed kisses into Frances’s palms. "You will. Don't worry about your inexperience. If it's right, then it's right."

"What's being in love like?"

"Funny question. I’m not the one to ask. I haven’t been in love. I've had a few relationships. Some unrequited loves. But to be in love with someone who loves me back, too--I'm not sure. I don’t know."

"You haven't been in love with someone who loves you back?"

"No." Elena forced a laugh. "It happens."

"Think you will one day?"

"Yes. And you will, too."

"You look sad again. I want to make you smile. I love your smile."

Elena could not help but grin.

"Ah. And I have just made you smile, so it's been a good evening."

"For someone who's supposed to be new at this, you're good."

Frances took her hand, kissed it all over, kissed the fingers individually. Kissed Elena's breasts, kissed her pussy. Nestled into her arms.

Frances deserved more pleasure. Elena did, too. She had sacrificed herself for Isaiah, because he was her son, she was his mother. No doubt she had missed out on many, many kisses. Many lovemaking sessions. Was granting herself one small, temporary pleasure so wrong? "You can kiss me tonight. Just tonight, period. My coming-out gift to you. You can kiss me for ten minutes."

Elena was not sure what reaction she had expected--something positive, at least. Not this. Frances stared at her. Horrified.

"No," Frances said. "Not like this. Not because you’re feeling sorry for me after my pathetic letter."

"I’m offering because it’s a good coming-out gift and because you understand it means nothing more than that."

"I’m going to be bad."

"Then I’ll help you. We have ten minutes. That’s plenty of time to get instruction in."

"No."

"One-time offer. You won't get it again. It's really just for tonight. Ten minutes." Elena was not sure who she was trying to persuade more, herself or Frances. They had a good thing going. A nice balance. Why ruin it?

Elena could practically see Frances’s mind vacillate. Yes, no, yes, no, but…

"Kiss me," Elena said. "Please."

"You’ll regret it tomorrow."

"It’s not like I’m telling you my name. Or my address or my fantasies. Sometimes, kissing is kissing. A gift is a gift. No different than a clock."

Something shifted in Frances--a slight hardness appeared in her eyes, maybe. "Ten minutes," she said.

Elena set her phone alarm for eleven minutes later. She brought her lips to one corner of Frances’s mouth, and then to the other corner. Frances was the one to join their lips, uncertainly. Enough for Elena to have a burning desire, an aching need, for a deeper connection. Enough for the pit of her stomach to swirl wildly.

Elena cupped Frances's cheeks with her hands, savoring their kiss. Deepening their kiss.

Elena's body roared to life.

Yep.

She had screwed up.

What the hell had she been thinking? Okay, so Frances had worn down Elena's defenses with that sweet letter. But--

Frances was hungry now. Her lips were hard, searching, and Elena responded, pushing her newfound anger from herself onto Frances, in a punishing kiss.

Frances groaned and shuddered, her hips meeting Elena’s. Elena figured she might as well let everything go to the crapper since she was angry enough, was far in enough already.

Years. Years since she’d had true sex. Not that this was true sex, but it would be the closest she’d get. She deserved it. Ten minutes. Ten nothing minutes. Back to the usual after. They would play Monopoly. Elena would insist.

Yes, she knew Cindi had not meant this. This was not bending the rules. This was bidding the rules adieu, have a great trip, see ya soon! Drive safely!

They did not need protection. Frances was the next thing to a nun. No one, other than Elena, had been inside Frances for three years. Elena did not allow penetration. She was squeaky clean.

You can't become careless. Get the finger condoms.

Elena guided Frances inside her, one finger, then two, then three, and Frances gasped a: "You feel so good, you're so wet."

"Do that thing with your thumb."

Frances knew what Elena meant. She found the tempo that bound Elena to her, and Elena came, too soon, without the pleasure and anticipation of build-up. Elena refused herself another orgasm, a better one, instead devouring Frances's mouth, tasting strawberries. And tongue, a very nice, excited tongue.

Beep.

Time was up.

Shit. Shit! She should have set the alarm for fifteen minutes. Or twenty. Or for five hours. She shut the damn thing off. Why hadn’t she done what she did with other clients? Once she said they could kiss her, they could--any time. They were not limited to a silly ten-minute period. You know why. Frances is different.

"Nothing happened," Frances said.

Elena kissed her one last time--quickly, but with longing. For an excellent tip. To convey to Frances she had done great, she was an incredible kisser, any woman would be lucky to have her. Elena rolled out of bed. The gray cells of her mind swirled with confusion. So I’m allowing Frances to pleasure me, to make me come, but not to kiss me? What’s the…

Elena sighed. It worked for her, in her gut, although it failed on a logical level. Ah, whatever. As long as her heart was okay with the arrangement. Good thing she and Frances were excellent pretenders. "Monopoly?" Elena asked.

Chapter 22

The phone jerked Frances out of her sleep. The Marissa phone. One a.m. The prostitute was long gone. Frances had released her at ten, an hour early.

One a.m.

The time meant the news was significant, not an alleged sighting or two. Marissa was back, or she was dead. Dead. Found. Back. Hi, Mommy! Long time no see. Dead.

Frances let the phone ring nine times, and then she answered. Wished she could be in the comforting cocoon of the prostitute’s arms instead.

"Hi, Jimmy."

The FBI agent’s voice held a tremble of excitement. Happened at three-thirty p.m., we think it’s genuine, we really do, there’s something about it, we’ve been looking into it all night, thought you’d want to know now rather than in the morning, it’s no hoax, we’re analyzing the hell out of the thing, now listen...

Jimmy had a tape. Frances listened for a minute stretching into another minute. Asked Jimmy again and again to play it, play it, play it. Another minute lengthened into five amid more "agains" and more playings.

The voice of a girl filled Frances’s ear. Scared girl, tones shaky in places. She spoke with a southern twang sometimes. Other times, most of the time, she spoke slowly, deliberately, mechanically. Like she had set out to disguise her voice.

"Hello. Hello," the girl said. "I have a lot to say, and I have to go really soon, so please do not interrupt. If you interrupt, I will hang up. Okay." Deep breath. "I am Marissa Dourne. I think I am. I'm calling to ask you to please tell my mother I'm okay. I'm okay, but…maybe someday I can see her. I’d like to meet her. Not now. I'm not called Marissa anymore, but she probably figured that out. I can't say where I live because I don't want my dad to go to jail. But tell her. Tell my mother I'm okay. I like to look at pictures and videos of her online. She's beautiful. I'm not, not so much. I'm boring-looking. Well, until I got my hair--uh. I read in her book that she doesn’t like ketchup on hamburgers. I'm the same way. You'll tell her, won't you? No ketchup on hamburgers. Maybe someday she and I can go to eat and get hamburgers without ketchup. Maybe when I am eighteen. Tell my mother I'm okay. I have to go, time's up. I don't want this call to be traced. Tell my mother I'm okay, please. And that I--I’d really like to meet her someday. I think I remember her in one of my dreams. We are outside, looking at the moon, and we are cold. She is crying, and her crying makes me cry."

Click.

Jimmy let her listen who knew how many times, and then asked, with a certain delicacy: "Frances? Is it Marissa?"

He did not have to ask. He knew damn well her account of her last time with her daughter, an account never made public. Marissa’s thin pink sleeping gown, Frances taking her outside so they could try to see Venus among the city and light pollution. Frances’s crying because she was wholly responsible for the girl, she refused to let Daniel have anything to do with her, he had not seen her for two months, and Frances did not know how to be her mother. Did not like being her mother, because Marissa was demanding and hungry all the time, and because of the way Marissa looked at her with love in her big brown eyes. A love Frances did not deserve.

Marissa started crying and wailing, and her face was red and purple, and then Marissa was wheezing and gasping, and Frances was crying harder too.

Both their crying was intolerable.

She called Daniel at two oh-seven a.m., telling him to come get his daughter, to promise to have her back by noon for her birthday party, and she would let him stay for the party, too.

Frances did not kiss or hug her child goodbye.

Had she known what she was doing, had she known she was giving her daughter away?

Of course not. She could not have.

She almost told Jimmy no, she’s not Marissa.

"Yes, Jimmy," Frances said, hating that her voice was robotic--she was a person, damn it, she was a person!--"Yes, Jimmy, you know it’s Marissa."

*****

Jimmy said he would email her the recording, but that she would have to keep it to herself. The FBI did not plan to release the whole tape. They needed to keep parts secret to verify the authenticity of people who might claim to have made the call.

Frances pretended the prostitute was with her. Kissing her neck, her lips. She checked her email; the tape had arrived. She set a meeting with Jimmy for eight a.m., hung up in the middle of a sentence from him, turned the Marissa phone off, and played the tape again.

She got back into bed. Why am I not feeling anything? Why was she so damn numb? Shock? The resilience, the belief, the faith in the girl’s voice? Her desire to reassure Frances she was okay?

Maybe someday she and I can go to eat and get hamburgers without ketchup. Maybe when I am eighteen.

Frances would be a huge disappointment to her daughter. This daughter who had reached out to her, to a mother who, as far as the child knew, was still homophobic and closed-minded.

Frances closed her eyes. She had long ago forgotten Marissa’s voice. Obviously, a fourteen-year-old’s voice was not the same as a two-year-old’s, but now little Marissa’s voice wedged itself in her mind. Her giggles. Mommy! Look me, look me! How could she have forgotten what her daughter sounded like?

Mommy, look me! Mommy, look dog! Mommy, look duck! Mommy, look Daddy here!

She was still numb, but she dialed a number. The prostitute's work phone, directly for the first time. No going through the booking agent.

No, no.

Frances canceled the call before the prostitute’s line rang. Shame burned inside her. At how much she liked the prostitute. I won’t end up like Randy. I will make sure of it. Randy had been going through bankruptcy when he applied to GIC for its counseling program and for financial assistance. He’d spent his and Nora’s savings on money for Joseph. Mortgaged their house. Opened up credit card accounts in Nora’s name without her knowledge.

This was how addictions started, wasn’t it? How people went from having too much money to none.

Mommy! Gleeful shrieks. Love ya, Mommy, love ya! Frances took a deep breath. Anything to get little Marissa out of her mind. You’re fine. You’re fine.

Frances asked herself WWTPS? What would the prostitute say? We all pay our friends. We all pay to get friends in some way or another. Maybe not always in money, but we invest time, we present different sides to ourselves, we give up part of ourselves or…don’t be embarrassed or ashamed. Please. A phone call. Seeing me most every day. That’s nothing. Doesn’t mean you’re bad or weak. I’ve been involved with worse. Much worse. You’re fine. You’ll be done with me soon, so enjoy me while you can.

Frances dialed again, and the prostitute answered on the third ring. "Hello?" Her voice held no trace of sleepiness.

Was the voice on the tape actually her daughter? Had she heard Marissa for the first time in eleven years? If she tried hard enough, she could rationalize away the girl’s dream.

But, no. She was trying to be a new Frances Dourne.

Frances shook herself into action and filled the prostitute in on the call. Played the tape for her. "It's Marissa. Has to be."

"I’ll be right over," the prostitute said.

"No, no. Just talk to me on the phone. I should call Nicholas. He'll come over if he's in town."

"I will be there in twenty minutes."

"You can’t. I don’t have enough money here."

"Hang tight. I will be right there." The prostitute hung up.

*****

Elena took Frances in her arms and kissed her outside the corner of her mouth. Just enough outside so that she was not violating her own rule. Again.

Frances was deadened and unseeing. Most likely had no idea Elena kissed her. "So it’s Marissa. You're sure?" Elena asked.

Frances was pale. "You shouldn’t have come. You’ll get in trouble."

"I won’t get in trouble."

"I have to call Nicholas."

"Call him. I could stay if he comes. I’ll listen to the tape all night with you and him."

"I don’t have enough money here," Frances repeated.

"I won't put this meeting on the calendar."

Frances wrung her hands together. "What if she comes forward? What do I do with her? Why did she call? She's not supposed to like me. What if she likes hair and fashion and makeup? What if I can’t keep Daniel from going to jail, and she moves in with me? What if she hates me? I can’t be a mom. I never was. I’m not cut out to be a mom. I’m not--I’m not--the first time I held her in the hospital, panic suffocated my throat. My whole body. I knew right then I couldn’t be her mom. Daniel would be great. He’d be mom and dad. You see who I am? See what kind of monster I am? I didn’t want my own daughter, but I kept her from her true parent. Because he had the courage to come out as gay. Of course he took her. Of course he fucking took her! I admire him, I admire him every fucking day of my life. Oh, God. Why did she have to call? She screwed her life up."

"You will be a great mom, Frances. You give your kid a chance, she’ll give you a chance. That’s all she wants." Frances would be fine as a mother. The passion in her words said as much. She loved her daughter, and that love scared her to death.

"But why did she call?"

"Because she wants her mother. She doesn't care if you're--" Elena gestured vaguely. "She sees something in you. The goodness in you."

Frances swallowed. "I’m calling Nicholas. I have to."

In other words, hello and goodbye, whatever your name is. You’re unwelcome. You’re not my lover, you never were. You’re a hooker. But that was how it should be. "Does he know you’re scared of Marissa? Scared to be her mother?"

Something stark and vivid glittered in Frances’s eyes. "Of course he doesn’t! You better go. I told you not to come. I told you I didn’t have enough money here!"

Elena held her hands up. "Fine, fine. I’ll leave."

Frances slumped. "When your kidnapped daughter calls, you call your family. You don’t hole up with a prostitute."

"You could hole up with her for one hour then call your family."

Frances gave a little smile. A laugh. Some light appeared in her eyes, some color in her cheeks. "Do you regret what we did earlier?"

"No." And Elena did not. She felt better, actually. Getting the agony out of her system. She was on an even keel again. That did not mean her feelings for Frances had gone away. The opposite. She had rushed to Frances's side, after all.

But Elena did not feel like she was "hiding" anymore, per se. "No, I don't regret it, but it can’t happen again."

"Oh, I know. I was just hoping you didn't regret it. I don't."

"Want to get in bed?"

*****

Neither of them undressed before getting under the covers. Elena noticed that Frances took her right into her arms, protecting her, as if Elena was the one who called. Elena sank into the embrace, resting her head on Frances's breasts. This was exactly what she needed.

"Where would you be now? Ideally?" Frances asked.

With Isaiah. He would be alive.

"I've always wanted to fly," Elena said. "Like Superman."

"That would be nice."

"I'd be flying over Washington. Or New York City. London. Paris. Rome. I would've gotten here a lot faster. Instead of fumbling with my keys and dropping them twice, finding an approved parking place here, and--"

"Hope you're bundled up for flying."

Elena laughed. "Maybe you're with me to keep me warm."

Frances slipped her hands up Elena's shirt. She undid the hooks on Elena's bra and caressed her back. "You're a tease."

So are you. Depending on what Frances did with her hands, Elena could very well envision a repeat of earlier.

No. Won't happen. Make sure it doesn't.

"We'd fly over the monument first," Elena said.

"And then we'd see the octopus."

"What?"

"Don't you see it? It's glowing green, looks like a whale threw it up or something. It's scaling the monument."

"Radiation got to it, huh? It's leaving green goo all over the place."

They were silent a few moments, and Elena caught herself falling asleep. "Time for me to go. You call Nicholas."

"No sense waking him up when it can wait a few more hours. I'll call him at six."

"I should go anyway. Or I could stay. If you want."

Frances tightened her grip around Elena. "I appreciate it. I'll pay you next time."

"Whatever you like, Frances," Elena mumbled. If she protested, Frances would argue and pay her anyway. Or insist she leave right now.

Chapter 23

Elena had to escape, and it was not even noon. She had tried napping but was wide awake. The walls closed in on her, but then they would close in on her wherever she was. So--she would go outside. No walls, and she had a park in mind. She dressed in layers; the temperature barely topped thirty-five degrees. "I’m going out, Ma."

Brenda did not look up. "Stay warm, dear." Brenda had been glued to the story all morning. Elena, not so much. She could not bear to watch the videos of little, pink-tutued Marissa playing and prancing with her father, Marissa playing horsie with Daniel, riding on his back, the pictures of a younger Frances grinning with her daughter and her husband. Elena could not bear to watch Frances during her press conference and on the morning shows, Frances pleading for her daughter’s return. The fear that radiated from Frances was not the fear that Marissa would never be found--but that she would be.

Frances pleaded more along the lines of her first speech, not the second. She did not acknowledge that perhaps the child was better off with her father, and Elena wanted to reach through the screen and ask Why? Why? Because then Marissa was more likely to never return? Frances, you’re better than that. Come on! You love her. You will never forgive yourself if you had a chance to get her back but did not take full advantage of it.

Frances admitting that perhaps she was not the best parent for the girl would blacken her name, for sure. It would apparently have to wait until she came out and confessed two so-called "evils" at once.

Elena could not bear to listen when leading gay activists blasted Frances and urged Daniel to keep his child close to him. They urged Marissa to stay away from her mother, from her corrupted ways. Didn’t these people realize they were coming off as caricatures? Didn’t they realize the world was not black and white? That the world was fourteen-year-old gray, that a girl out there wanted her mother and did not care if her mother was Republican or Democrat, gay or straight?

Elena told herself she would have let Isaiah live with his father. For a bit, anyway. Until Isaiah saw how unfit Kevin was.

Nicholas had been on TV with Frances during her press conference and for most of the morning. Elena imagined herself on TV with them, too. Felt the heat of the lights and the cameras. Imagined herself holding Frances’s hand, imagined herself saying the words, too: "Marissa, please call again."

Elena’s brain said it did not feel right, but her heart said something else.

Thirty minutes ago, in Denver, Colorado, Daniel Dourne’s twin sister, Sally, had done her part. She beseeched the girl to contact the hotline again. "We are your family, Marissa. That means we are your father’s family too. Your mother is right. We’ll work together to keep your dad out of jail."

The media lapped it up.

Elena had scribbled her personal cell number on a business card of Frances’s before she left the penthouse. If there were updates on Marissa, she wanted to know. Once she was in her car, Elena had changed her voice mail greeting to delete her name. Frances had called at ten a.m. Elena had information Brenda and millions of other attentive viewers did not. Not yet, anyway. Technicians were isolating the tape for background noise, but so far nothing was coming out of that. The phone company said it had the phone number, the phone was a cell, and it had been disabled. The number had a San Diego area code, but the FBI said San Diego probably was not where the girl was. When people activated prepaid phones, they could request a number for any area code. However, the San Diego police and FBI office were doing some discreet checking around.

Other people were working on the girl's voice, her speech patterns, hoping to narrow down a region where she spent most of her time. Even if she did not live in that region anymore, maybe people there remembered her.

The girl’s words played again and again throughout the morning. If you recognize this voice, please call. The FBI had not released the entire tape, however. The agency wanted to keep secret the part about the girl’s so-called dream. During Frances’s press conference, FBI agent Jimmy Haller said the FBI was almost certain the girl was Marissa, based on information elsewhere in the recording. The part the FBI released was in what they believed was entirely her natural voice: She's beautiful. I'm not, not so much. I'm boring-looking. Well, until I got my hair--uh. I read in her book that she doesn’t like ketchup on hamburgers. I'm the same way. You'll tell her, won't you? No ketchup on hamburgers. Maybe someday she and I can go to eat and get hamburgers without ketchup.

Elena grabbed her keys.

"Elena, dear?"

"Yeah?"

Brenda's gaze held a keenness. "Is Felicianna okay?"

"As far as I know. Why?"

"Didn't you go to her last night?"

"No. Someone else. No one you know."

Brenda bit her lip and looked back to the TV. She would not pursue the matter further. She was discreet and allowed Elena her own life.

Except Brenda asked another question. "Are you seeing someone?"

"Seeing someone?" Elena echoed stupidly.

"Dating someone."

"No."

Brenda nodded slowly. "You don't tell me a lot of things. I accept that. I understand. But I'd like to know if you were seeing someone. It would make me happy if you're happy."

"Where is this coming from?"

"I worry about you. More than you know. My daughter gets a phone call and goes out at two or three in the morning. And not for the first time."

"See you later, Ma."

"Think it's her? Marissa?"

"The FBI says she probably is."

"Poor child. Marissa or not, they need to find that girl. You hear her voice? She’s lonely. She’s scared."

So is her mother.

*****

Frances called the prostitute--her work cell--at two o’clock. Got voice mail. Did that mean the prostitute was with a client? Frances felt no stirrings of jealousy and was relieved. But sadness tinged her, real life intruding on the dream world she was concocting for the two of them. We’re not lovers, never will be. But Frances was all right. She called the booking agent and scheduled a six o’clock at the Howard Johnson that night. Not at the penthouse, no way. Media circus.

The agent made her smile. "Good luck with your daughter," the woman whispered.

Frances’s throat hurt, and by the time she left to meet the prostitute, her voice was going. She had no idea how she had gotten through the day.

That was a lie.

She knew how. By pretending the prostitute was with her. By replaying their kisses, her own fingers inside the prostitute’s wetness, the trueness of the prostitute’s orgasm.

The prostitute had the board game Battleship set up when Frances arrived. No, no, no. Frances wanted to strip naked, crawl into bed and not think.

But she sat at the table.

"Been a long day for you," the prostitute said. "I thought Battleship would be good. Won't tax your brain too much."

Frances rubbed her throat. "Can’t talk much."

"Want a massage?"

"That would be nice. In a few minutes." Frances closed her eyes. Mommy! Me fly. Look bird! Shining brown eyes. "Have a good day?" Frances asked, keeping her eyes closed.

"I drove to Fort Scott Park in Arlington. I walked and looked around. Have you been there?"

Frances poked her eyes open. "No."

"In the back seat of a car at that park was the first time I had sex with a guy. The last time too, until I got this job. I had sex with him to make sure I was gay. I was eighteen and stupid. You don’t need to have sex to know you’re gay. Or that you’re not gay."

"That’s true." Where was the prostitute going with this?

"Fort Scott looks like a good place to spread ashes. Fitting place. I’m going to be cremated when I die."

"You won’t die for a long time."

The prostitute managed a wan smile. "Let's hope not."

Frances got up. She tugged the prostitute to the bed and outlined the tips of her breasts through her shirt and bra. The prostitute’s nipples responded. So did her breathing. Frances almost said: I wish I could help you. She did not dare verbalize her thought. She did not want to scare the prostitute away. "I’m glad to see you again," Frances said. "You’re keeping me sane."

"Mmm."

Frances kissed the prostitute's neck. They began to make love.

No penetration for either of them. Or kissing on the lips. Never the mouth again.

*****

"Good day?" Timothy asked.

"I got an A on my algebra test," Victoria replied. And Markie promised me the phone’s taken care of.

He patted her leg. "That’s my girl." The drive home was slow. They were stuck behind a wheezing truck. Her dad had not been drinking. He was alert, his clothes clean. "I tidied up today," he said. "Threw out all the bottles."

He had picked her up on time, too. Oddly, he had not been mad yesterday about her hair. He took a picture of it. "You'll look back on this and cringe," he said with a wink. He had grilled her about the pot but seemed to believe her when she said she had not known about it.

The wheezing truck turned off the road, and ten minutes later, Victoria followed her father inside their cabin.

"I taped some things earlier," he said. Casually. "On the TV."

"Oh."

"Let’s see." He pressed play. The TV/VCR combination was decent. Old, but decent.

Victoria saw little Marissa in a pink tutu. Little Marissa shrieking on her father’s back.

"She's beautiful. I'm not, not so much." Victoria’s own voice played with the images.

Her heart froze. Oh my God. He was going to kill her. "Daddy," she said, anxious to explain before he hurt her.

He stared at the TV as if he were seeing the images for the first time. He stared at Frances Dourne, his maybe-wife, staring back at him.

He didn’t seem angry at the sight of her. Sad, more than anything. Beaten down.

Don’t panic, Vic, she told herself. She had not thought through the ramifications of her call. "Daddy. I didn't--I didn't mean--I didn't think it would get this far."

"What did you think would happen?"

"I don't know," she said miserably. "I wanted to tell her I was okay."

"She's not your mother. You're disrupting her life for nothing."

"I wish she were my mother."

He drooped. "I’m stopping drinking. No more. I promise. I'm sorry I haven't done right by you. It's the alcohol. I'm stopping."

It's not the alcohol. You were worse before the alcohol! I never had freedom, but when you pass out now, I’m free.

"Come on," he said. "Let's finish cleaning this place up then we'll get ourselves dinner in Little Rock. What do you say? No ketchup on our hamburgers."

"Okay."

Timothy pulled Victoria in for a bear hug. "Don't say you're not beautiful. You're beautiful."

"I'm plain." But the green hair helps. A lot.

He kept his arms around her. "You're not plain, Vic."

"I want to look like Frances."

"Your mother was a late bloomer," Timothy said. "You probably will be, too."

"Frances was a late bloomer. I read it in her memoir."

"Was she? That’s interesting."

*****

They had dinner near the Capitol. Timothy talked about Susan, the woman he claimed was Victoria’s mother. He had not much discussed her before, saying it hurt too much. Now his words stang her, hurt her, because he sounded like he was telling the truth. "She used to paint butterflies. Not that she was good. Oh, I’d tell her she was. But she wasn’t." He sipped from his water. "Tell you something, Vic. I loved your mother. As a man loves a woman. Only woman I’ve loved in that way, only woman I’ll ever love in that way. When she died…" Tears welled in his eyes. "Please don’t betray the memory of your mother like this. Not by replacing her with Frances Dourne."

"Oh," she said weakly. My mother is dead. I’m nobody.

After dinner, he drove to a police station. Told her to get out, if she wanted. To go in, tell the cops she was the one who made the call.

"I’m not stopping you," he said. "You’re not my prisoner. Absolutely not." His voice was confident, but fear lurked in his eyes.

She got out of the truck. He’s bluffing. She walked to the front door of the police station. Brought her hand to the handle, felt its metallic coolness. She returned to the truck, to the driver’s side. Timothy opened his door, and she said: "I just want to know, Daddy. I don’t want to live with her or anything. You did the right thing. I just want to know. Is she my mother?"

"No," he said, and she got back in. If Frances was not her mother, Victoria did not want to know.

Hope was everything.

*****

Elena arched her back, her hips and her need rising to meet Frances’s tongue. She forgot they were using a dental dam. Forgot about Marissa, about ten-minute limits, about fake orgasms. Frances’s tongue was warm, gentle, and demanding. Masterful, too.

They needed each other. Nothing wrong with coming together. Elena turned her brain off and surrendered to Frances.

*****

An hour later, Elena rolled out of bed. "I can't believe it's already time for you to go," Frances said.

I wish I didn’t have to go.

"Tonight?" Frances asked. "Stay here tonight with me, all night? Like in my letter. If that suits."

Elena pulled her hair in a ponytail. The walls felt claustrophobic again, and she wished for her mother’s acid reflux yammering. "I should call the service. What time should I leave in the morning?"

"Maybe six o'clock? I can’t sleep in. Marissa stuff."

Elena nodded briskly, professional again. "I hate to do this. I really do. But it's policy. Do you have the money already? Hold on." She opened the calculator on her phone. "You haven't paid for tonight yet, so that's four thousand and five hundred dollars--from six p.m. to six a.m."

"I have three thousand."

Elena did mental calculations. "I'll have to leave at two a.m."

"I'll take that."

"I would stay until six. Really, I would. But the service uses drivers to keep tabs on our hours, and--"

"No need to explain anything. You deserve to get paid for the work you put in. I'll give you your tip next time, when I have more cash."

Elena was glad Frances averted her gaze. They were above this. Money discussions. Haggling. Whatever. Three thousand dollars would sustain a family for a couple of months, maybe more. Here Frances was, blowing it in less than half a day. On a call girl.

Elena pretended to make her call. "I can’t," she said when she returned to Frances. "I have a new booking. A VIP, very VIP. It can't be reassigned."

The lines around Frances’s eyes tightened. Maybe she sensed the lie, or maybe it was reality setting in. That she was only a client.

A client Elena didn’t think she could stay the night with, because then she would kiss Frances again. For much longer than ten minutes.

"I'm sorry," Elena said.

"Don't be. I'm not a porcelain doll." Frances chuckled. "There are other nights."

"Yeah. Yeah." Elena bit her lip. "Uh. Anyway. Well."

"Well," Frances said. She smiled. Not understanding.

Elena waited.

"Oh, crap." Frances jumped out of bed. "The money. Right." She handed over an envelope. "That's the entire three thousand. Have a good evening. See you later."

"Three thousand?"

"For last night," Frances explained. "Rather, for this morning. At the penthouse."

Elena sighed. "Right." She ran her finger over the envelope. Frances's envelopes were heavy. Fancy. "I don't want money for this morning."

"Take it."

"The meeting didn't go on the calendar, so the service doesn't--"

"More money for you to keep."

"Okay, okay." Elena offered a smile. "Bye, Frances." Elena reached in to hug the other woman. Ended up kissing her, a split-second brush on the mouth. "You're great in bed," Elena said. "I promise."

Chapter 24

Brenda was reading the Sports section when Elena got home. "Hey, Ma." Elena flopped into the chair opposite the couch.

"Good party?"

"Ordinary. Boring. I was glad to get out of there." Why did I kiss Frances on the mouth again? So what if the kiss was a fleeting nothing? A mouth kiss was a mouth kiss, and completely unprofessional.

"Felicianna loves you."

Elena raised her gaze to her mother's. "I know."

"You don't feel the same."

"No. Wish I did."

Brenda picked up the front page of the newspaper. "You should start seeing someone. Start dating."

"I will."

Brenda nodded. "Good. You have a big heart, dear. So much love to give."

Elena settled deeper into the chair. "All the more love for you if I'm not dating anyone."

Brenda laughed. "Do you want to see the personals?"

"Nah. Hey, uh, is there news on Marissa Dourne?" Elena knew there were no updates, but she needed to talk about Frances.

"I don't believe so. That poor girl."

"What do you think about Frances Dourne?"

Brenda folded the newspaper and laid it at her side. She arranged her hands in her lap. Brenda was the type of person who chose her replies deliberately. She tried to think and say the best about people. Kevin, for example. "Frances Dourne is a beautiful and striking woman, or would be, if she did not dress like she was my age."

"Yes."

"She loves her daughter, that's obvious."

"Mmm."

"I don't like her," Brenda said. "I never have. She's a bad Christian. I don't like her presuming to represent us. She's ignorant and misguided."

Elena's chest was heavy. "Okay."

"What do you think, dear?"

"Yeah. Same," Elena mumbled.

"Did this morning remind you of Isaiah?"

"Sort of. Remember I went out about noon? I went to Fort Scott Park. I want to spread the sand there. I'm thinking tomorrow. Do you want to come?"

"Ask Isaiah's father. If he can't go, I will."

Elena crossed to her mother, sat, and covered her hand. "I love you."

"I dreamed about Isaiah last night," Brenda said softly.

"Yeah?"

"The dream made no sense. He was a baby, and we lived in a mansion. There were ducks all around. You know how dreams are."

Elena felt tears coming, hard and fast. She wiped furiously, but to no avail. "I'm sorry," she muttered.

Brenda wrapped her arms around Elena. "Don't be."

"I want Frances to have a happy ending. Is that awful of me? I think she's changing."

Brenda tightened her hold on Elena. "I hope she is, dear. But I'm afraid people like her never change."

*****

"Good bye, Isaiah," Elena murmured the next morning. She was back at the park, where, in Kevin's car on a midnight summer many years ago, Isaiah was conceived.

Kevin's car pulled into the parking lot. Not the same car as before, of course. Same color, though. Cherry red. He got out, threw her a grin. Pecked her on the cheek. She could not wait to be rid of him. After they spread the sand, she would never need to see him again.

They seemed to be the only visitors, thanks to the biting wind. Good. Elena did not want people around when she was saying goodbye to her child. The park looked different than it had when she was in high school. More modern, more colorful, inviting. It had been remodeled in 2005.

Kevin studied the Fort Scott historical marker. "Historical Site, Defenses of Washington, 1861-1865" it began. It went on to say that Fort Scott was named for General Winfield Scott and was built to guard the south flank of the defenses of Washington. Elena liked that. Like the fort would protect Isaiah. She also liked the idea that children and laughter and life would surround his remains.

Kevin took her in his arms, and she wished he was Frances.

"You would have been a good father."

"You were a good mother. It could have happened to anyone. He would want you to live your life."

She cleared her throat. Not going to cry. "Do you want another child someday?"

"Yeah. Do you?"

"I do." For a strange, absurd moment, Elena iamgined asking Kevin to climb into the back seat of his car again and help her make another child. Wouldn’t work, anyway, because of the birth control.

"Where do you want to go?" Kevin asked.

"A path shows the remnants of the fort. There would be nice."

They joined hands for the walk to the path, and Kevin carried the urn in his other hand. The wind slashed at Elena’s cheeks. A welcome pain.

Goodbye, Isaiah.

Elena wished she could upright his hourglass and start his life again. This time the sand would fall slow and steady. He would outlive her.

I want you here, Frances. This doesn't feel right without you.

"I love you," Kevin said.

"Okay."

"Isaiah, uh, he told me I ought to ask you on a date. Do right by you and marry you."

Elena sighed. "So that’s what this has been about." You telling me you love me, that claptrap.

Kevin swallowed. Looked at her with earnest eyes. "I don’t have a ring, but will you marry me, Elena?"

"Kevin. Kevin, sweetie." She gave him a fierce hug. "We’re going to move on with our lives. You will meet someone and have your new kids. Do right by her and them. Love them the best you can. That's how you should honor our son."

Kevin's gaze turned hurt, then took on a menacing glimmer. "Isaiah would be ashamed of you. His mom a whore."

A fury Elena had never experienced welled inside her. "You love me. I believe it. But you hate me, too. More than you love me. You said at the hospital it wasn't my fault and that you didn't blame me. Obviously you do. I killed your son. Come on. Say that! Say that instead of calling me a whore!"

Kevin removed the lid from the urn. "Fine," he whispered. "You killed him. But I do love you, Elena. I do. I know you're not a whore, and I'm sorry I said that."

Chapter 25

That afternoon, Darren greeted Elena with a grin. "Hey, stud," she said, but she was not feeling the levity.

"Solan. Hey." He had made a habit of loosening his tie right away and tossing it over the back of a chair, but he kept his tie on. Continued standing.

She was on the bed. She wore a baby blue, semi-see through negligee. New for him. She'd needed to buy something to get her mind off the sand dump.

He cleared his throat. "I won't be seeing you again. Today's my last day."

She sat up, alert. "Why?"

A sheepish grin. "Couple of reasons. The practical one is that I can't afford you anymore. The other reason is Jan."

Ah. "Jan found out."

Darren tugged at his tie. "No, actually."

Guilt, then. You do love her. Respect her. You want to tell her about your day.

He wandered to the window and drew the curtains apart. Looked out for a second, and then fixed her with an intense gaze. "There's no Jan. Never was."

"No Jan?"

"No Jan. I'm single. I've been single for four years. Jan is my grandmother's name, God rest her soul."

I picked the name of a client's grandmother. Elena pictured dentures and cataracts. Nice, Elena. Real nice. You’re someone's grandma.

"I made the story up that I have a fiancee."

"I gathered."

He turned back to the window. The sky was a cloudless, brilliant blue. Like Frances's eyes. "You're one of the good people, Elena."

"Thank you."

Wait.

Elena?

Her chest squeezed.

"Kevin told me about the ashes. I'm sorry about Isaiah. Real sorry, Elena. I can't imagine how--hell, I couldn't--I wouldn't--damn. I don't have kids, but I have a nephew. If something happened to him…to have your kid drown when you're right there and…"

Elena stared, her heart pounding furiously. Darren stood unmoving, his profile sharp and white against the sky. Darren is how Kevin knows.

"You're one of the good people, Elena," Darren repeated. He jammed his hands into his pockets. "Once you've had time to think about things, give me a call. We have something, Elena. I know we do. I can't lie to you anymore."

"Kevin hired you."

He nodded. "Kevin and Felicianna, yeah."

Felicianna? Elena wanted to laugh. Felicianna? Oh, Christ.

"They were worried about you. Your odd hours, the calls. You wouldn't tell them anything."

She supposed she should be angry. Maybe she would be later, when the news had time to sink in. However, the emotion that darkened her veins was betrayal. She covered her mouth, but a hysterical giggle escaped. "Felicianna? That's funny. That’s hilarious."

He frowned and moved toward her. Reached for her shoulder. She jerked back. "Leave."

"My name really is Darren."

"I'm happy for you. Get out."

He tugged at his tie. His eyes reminded her of the green "sand" in Frances's necklace. "Take care of yourself, Elena. Goodbye."

*****

Elena entered the gym. She changed her clothes. She got on a treadmill, in the section without TVs, so she would not have to risk seeing Frances, Daniel or Marissa. She started right away at the 6.3 setting. No warming up.

Stray thoughts collided.

Felicianna a few months ago: You can tell me anything, Elena.

Her own bright, bubble-gum noncommittal replies.

Felicianna again: Are you into drugs? Or, uh, prostitution?

Elena's angry reply, her freeze-out.

Elena was not sure what to do. Confront Felicianna? End their relationship? To do that, she would have to see Felicianna.

Anger swept Elena. At herself. Only at herself. Kevin and Felicianna had done what they had to do. Elena had been hell bent on suffering alone, and they didn't want that.

She hated them, though. Damn it, she hated them.

*****

The prostitute was under the bedcovers when Frances arrived at the HoJo room.

"Well, hello," Frances said. She took care to keep her words, her tone, casual, but she was feeling the opposite. Why had the prostitute kissed her on the mouth? Yes, the kiss had been done casually, and quickly, but…

"I'm naked and ready for you," the prostitute said. A rose perched on the pillow next to her.

Frances squeezed her eyes shut for a second. They burned from sleeplessness, but the weariness of the day began to lift. The next few hours would be her dessert, her little vacation from reality.

The prostitute smiled, but something in her smile, in her gaze, was vacant. "I got you a rose."

"I see it." Frances undressed and slid into bed. She brought the rose to her nose. Ticklish, like a cat's whiskers. She'd had a few cats, but none after she married. Daniel was allergic. Frances inhaled the flower's sweet perfume. She lowered the rose to the prostitute's breasts, rousing her nipples. "You all right?"

"Yes."

"What's the rose for?"

"Just because."

Frances laid the rose on the prostitute's stomach. "What's the matter, sweetie?"

"Sweetie?"

"I don't want to call you Jan. Will you tell me your real name? Someday?"

"I'm fine. Bit of a bad day. Any updates on Marissa?"

"Bad day how?"

No answer.

Frances allowed her eyes to relax again. Ahh. Felt so good to not have to see. "Can we stay like this until time's up? Not doing anything. I just…I think I’d like to do this." Hold you. Have you hold me.

"And this, too?" The prostitute brushed her lips against Frances’s mouth. "That okay?"

Frances went weak and weightless. Oh, God. Of course not. Dangerous. Why was the prostitute kissing her again?

Frances was no in shape to verbalize her protest, however. Because she wanted the kiss.

The prostitute parted Frances's lips, their tongues found each other, and they kissed, Frances was not sure for how long, but long. Maybe more than ten minutes. The kiss was sweet, with a dreamy and deep intimacy. Finally, Frances had no choice but to break the contact. "Don't. Not with your rules." You are not my lover, nor do you want to be. The prostitute had found someone she clicked with. Someone she could have fun with until their time was up. "This isn't a game for me. It's real life. My real life."

The prostitute jerked in a shallow breath, and Frances regretted her words. Maybe this was real life for the prostitute, too. "I apologize," the prostitute said. "I thought you--I thought you--I thought we had--I thought we were--I apologize. I thought it might help you. I was selfish. I'm taking my bad day out on you."

If this is how you "take out" a bad day on someone...

"I won't."

Frances lay her head on the prostitute's breasts and fiddled with the rose stem.

"Tonight's on me," the prostitute said.

"What do you mean?"

"I was unprofessional. I'm sorry. Tonight's on me. You keep your money."

"That's a lot of money for you to--"

"I got it covered."

Frances propped her head up. She traced the outline of the prostitute's nipple, and then moved her hand to the prostitute's pussy. "Do you break the rules with everyone?"

"No."

"Do you have sex with people in real life?"

"Are you worried because I didn't ask you to put on finger condoms the other night?"

Frances set the rose aside and rolled on top of the prostitute. She brought her mouth to the prostitute's, caressed her lips more than kissed them. "There," Frances said. "I violated a rule. So, tonight's on me. The money's yours."

"Frances. Ahhh." The prostitute's voice was frustrated. "No. Tonight's on me."

"Why did you kiss me?"

The prostitute's eyelids twitched, and she could not meet Frances's gaze. "Like I said. Kissing you would make me feel better. I thought it would make you feel better, too."

Frances got the finger condoms from the top of the nightstand. Slipped them on. "You can kiss me again. Anytime."

"No, that's uh…it won't happen again. I was unprofessional."

"You liked me inside you," Frances whispered.

"I did."

Frances entered the prostitute. Slowly. Giving her time to object. One finger. The prostitute clenched her teeth. "God."

Two fingers.

Rough breath. "That’s good."

Third finger.

The veins in the prostitute’s neck constricted. "I think your name is Mildred," Frances said.

The prostitute laughed. "Mildred Bubba Lee. Yep."

Frances moved her fingers up. Down. Put a quick stop to the prostitute’s levity. The woman groaned. Squirmed.

"Or Fluffy. You have a cat’s name." Frances did her fingers thing again, and the prostitute arched her hips. Shuddered. Her chest heaved. Sweat glistened on her forehead. You’re beautiful. How did I get so lucky?

The prostitute shot Frances a small smile. "My name’s Spot. I’m a dog. Woof."

"You never said how I was at kissing."

"Lovely. Delicious. How was I?"

"You were--you were--I don't think it could have been better. Does that make sense?"

"Yes."

I want to kiss you again. Lots. Frances glanced around the room. What was this? This woman deserved better than being the object of some loser forty-two-year-old closeted chick’s affections. Fluffy Rover--no, Spot--Jan, whoever she was, was being fucked under a superficial stock photo of the Capitol. On bed sheets that probably had not been laundered.

"Frances? You going to finish me off?"

Frances remembered how Randy had felt after Joseph broke up with him. Like an elephant reared up and crushed his chest. Exactly the current state of Frances’s chest. I’m inside her. Some crazy part of me took over, and I’m inside her. Without asking for permission. "I won’t do this again. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I--"

"It’s okay. Just hurry. Please. Do it hard. Hard."

*****

Frances was drifting off to sleep when the prostitute said: "Elena." So low that at first Frances thought she was mumbling gibberish. Then, still whispering but with clear enunciation: "E-l-e-n-a."

Frances tensed, but understood enough to feign sleep and pretend she had not heard.

Elena. Frances’s mind caressed each letter, kissing the vowels, nibbling the consonants. The name fit her. Elegant, gorgeous. Dismaying. Oh, Elena. You should not have told me your name. I’m sorry I asked. There was personal, and then there was too personal.

But Frances had to remember the prostitute was an actress. Elena was not her name. Nope. Her name was probably something like Jill Smith or Ann Jones. The prostitute had taken her cue from Frances and run with it. She probably did break her rules with quite a few clients. The kissing rule, anyway. Made sense. Have a simple, easy-to-break rule so that when you broke it, clients felt special.

Frances would tip her extra, despite being afraid the prostitute’s name really was Elena, but not so afraid that she wanted to kiss the prostitute all over and make love to her. Elena, Elena, Elena. Rolled off her tongue like silk. Frances loved the name. Elena, Elena.

She would tip the prostitute extra for another reason. They had gone way too far. Frances did not want to fall in love, not now. Especially if this was real life for the prostitute, too. Easier to believe the prostitute was still acting.

The prostitute should not have kissed her. Should not have let Frances inside her. So, Frances would tip the prostitute extra to last her until the day before Thanksgiving. No sense seeing her until then, when they had to make the trip to West Virginia.

*****

Elena's cellphone alarm beeped at eleven p.m. Frances went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The bathroom fan was low, and Elena could hear Frances urinate, in a long hiss. Their intimacy was strange. Strange, but she loved it. Elena dressed slowly. Her vagina was sore. A good ache, from Frances’s fingers. The kind of ache that signaled an incredible fuck. Elena sprayed breath freshener into her mouth, wondering what would happen next.She had told Frances her name. And did not regret it. She was tired of running, of lying and hiding.

Elena heard Frances wash her hands and return. Frances got the usual envelope from her briefcase.

"No," Elena said. "Tonight is on me."

"Take it. Busy times coming up. I won't see you until the day before Thanksgiving."

"What? But that's--" That's a week and a half away.

"Really hectic times coming up. I need to get business in order before I come out. Meet me at my penthouse? Say, two p.m. next Wednesday? Then we'll drive to St. Albans." Frances frowned. "Maybe we should leave earlier. Traffic."

"But--" Stop. Elena was at risk of sounding like a whining, irritable child. Besides, Frances's eyes told the truth. The name scared her.

Elena wanted to say: Can I stay with you tonight? Then I'm okay not seeing you until next Wednesday. But what would be the point? She did not want to hurt Frances. Temporary. Frances was right; this was not real life for Elena.

"Okay," Elena said. She put the envelope in her briefcase. "Good luck. Take care of yourself. You need anything, just call."

"Maybe a quick kiss before you go."

Elena stifled a smile. Good to know she had not screwed up completely. "I can do that." She drew Frances's face to hers, and their lips met for a series of slow, shivery kisses.

Chapter 26

A few days later, Elena went to the doctor for her biweekly diseases testing. Then Thursday and the meeting with King Albert X arrived. Elena--and Cindi and Jacqueline, the two other prostitutes from last year--showed up at Blair House at four o'clock. Blair House, a guest residence of sorts for visiting heads of state, was across the street from the White House.

"How's it going with the client?" Cindi asked.

"Fine," Elena lied.

"Good," Cindi said. "These are my favorite clients."

"How did you know Mark was different from the others you fell for?"

"I'm not so sure he was. It was the right time, right place. We were in the right places in our lives."

"Good." Right place, right time definitely was not the case for her and Frances.

The king's men patted Elena and her group down and did a cursory inspection of their briefcases. The men were good at acting like she and her group were not prostitutes. They conveyed their royal protocol instructions in a firm voice, their British accents betraying no hints of sniggers or of disrespect. The instructions were the same as last year's.

-- You are not required to curtsey. If you choose to curtsey, place your right foot behind your left heel and bend your knees slightly.

-- Do not show His Majesty your back. Yeah, right, Elena thought, remembering the hot candle wax Albert dripped on her back last year.

-- Shake the king's hand only if he offers it to you first.

-- Speak only after he speaks to you. Never start a conversation with him.

-- Use His Majesty's formal title for your first reply. For instance, if the king asks how you are, you would reply: "I'm fine, Your Majesty." Thereafter, you can address him as "sir."

Last year's experience had been eye-opening for Elena. The king, never married, had a reputation of being a playboy and father of several illegitimate children. She had found him funny, a good conversationalist, and playful. He told her, Cindi and Jacqueline that call girls, no matter where they were--in England, in America, in Australia, in Africa, wherever--gave him the best conversation. They were honest and knew the pulse of the people.

His needs last year had been basic. He showed up thirty minutes late for their two-hour appointment. He wanted blow jobs and for the three women to have sex with one another. Afterward, he dismissed Cindi and Jacqueline and asked Elena to stay.

Thus the hot wax.

The thought of giving him a blow job tonight, of him dripping wax onto her back, made Elena sick. She told herself that was a good thing. She was beginning to feel again. Really beginning to feel again. The soul-stripping numbness, the coal in her heart from Isaiah's death, was dissipating.

Elena, Cindi and Jacqueline waited in the Principal Suite Sitting Room near the fireplace and an Andrew Jackson portrait. About six forty-five, one of the assistants informed them the king would be fifteen minutes late. No surprise.

Cindi and Jacqueline chatted with each other, and Elena mainly kept to herself. She wondered what Frances was doing. If Frances had met, or was going to meet, the king. Elena also wondered what Marissa was doing. What Marissa's other name was. If Marissa would someday open the hourglass gift from this prostitute who was fucking her mother, or if Frances would have gotten rid of it by then.

Elena had memorized Frances's phone number from her letter.

So if you ever want to talk, if you ever need my help, I am here.

Elena wanted to talk. Badly. She missed Frances. She hated that she had hurt Frances. She wanted to ask Frances how it was possible she, Elena, had gone from a rather boring mother to, in less than a year, blowing the king of England. That was not supposed to happen after your child drowned. Her life had become a tragic comedy.

She wanted to ask Frances what was going on between them.

Strike that. She did not want to ask. The answer scared her. She did not want to be Frances Dourne's girlfriend. Going public as her girlfriend, anyway. The media harassment. The attention. The hate.

But, damn, they were good together.

Elena's fingers took over. She pressed a few buttons on her work phone, but then stopped. She switched to her personal phone. Got Frances's voice mail. She left a message: "Hello, this is--" She paused. Jan? Elena? Your prostitute? "You know who. I’m calling to see if--I thought we could talk. Your letter said to call if I wanted to talk, so--anyway. If you're not busy. Tomorrow night, Friday? Six? Howard Johnson, as usual." Elena was whispering, but she lowered her voice further: "Don't bring money. Please."

She hung up and breathed in an anxious sigh. What she was going to talk to Frances about, she had no freaking idea.

*****

About ten minutes before the king was set to arrive, Elena, Cindi and Jacqueline headed into a bathroom to warm up. Warming up was common with group work. Going in cold was awkward. They were putting on a performance, and like any quality performance, needed to practice. They needed to get used to the feel of one another. They kept their clothes on, but Jacqueline put her arms around Cindi. Their kiss was convincing, lots of tongue.

"Looks good," Elena said. Albert X liked tongue.

Cindi snaked her hands up Jacqueline's skirt and necked her. Jacqueline moaned, too loud, too theatrically.

"Tone it down," Elena suggested.

"He likes the moans," Jacqueline protested.

"Not that loud."

"He wears hearing aids now," Jacqueline argued. "The louder the better."

Elena could see the dollar signs in Jacqueline's eyes. Last year, the king had tipped each of them five thousand. "Fine," Elena said. She was not in the mood to debate.

Cindi kissed her next, and Elena squeezed her eyes shut. Frances. Frances. The kiss was not a lover's, not sweet, but smothering, rough and wet. What the king liked.

"Loosen up, Elena," Jacqueline said. "You're stiff."

"You two warm up. I'll watch."

"What's wrong?" Jacqueline asked.

"Got a lot on my mind."

Cindi took Elena in her arms again, kissed her neck, licked it. Nibbled her earlobe. Whispered: "Can you do this?"

"Yes." But I'm quitting. Tonight. She would go out with a bang. The king of England as her last client. Could not get better than that.

"Jackie, let us talk for a minute," Cindi said.

A glower. "Fine." Jacqueline left the bathroom.

"You're rigid as a--" Cindi laughed. "As a penis. Jackie's right. You gotta loosen up."

"I'm done. After tonight. Time to quit."

"Done? Because of that client?"

"Because of a lot of things."

Cindi nodded.

"Don't worry. I'll do my job. I won't cost you and Jackie tip money."

Cindi tucked a strand of Elena's hair behind her ear. "I know you won't. What's she like?"

"She's…" What to say? She's great? That conveyed nothing. She's sweet? She helps me feel again? "She's…it doesn't matter. We're not going to be together."

"Is she married?"

"Yes." Technically.

"Stay with me tonight," Cindi said. "Mark can sleep in the other bedroom. I'll get your mind off her. We can watch cheese ball movies and fuck and I'll show you a neat little trick to make you come really--"

"Thanks, but no."

Cindi winked and kissed Elena quickly on the mouth. "Offer's open anytime." She opened the bathroom door and called for Jacqueline.

*****

"Hello, girls." Albert Reginald Charles William Louis X greeted them with a twinkle in his eyes. His voice had a unique, gravelly force.

"Your Majesty," Elena, Cindi and Jacqueline chorused. They curtsied in unison.

The king brought a finger to his chin. "Let's see." He studied each of them and pointed a finger. "Elena. Cindi. Jacqueline."

For the king of England, you used your real names. Professional courtesy.

"Yes, sir," they replied.

"What a great memory you have," Cindi added.

He laughed. "In my line of work, you got to exercise the gray cells." He stifled a yawn. "I'm bloody bushed, girls."

"What can we do for you, sir?" Jacqueline asked.

"I'm old," he said flatly. "Three girls? What was I thinking? What did we do last year?"

Elena looked into his face as Jacqueline answered. His eyes were becoming rheumy with old age, and she thought about her own mother. Pictured Brenda with the king. Funny.

Albert yawned again, the yawn bringing tears. "Sounds good. Let's do that again."

Albert showed them into his bedroom. Like the year before, he changed into pajamas, blue pinstripes. He got into bed, removed his hearing aids and arched his eyebrows expectantly.

Elena, standing at the foot of the bed, put her arms around Jacqueline. They kissed, and Jacqueline moaned. Way too loudly. Hurt Elena's ears. Great. But the king did not have his hearing aids in, so--

"Hey. Hey." Cindi poked them. "Look. He's asleep."

Well, maybe Elena would not go out with a bang, per se. Thank God.

*****

When Elena got home, she called Branaugh Party Planning & Catering. Her former boss was Betsy Branaugh, a sweet, gracious, matronly woman. She was a night owl, and eleven o'clock was early to her.

"Elena! How nice to hear from you. Please tell me you're coming back."

Elena laughed. Every time she and Betsy talked, Betsy tried to persuade her to rejoin the fold. "Yes, Betsy. I'm coming back. Is the Monday after Thanksgiving okay?"

Betsy whooped. "Yesterday's better, but I'll take your deal."

Chapter 27

Frances wore a gray newsboy cap and a thick scarf. She also wore her glasses, and her hair was down. She almost turned back to the parking lot as she walked toward the Howard Johnson room. She was not sure she was ready to handle whatever the prostitute threw her way. Excitement and anxiety had bubbled inside Frances since she played the prostitute's message, but now she was all anxiety.

Because.

Because this was a personal meeting. Don't bring money. Frances had brought money, anyway. She had missed the prostitute, no question. The heat of them together, their nakedness, their laughs. Frances had wanted to call all week.

The prostitute wore a green sweater and tan corduroys. And a tentative smile. I missed you, Frances thought. Very much.

The prostitute's smile gave way to a relieved: "Frances. You're here."

"Of course I'm here."

"Cute hat."

"Thanks." Uncomfortable silence.

The prostitute sighed. Wrung her hands. "I'll get to the point. I know you're busy, but I wanted to tell you in person. I quit the service. I'm a party planner again."

The words ricocheted off Frances's brain. She could not absorb them yet, but she smiled feebly. "Quit? Wow." The words began to sink in, hard and painful.

Quit.

Party planner.

Shit. No. You quit? No more us?

The prostitute grinned, a happy, dancing smile, and Frances felt alone, very alone. "I start the Monday after Thanksgiving back at my old job. I miss it. I miss my life."

Frances pretended her knees were not shaky and that she did not want to cry. "Why did you quit?"

"No one reason in particular. Remember last time we were here? I was having a bad day."

"I remember." We kissed. You let me inside you. You told me your real name. Maybe.

"I don't even want to say it, it's so stupid. Two of my friends, one of them my best friend, hired a PI. He posed as one of my clients. They trapped me. My own best friend. She was worried about me. She knew I'd been lying to her. And, I don't know. My best friend couldn't tell me. How did she and I get to this point? How did I get to this point? I'm tired of hiding."

"Right. All right. Wow. Congratulations. Well, we should cel--thanks for telling me in person. Appreciate it." She pasted on a nonchalant smile. "Guess this is goodbye, then." She would need to get out soon, very soon, to avoid crying in front of the prostitute.

I’m dumped. Great. Dumped. And quite possibly in love. No, not in love. She could not be in love with a person whose name she was unsure of. A person she had known less than a month. In that instant, Frances wanted to offer the prostitute all her money. Her penthouse. If only the prostitute would promise to stay. All the prostitute had done for her, the prostitute's smile, her touches, her kisses. Her lovemaking. The prostitute might be the only friend she had in the world.

Except the prostitute was not her friend. Or lover. Never had been.

Frances cleared her throat. "Do I owe you any money?"

The prostitute reached for Frances.

"No," Frances said. "Don’t touch me." Wetness stirred in her eyes, and she blinked her tears back.

"Frances." Urgent tones. "I think you misunderstand. I--no. No. I said this all wrong. I'm not abandoning you. I will still help you. You can continue to pay me. We'll arrange everything through my personal cell. No more business cell, no more booking agent. Listen for the really good news. Pay me half of what you usually do. There isn’t a service anymore to take half. And you don't need to tip."

Frances had said she would not end up like Randy, an emotional wreck, a shattered shell of a person, practically living in the gutter, and she was not going to. She would not be weak. Would not become addicted to a prostitute, dependent on a prostitute. She would face herself, her demons and her family alone. "I’m not going to keep you in prostitution. We ought to celebrate your quitting. I’ll order a pizza to be delivered or something. And then we say goodbye."

"No, that’s not what I--" The prostitute took a shaky breath. "Frances. Don’t do this. Please."

Frances shook her head. "You know what? I'm ready to get a life, too. My brother's in West Virginia already. I’ll leave right now, and I'll come out tomorrow to my family. Get it over with." Smile. Turn. Exit gracefully. "Here’s, uh…" Frances opened her briefcase and got an envelope.

The prostitute stared at it. Then at Frances. All traces of her merriment had vanished. "Frances. I could--I’ll go with you."

No. Why drag this out? She would cry in the car, sure. Probably cry for half the drive. Heck, all of the drive. But then she would be all right. The prostitute would be fine, too. Perfectly fine. She probably was fine already. Acting again.

Frances laid the envelope on the bed. She held out her hand. "Thank you for--" Words were inadequate. "For everything."

"Okay," the prostitute said. Slowly. Numbly. "Okay. Are you--you’re not keeping me in prostitution, you know. I’m--oh hell." She took Frances’s hand. Shook it. "Your letter asked if I'd like you if you were not paying me. You asked if we could have become friends."

"We're not friends. Or going to be."

"How do you know that?"

"Fine. Want to go bowling, say, next Friday? After I come out to the public? With cameras in our faces, with flashes blinding you? People looking at you weird? Reporters yelling questions? And when the pictures and videos go public, answering questions from your family and friends about why you were with me?"

The prostitute let go of Frances’s hand. "I said I would go to West Virginia with you. Please let me do that. That was part of our agreement. Frances, I don’t want to be in prostitution any longer than I have to be, believe me. We go to West Virginia tonight, come back tomorrow. And then that’s it. Okay? But I’m going with you. I promised I would. I don’t break my promises."

Weariness pressed down on Frances. Infiltrated every nook, every crack, of her body. She no longer had the strength to debate, to argue.

"Get the envelope. It’s yours," Frances said. "And we’ll go."

The prostitute smiled. "To West Virginia?"

"Yes. To West Virginia."

*****

The prostitute's car was a red Nissan Altima Coupe. Fit her. She took the wheel first, her hair long and vibrant. "I'm so nervous and excited for you," she said. "I can't imagine how you're feeling."

While the prostitute drove, Frances called Nicholas and her parents. They arranged to have lunch at the parents' house tomorrow. Frances had not been home since Easter. Whenever she visited, she stayed in a hotel. She never wanted to spend another night in the house she grew up in. St. Albans depressed her. The skies were perpetually gray, drab and overcast, especially in the fall and winter. There was nothing vibrant about the town. The people, houses and schools were downtrodden. Frances was so glad she had escaped.

In Morgantown, West Virginia, Frances took over the driving. At two a.m., she rolled up to the Travelodge in Dunbar, right outside Charleston. The motel was about twenty minutes from her parents' house. St. Albans was so small it had no decent motels.

The prostitute was asleep, and Frances stole a kiss on her cheek. "Be right back," she murmured. "I'll check us in."

The clerk at the front desk mumbled that check-out time was eleven a.m. and was that okay with her.

"Yes."

He did not recognize her until he saw the name on her credit card. "Frances Dourne?" He squinted up. "Good golly! I went to high school with your parents." He shook her hand. "Jack Davidson."

She went through the usual photo and autograph, and then returned to the car. "We're here," she whispered.

"Let's sleep naked," the prostitute murmured.

*****

Elena awoke in Frances's arms. Sun streamed through the drawn curtains, and Frances's hair was like a halo around her. Elena's heart hurt.

She did not want to lose Frances. Had come too close yesterday. She craned her neck and checked the clock. Ten a.m. She nuzzled Frances's neck and earlobe.

"That feels good." Frances intensified her grip on Elena.

"It's ten. Better get up soon if you want to shower. I probably will."

Frances kept her eyes closed.

Elena studied the eyelids of the odd eyes that fascinated her. The pink, full lips she wanted to kiss. The game of pretend was getting old. She mustered a smile and brushed her lips against Frances's cheek. "We could shower together." How did I get here? How did we get here, and so fast? Frances, am I falling in love with you and how do I stop before we get hurt?

Frances's eyes fluttered open, revealing their beautiful blue. "Together? That would be nice."

"Then let’s get up, sleepyhead." They had not kissed on the mouth since last week, and Elena did not dare try a kiss again. Let Frances do it.

"I have to pee first," Frances said.

Elena grinned. "We can do that together too, if you want. I'll show you how."

Chapter 28

Frances drove past Lakewood Elementary School. Her parents' house, the house she and Nicholas had grown up in, was just past the train tracks, less than a minute's drive from the school. The house was a split-level on a hilly yard. She wanted back in the hotel room, in the security of the prostitute. Instead, she pulled the car into the driveway. She felt again the prostitute atop her on the toilet. Frances looking into the prostitute's eyes. Frances's shy bladder, her temptation to giggle, then finally, the flow.

Crazy stuff they got up to together, and Frances could not help but wonder how much more would lay in store for them if…if only. If only this was real life.

The prostitute squeezed her hand. "How you feeling? You ready?"

"As ready as I'll be. Are you Jan or Elena today?"

The prostitute's eyes narrowed, but before she could reply, Frances’s father bounded out of the house. Despite being eighty-three, he moved easily. He drew Frances in for a hug, and she went stiff, as she often did with him.

"Frannie Bean. You need to eat more!"

She squirmed out of his grasp. "This is my friend."

"Elena," she said, shaking his hand. "Very pleased to meet you, sir."

Frances's mother hovered in the doorway. A perfunctory hug, another introduction for "Elena."

*****

Congressman Nicholas Wellington was friendlier than Elena expected. He asked her questions. Joked with her. Obviously thought the world of his sister. He looked at Frances with a fond affection that he did not bestow on his wife, Hannah. Hannah was friendly enough. Maybe victim of one too many facelifts. She had a robotic, mannequin-like face that did not match the wrinkles and veins on her hands. Their children, Christopher, fifteen, and Madeleine, seventeen, were polite.

Despite Nicholas’s questions, most of the conversation revolved around Marissa. The hotline call.

"I still don't understand why you gave that child to Daniel," Frances's mother said. "So she was crying. So what?"

Anger flushed Frances's face. "We are not discussing this again."

Frances's mother shook her head. "I just don't understand," she muttered under her breath.

Frances kept sending tight smiles in her brother's direction. Nicholas was probably the family member Frances was most afraid of losing. She likely had distanced herself emotionally from her parents long ago. They had to have some inkling of the goings-on at camp.

Nicholas asked Elena during the salad course about her parents. "My father died when I was four. Bar fight gone bad. My mom raised me and my two sisters by herself. They're older than I am, my sisters."

Frances threw her a questioning gaze. Elena squeezed her knee. Yes, it’s true.

"Family's important," Nicholas said.

"Mmm."

"You married?"

"No."

"Divorced?"

"No, never been married."

He winked. "You'll find the right guy. When you stop looking, that's when you'll meet him."

Elena forced a grin.

"Not all women want to be married, Daddy," his daughter said.

"Er--right. I was being polite, sweetheart. Forgive me, Elena."

Madeleine flashed Elena a smile. "Daddy's old-fashioned. I love him, anyway."

Elena took pity on Nicholas. "You're right, though. About finding someone when you're not looking. That's when it happens." That's how I met your sister, after all.

*****

Frances kept waiting for the bombshell to explode from her mouth. It did not come during the soup and salad. Or during the main course--roast beef, potatoes and carrots. Nor during the dessert of peanut butter pie.

Frances had said the words: "I'm gay" every damn minute of the meal. But in her mind.

Nicholas scarfed down his pie. "Gotta run soon," he said. "I'm meeting with patients at Thomas Memorial. Photo op. Want to come, Franny? How about it, Elena? They'd rather look at two beautiful women than this boring politician."

"We have to be going soon. Something I need to say first." Frances took a last look around the table. Nicholas was licking his lips, probably thinking their mother had outdone herself with the pie--because she had. Christopher was texting under the table and pretending to listen to his grandfather's mumblings about his next sermon. Madeleine and Hannah stifled yawns. Frances latched onto a cardinal outside--a jarring smack of red against the brown leaves and brown sky. Shouldn’t the cardinal be south? Did cardinals migrate? Perhaps not. Frances’s mother picked at the pie. "Elena" was--Frances stopped herself from looking at her prostitute lover, afraid her courage would vanish.

She thought of Nathaniel again, this child of her brother's who never had a spot at the table. After her announcement, she doubted she would have a spot.

"I'm gay," Frances said.

She must have whispered the words, because everyone went on as normal. Frances did not even detect tensing from the prostitute.

"I'm gay," she said--louder. Focusing on the cardinal. He went still, cocked his head, and looked right into her eyes.

She felt the prostitute's leg press into hers--showing her support. Frances felt a tear, and then two, leak. Tears left over from yesterday. The prostitute would not bowl with her. Would not--well, she might. If Frances did not push her away, did not sabotage them.

Christopher's eyes went wide, and--wait. His texting. What if he leaked the news early, what if--Frances stopped herself. What was meant to happen would happen.

Her mother got up and walked off. Frances heard water run in the kitchen, and her mother returned with a wet washcloth. She scrubbed at an old stain on the curtains behind the table.

The cardinal flew off.

"Frances." Her sister-in-law's voice was sympathetic. "Are you--you're sure?"

"Yes."

Frances mustered the courage to meet her father's gaze. He was a statue, unblinking. Disgusted. She found Nicholas. He stared and stared at her, horror and betrayal in his expression. He had sacrificed his son for his political future. He would surely do the same where his sister was concerned. Denounce her in public after she came out. So he could be re-elected.

"I'm coming out to everyone," Frances continued. "But I wanted to tell you first."

"The stain isn't coming out!" her mother mewled.

"Forget the stain. I'm coming out. I'm your daughter."

Nicholas stood. "You better go, Frances."

I'm not Franny anymore.

"Nicholas." Hannah touched his leg.

"Don't be silly, Frances," her mother said. "You're not one of these people. We cured you."

Her father hooked a finger at the prostitute. "You got your claws into her?"

"No, sir. I'm very proud of her."

"Proud of her?" He snorted. "You're one of these people, aren't you?"

"I support her. I hope you will, too."

"Do you know what happened to me at camp?" Frances asked.

Her father's lips set in a grim line. "They did what they had to. You kept insisting you loved that girl."

A tremor started in Frances's stomach and funneled its way to the corners of her body. They knew. They had known, damn them.

"What?" Nicholas asked. "What happened at camp?"

"I was beaten and raped."

His jaw dropped. "You're lying."

"I'm not lying. Come here. Feel my back, feel my scars."

Nicholas swiveled his gaze toward their father. "Is that true?"

"Honestly, Frances," her mother said. "You're stronger than this. You're disappointing us."

"You're disappointing me."

Her phone rang. The Marissa phone, playing a merry game of Pac Man. Wouldn’t be news. People called many times a day now. This was another update to say they had no updates.

"Answer the phone," Nicholas said.

"Not here." Frances held her hand out for the prostitute. "Let's go."

*****

Frances, her expression unreadable, her hands white fists around the steering wheel, pulled into a park. A sign proclaimed it the Roadside Park. It overlooked the Kanawha River and was on the other side of what passed for St. Albans's downtown. Elena's car was the only one in the lot.

"Should be called Riverside Park," Elena commented. To break the chill silence.

Frances walked to a picnic shelter. She sat ramrod straight atop a table and spoke into the Marissa phone for less than a minute. After Frances put the phone away, Elena got out. She stood beside her car, drawing comfort from the coolness of the air. Vehicles passed by, but the beating of American flags against their metal poles muffled the drone of the cars.

Elena went to Frances. Frances was crying, and Elena slipped Frances's glasses off. She kissed the saltiness of Frances’s tears.

"Did your dad really die when you were four?"

"Yes, he did." Elena directed her attention to the river and to the houses and boats fronting the other side. She thought of Isaiah, as she did every time she encountered a body of water. Sunlight glittered off the river, and the scene was beautifully depressing.

"What was the Marissa call about?"

"About the lack of updates."

"Mmm."

"Say something," Frances urged.

"I don't know what to say. You did good. Great. They--they--I don't know. I'm proud of you. Hope you know that."

"I’m going to come out tomorrow morning. I won’t get as many cameras, but I’ll get it done with." Frances laughed. "Give people something to talk about at church."

For a second, Elena saw herself at Frances’s side at the coming out. Elena replayed images of embarrassed, scorned wives next to their straying husbands. These women made her squeamish. She was not going to be one of these women, she was not going to stand with Frances Dourne. And she hated herself for it.

"I wish I could be with you," Elena said.

"No, you don’t. That’s okay. I made my bed myself. I am coming out alone. You’ve done more than enough."

"Tomorrow night, we’ll celebrate at HoJo. I’ll bring something better than sheet cake and punch. I’ll surprise you."

Frances smiled wanly. "And then I suppose we say goodbye. We wish each other well in our new lives."

"Can I stay with you tonight? I don’t want to be anywhere else."

Frances searched Elena's eyes. "I would love that. We should be okay at the penthouse. The media’s gone away. For now."

"I wish--I wish…"

"What?"

Elena shook her head. "Wish so many things. Wish I could show you my place. Show you some things. Tell you some things, before it’s too late and you go away."

"You could when we get back to town."

"My mother lives with me. She’ll be home. She usually is."

An incredulous look. "You live with your mother?"

Elena watched cars travel over a bridge spanning the river. She wanted to trust someone, someone who would understand, and that someone was Frances.

Elena mimicked slashing her wrists. "Mom moved in with me after. To keep an eye on me."

"You--but--you don't have scars."

"My best friend caught me in time."

"Ah."

Elena rubbed the base of her neck. I'm in public with Frances Dourne. She almost glanced back toward the parking lot.

"Let's pretend you're taking me to your place," Frances said. "What are we doing?"

"Hmm. I suppose I'm telling you about the condo building. It's the former Yale Steam Laundry, which used to wash White House linens. So-so neighborhood, but on the rise. Good investment."

"More of an investment than a home?"

"I suppose. I don't know."

"What floor are we on?"

"Third."

"Okay, so we walk to your unit. You try the door. Is it locked or unlocked?"

"Locked, so I let us in with my key. I call for my mother. No reply. She must be napping in her bedroom. So, we're in the living room. There are books, lots and lots of books. The bookcase spans one wall, floor to ceiling. A ladder rests against the case."

"Wow. I'm tempted to climb it and explore."

Elena could not help but chuckle. She was tempted to climb Frances and explore her. The image of Frances making love to her, true love, with kissing, of breasts like apples and nipples like candy, implanted itself in Elena's mind.

Elena cast her eyes downward. "The floor is wooden," she said. "Laminate, actually. It's shiny but has a few scratches. The place is pretty clean, thanks to my mother."

"You have a lot of books," Frances said.

"I love reading. I suppose at this point, I'll pluck a book at random. Let's see. Bill Clinton's My Life. I love all sorts of fiction, but my favorites are biographies and autobiographies. People are fascinating."

"Are you a Clinton fan?"

"Sure. I'm a fan of most anyone. All people have their strengths and weaknesses."

"Is my book on the shelf?"

"Right now, it's in my briefcase. So, I take your hand." Elena clasped her hand over Frances's. "I show you my bedroom, get my briefcase out, maybe you sign my book."

"I'd sign it something like: 'Thank you for helping me write my next book.' "

Elena grinned. "And then we'd go down the hallway. I'd show you my mother's door. Remind you to be quiet because she's napping. Near her door is the office. There's a desk. And a clock. Recognize the clock?"

A wide grin, a light in Frances's eyes. "You picked the perfect spot for it."

"I knew right away where it would go. Next to the clock is a framed photo of a boy with tousled red curls and blue eyes. He was my son. His name was Isaiah."

"Isaiah."

"I liked being his mother. I did. I liked being a mom. But I can understand how you didn't exactly like--I mean… I would wonder sometimes what my life would be like if I had never gotten pregnant. I never thought I would find out." Elena exposed one of her wrists. "Some people tattoo names, and I wanted scars to feel closer to Isaiah. The bracelets did okay. They helped me feel closer to him than the sand did."

"Can I feel your wrist?"

"Yes."

Frances ran her fingers over the nonexistent scar, and her heat prickled Elena's skin.

"He drowned three years ago while I was reading a book on the beach. That's why I tried to kill myself. My son died because I was engrossed in a book. Mother of the Year, right? His hair and his skin tasted of salt and seaweed, and I'll have to live with that taste the rest of my life.

"And why I became a call girl, okay. About three months before Isaiah died, I was planning a party for a client. She took me out to lunch to thank me. She said I had the perfect look for an escort and that I could be making so much more money. I told her thanks but no thanks. I have nothing against sex. Sex is nothing to be ashamed of. Just wasn't the job for me. She gave me her card anyway. I didn't remember what I did with it. Isaiah was brain dead for five days. I kept him hooked up to machines, hoping, praying for a miracle. When I got it through my thick skull that wasn't going to happen, Kevin and I told the doctors to disconnect him, donate his organs, save lives, all that jazz. I went home, got into the bathtub, and began to slit my wrist.

"My best friend Felicianna found me. I was back in the hospital for a while. On the crazies ward. When I got home, for some reason, I remembered the card. I turned the place upside down looking for it. I found it in a book packed away in a box. I didn't want to think anymore. Didn't want to be a party planner anymore. This would be easy money, and I could pay off bills and give my mother what she deserved, and best of all, I could do it without feeling anything. I looked in the mirror. My hair was stringy, and I had circles the size of Jupiter under my eyes. I waited two weeks, until I looked better, and called the madam. At that point, I realized I'd had the woman's phone number and email address in my clients contact list. I hadn't needed the damn business card in the first place." Elena chuckled. "I told her what happened, about Isaiah's death and me being in the hospital. She said not to worry, I was perfect, and I passed the background check and psych exam. She put me right to work. Eleven months later, I was blowing the king of England." Elena paused. "Have I answered all the questions in your letter?"

"The king? Wow. Albert?"

Elena looked away. "Your brother will come around. He needs time."

"Perhaps you're right."

*****

Ten minutes later, they had not moved. The beating of the flags was soothing. Frances looked into the prostitute's eyes and kissed her wrists.

Isaiah.

Drowned.

Albert X.

The jealousy came slowly, creeping over Frances. Not a raging jealousy, but jealousy nonetheless. Frances wanted this woman. Wanted her to herself. But Frances was not sure she was ready for a relationship. "I’m sorry I was an idiot yesterday."

The prostitute smiled, and the sunlight played with the flecks in her eyes. She leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek. "I wouldn’t have let you leave, Frances."

A gray car with an orange door rolled into the parking lot. Parked a few spots from the prostitute's car. A man and a boy got out. Frances nudged the prostitute. "We better go."

"Guess so." The prostitute did not budge, though.

"People shouldn't see us together."

"I know."

"Does your mom eventually wake up from the nap she's having at your condo?"

"Sure."

"What does she look like?" The man and boy descended a staircase and ambled along the river.

"Her hair is going white. She’s wearing a sweat suit. Sleep lines etch her face. She looks more like my grandmother than mother. I say, uh, I suppose I say: 'There you are. We were on our way out, but I’d like you to meet a client of mine. Ma, this is Frances Dourne. Frances, this is Brenda, my mother."

"Is that really her name?"

"Yes, and my son's name was really Isaiah."

"And your name, is it really Elena?"

The prostitute gave her a sad smile. Sad-mysterious, the smile from the photo album. "Do you want my name to be Elena?"

"I--I don’t know." Fantasies were easier to deal with than reality.

"Okay. Okay."

Frances pictured the prostitute's mother. The woman’s brows would be furrowed. Frances would approach Brenda and hold her hand out. "Your daughter has told me many good things about you."

The mother would glance toward the living room, where the TV was, as if Frances had just stepped from it. More furrowed brows. "You're Frances Dourne," she would say slowly.

Frances would want to crawl away. Why had she waited, why the hell had she waited to come out? Why hadn't she come out as soon as she saw Nathaniel's body and knew she was ready? "Yes, ma'am. I'm Frances Dourne."

"Why are you here?"

"I’m planning a party for her," the prostitute would say. "We’re picking up a few things."

Brenda’s eyes were round, and her expression spoke for her. She knew her daughter was a prostitute. How could she not? Perhaps the prostitute did not want to acknowledge it, but her mother knew. Always had. And she was thinking: You're screwing my daughter, my beautiful, innocent daughter. You two-faced hypocrite. I was feeling sorry for you before, but now I see you for who you are. You don't deserve your child back.

Frances would be unable to say more. Anything would sound blank, hollow.

"Why would you do that to her?" Brenda would ask. "Play with her emotions?"

"It’s not what it looks like."

Frances shook herself out of her reverie. "Your mother knows," Frances said. "She knows what you do."

"Maybe," the prostitute acknowledged.

Another car entered the parking lot.

"All right," the prostitute said with a sigh. "Let's hit the road."

Chapter 29

Elena drove first and stopped in Morgantown for gas and snacks. Frances used the bathroom, and Elena checked her phone. Felicianna had left a message.

"Hey, babe," the message went. "We haven't talked for a while." Well, no, Elena added, not since I found out you trapped me with a PI. "Anyway, I remembered you were looking at hourglasses. A local artist brought some in. They're amazing, if you're interested. I’ll be at the store all day. They'll go fast." Click.

Elena put the phone up. She was not interested in hourglasses. Marissa had her gift. But she did need to see Felicianna and resolve how they betrayed each other. It could wait. Her focus was Frances, only Frances.

*****

Elena watched from Frances's bed as Frances set her clothes out. Frances was naked, too, except for her necklace. Elena admired her flat stomach, the ripeness of her breasts, the curve of her butt. Am I crazy to let her go?

Frances seemed ready for the morning. During the drive back from West Virginia, she made the arrangements for her press conference. Nine a.m., at GIC. Frances had hinted lightly that it was a coming-out announcement, so Elena was sure plenty of press would show.

Elena was having second thoughts about Frances’s hair. "Maybe you should leave your hair down tomorrow."

"Why?"

"I’m remembering our first night at HoJo. With your hair down. You were beautiful. I can’t believe that was only, what, four weeks ago?"

Frances smiled, but her eyes held a lethal calmness. No doubt masking turmoil about the day ahead. "What’s your coming-out story?"

Elena grimaced. "You have a few minutes?"

"All the time for you."

"I was nearly nine months pregnant. Surprised I hadn't popped already. Two days before my due date, my mom was picking me up from UVa to take me home for the summer. She had no idea I was pregnant. I hadn't seen her since winter break. I was five to six months then but not showing too bad. Freshman 15 and loose clothes, all that. I agonized during winter break about telling her. In the end, I couldn't. She'd worked so hard to see I got in a good school, and I knew she wouldn't let me be in Charlottesville, alone and pregnant without family. She'd disrupt her life and move to be with me. So…" Elena laughed. "My mom drove an ugly brown station wagon named Chocolate. She parked. Got out. I was on the sidewalk, suitcase at my side. She looked me over. She asked, calm as could be: 'Are you going to have a baby, dear?' I burst into tears. I said yes, I was, I was due very soon, in two days actually. I told her not to worry, I'd taken care of everything. I had a 4.0 GPA. I was transferring to George Mason, where I could commute. I told her I was leaning toward keeping the baby but was still thinking about adoption. Bottom line, I told her everything would be fine."

"Wow."

Elena realized Frances was looking at her. Looking at her. In the impaling, intense way a woman who loves another woman does. The gaze sent Elena's pulse spinning.

"What happened?" Frances asked.

"She kept her composure. She asked who the father was. I said 'Kevin Norwood.' She knew him because she went to a lot of the high school football games. I said Kevin had been down a few times. He knew about the baby.

'Are you getting married?' she asked.

"I laughed, said no, and before I knew what I was doing, I added: 'I'm gay, Ma. I slept with him to make sure. He wore a condom, but...' Big day for my mom, right? Her eighteen-year-old daughter, who had done no wrong until then, is ready to pop out a baby. And by the way, gay too. My being pregnant made my being gay almost nothing. So there was that. Bright side."

A half-smile from Frances. "Maybe I should have tried coming out to my parents that way. When was Isaiah born? Two days later?"

"A week later. She loved him. As much as I did. She helped a lot with him."

"What was your son like?"

"He liked knock-knock jokes and word play," Elena said. "He liked lots of things. But for some reason, he hated spiders. I don't mind spiders myself. That worked out well, I guess."

"Ugh. Spiders. Help yourself to them, babe. Not my thing."

"Do you shriek like a girl when you see a spider?"

"Give me a little credit."

"How much credit?"

Frances separated her thumb and pointer finger. "Just a little. If a spider is ugly enough or big enough, I do react. What makes you shriek like a girl?"

"Like I'm going to tell you."

"True." Frances laid out her earrings and took off her hourglass necklace. She tapped the lamp on and turned the main light off.

Elena checked the time. Ten p.m. Frances slid into bed, then back out. "I forgot something." She returned with an envelope. Thicker than usual. "In case I'm in a rush in the morning. This includes tonight. And tomorrow night. All your tips, too. This is everything. My last payment." Frances laid the envelope next to the clock and got back into bed.

"I don't want it."

"Take it. You earned it."

"I told you no tips."

"I'm stubborn."

Elena did not know what to say. Half of her wanted to retort: Remember what you said yesterday about bowling? Guess what? Bowling sounds great. The other half cautioned her to avoid making promises she was not absolutely sure she could keep. She would leave the envelope at the penthouse in the morning. Simple enough.

Frances crossed her arms behind her head. Looked at the ceiling.

"What are you thinking?" Elena asked.

"Thinking about you."

"I'm right here." Elena's heart ached under her breast. Frances was so close Elena could feel her heat, yet so far that a chill lingered between them. "Are you going to miss me?"

She saw a slight smile tug at Frances's lips. "Miss you?" Her voice was incredulous, telegraphing: Yes, very much.

Screw it. "I'll go bowling with you. You said next Friday?"

Frances turned to face her. Frances's eyes were luminous, like she was a creature of the night. "I don't know how to answer that. I don't know if you mean it. But I appreciate the sentiment."

A cluster of words begged Elena for release. We could be together. We could figure out a way. We're good together. Wonderful together. It's a shame to walk away. We have to try at least. What a huge commitment, however. Once the words were out of her mouth, there was no taking them back. She would hurt Frances more if she spoke up and backpedaled than if she said nothing in the first place. And she was, perhaps, being presumptuous. Who said Frances wanted to go public with a woman who might be exposed as a former prostitute?

Frances lifted her fingers to Elena's arm. Her touch was soft and gentle, but Elena could not relax. Frances moved her touch to Elena's cheek and then outlined Elena's lips.

"The night I got the call about Marissa and you came here, you fell asleep. I didn't. I was wide awake, thinking about her but also--also I couldn’t take my eyes off you. That night scared me. One, I heard my daughter's voice for the first time in eleven years. I faced the very real possibility that I'm going to see her again at some point, though who knows when. And two, I had a woman who came to me right away and stayed with me and…I felt so lucky. How did I get so lucky? I told myself it was a fantasy. And that's all right. As long as we don't try to force the fantasy on the real world. The real world's ugly. Horrible. I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying, but I do love looking at you. That's how I want to spend tonight. We can talk about us at the HoJo tomorrow. Okay? Let's enjoy each other tonight."

"Us," Elena said. "That would be nice."

"Yes," Frances replied, sadness and longing in the one word. As if she knew it would not happen.

"I’m a prostitute. Was. Does that bother you? Like if the truth came out and we were together and…"

Frances touched her lips to Elena’s. "Hey. We’ll talk about us tomorrow night."

Elena allowed the kiss to deepen. The contact was like fire, rousing a melting sweetness within Elena. A sweetness that contrasted with the fear in her heart, a fear that Frances would end their relationship tomorrow night. Frances would not say Elena’s name. Was too afraid to. Frances was perhaps not ready for a relationship, much less with a prostitute. Former prostitute. Whatever.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow we deal with it. Tonight we enjoy each other.

Elena's body moved of its own accord. Her pussy searched out Frances's, found it, and moved with it.

*****

Frances awoke at six a.m., showered quickly, and put on the hourglass necklace.

I have to go with her. Elena felt like Frances was getting ready for her own execution. Like she should be wearing prison orange. The deliberate slowness of her movements and the fog in Elena's brain from their kisses, their lovemaking, from the heady awareness of being in love, added to the drugging sensation.

"Can I make you breakfast?" Elena asked. She had to do something besides lay in bed or follow Frances around like a chicken.

"Like a last meal?" Frances laughed. "No, I’m going to eat a banana. Something light. Puking doesn’t make appetizing TV."

I am not in love with you, Frances. Lust, yes. Very much so. Love? Hah. They were not in love. Lust and newness and adolescent stupidity, that's what this was.

They were not in love, because if they were, Elena would go with her. Maybe not be at her side when she came out, because Frances was right, she needed to do it alone, but if Elena loved her, she would go to GIC with Frances, be with her before and after.

"I’m leaving now," Frances said at seven a.m. "I want to be there early."

Elena was still naked. Still in bed. Don’t go. Please.

"I will see you tonight at HoJo for our party," Frances said. "Six o’clock?"

"What are you doing after you come out?"

Frances rubbed her nose. "Interviews. Damage control. I want to call the board of directors and every employee who works at headquarters individually. Fifty people, so that’ll take a while. "

Frances didn’t need her.

"Go back to sleep if you want. I’ll see you tonight." Frances kissed Elena on the cheek.

"Give me five minutes. I'll go with you."

A slight hesitation. Frances opening and closing her mouth several times. Almost saying yes. "No, sweetie. I'm doing this alone."

"I'll go with you. I'll be there for you before and after. I can wait in your office or someplace like that. I don't care if I happen to get photographed or on TV."

"Maybe you don't care right now, but you’d care later. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next week, next month. You'd care."

She's right, and you know it. "Good luck, Frances."

"Goodbye, sweetie."

"My name is not sweetie," Elena muttered. My wallet. She got out of bed, found her pants from the night before. Got out her driver’s license. "Look. See. Believe me."

Frances did not take the offering. She met Elena’s gaze with what seemed to be considerable will. Frances’s eyes were dark, simmering, passionate and fearful, very fearful. "I believe you."

"Then say my name."

"I--I--I can’t."

"How many times did you ask for my name? Huh?"

"You weren’t supposed to give it to me! Not your real name. No matter how many times I asked. This wasn’t supposed to happen!"

"This what?"

"This. Us."

Elena put her license and wallet back. "I’m sorry I told you my name. I’m sorry I scared you off. That was not my intention. I thought you wanted my name."

"I--I’m not--you didn’t--I have to go. Tonight, can we--we’ll talk. Okay? Please?"

Elena forced a smile. "I’ll be there."

Frances nodded. Brought her hand to the hourglass charm. "Thank you," she said. "For the necklace. For everything. We will talk tonight and figure out how to be together. Thank you, Elena."

Chapter 30

Frances got to GIC and decided the prostitute--no, Elena, Elena--was right. Hair down. Frances brushed her hair until it shone. Tomorrow morning, she would have to look into the faces of people she had helped over the years, people who had turned their lives over to her and come to work with her. She would have to look into their eyes and tell them that she was who they had worked so hard to avoid.

What would happen to these "converted" people? Probably a few would choose to remain straight, to identify as straight. Be happy as straight, because they were straight, or straight enough. Many--most--probably would, after struggle and agony, pull a "Frances Dourne" and accept they were gay. Would live as gay. Ideally, be happy as gay.

She heard a copier whirring and found Randy Germain in the copy room.

Outreach and counseling.

Could use you right about now, Randy.

"Hey," he said. "Getting some work done. I left early Friday."

"Glad you left early for a change. Let me help you." He made more copies, and she stacked and stapled them. They were self-assessment forms with reply choices along the lines of every day, every other day, once or twice a week.

How often do you have lustful thoughts about your own sex?

The opposite sex?

That kind of self-assessment.

"I’m holding a press conference at nine." She checked Mickey. In an hour.

"About Marissa?"

"Not directly." Frances stapled the last of the papers. She took a deep breath. "Randy, the thing is, I’m gay." She handed him her speech. She stepped away and pretended the papers needed arranging. After a minute, she latched back onto him.

He was sitting in a chair. He looked shell-shocked. Refused to meet her eyes.

"Let’s talk, Randy."

He grabbed her wrist. "Are you doing this to get Marissa back?"

"I'm doing it because it's who I am."

He let go. His disappointment was palpable and naked on his face. "Oh, Frances. Not you. You're stronger than this."

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she wiped them away hastily.

He sighed, a troubled sigh. "Who else is coming?"

"What do you mean?"

"A friend or your brother or…"

"No one. I'm doing this alone."

Randy rearranged the papers Frances had just rearranged. "I'm straight, and I don't approve of what you're doing. I truly believe being gay is a choice. But I'll stand with you. If you want."

She tried to comprehend what she was hearing. "Why?"

He grinned. "Like you say, people slip. We shouldn't kick them while they're down. You helped me when I was confused, and now I'll help you. I'll help get you back on the path of righteousness. I’ll absolutely stand with you."

Nausea hit her. The hungry kind of nausea. She should have let the prostitute make her something substantial. Better than this taste of her own medicine. "Thank you, Randy. You’re certainly welcome to attend the conference. But I’m coming out alone."

"Why? When you don’t have to."

"This is my mess. I'll confess to it alone." Plus, she had not fathomed that anyone would be willing to stand with her. She was unprepared for that contingency.

"You say people find strength in seeking help. Please accept my help, Frances."

*****

She began with a smile, ignoring the touch of claustrophobia from the lights and boom microphones. "Good morning. I hope everyone is having a great weekend. I have called you here today to talk to you about something, something very important and dear to my heart."

A blur of microphones jammed the podium. Local stations, national stations, ABC, NBC, CNN, a haze of logos and affiliates. More stations than she had expected for a Sunday morning. Salivating at the prospect of the newest fallen angel. I need to eat after this. I really need to eat after this. Some faces were expectant, others rabid.

Frances indicated Randy at the side of the room. She and Randy had reached a compromise. Randy had coordinated the arrival of the media, allowing Frances more time to gather herself. Then they walked in together, to the podium, and he had retreated to the side. "I’d like to introduce you to Randy Germain. He’s our outreach director. He does not agree with what I’m about to do. However, he still offered to stand with me, which makes his--" She looked into his serious face. Maybe she had helped some people find themselves. Maybe she had helped this man. "Thank you, Randy. Thank you." She turned back to the cameras.

"I've known joys in my life. Tragedies, too. I also have regrets, lots of them. Regrets that I haven't been true to myself. Regrets that I've tried to force my beliefs, beliefs I never truly possessed deep down inside, onto others. Every fiber of my being knows I have caused untold pain and suffering.

"I want to keep this speech short and sweet. When you come down to it, I only have three words.

"I am gay.

"I am gay, and there is nothing wrong with me."

A quiet roar in front of her.

"I have lied and been deceitful, to myself, to my husband, to my daughter, to all of you, and I am truly sorry. Learning to accept myself and to love myself has been a years-long process, with countless detours and wrong turns."

Some reporters called out questions. Frances ignored them.

"The bottom line is, I am gay, and there's nothing wrong with that. Effective immediately, I resign as president of Gay Is a Choice. I am developing a gay rights organization and an organization to track down missing children.

"To the people I have hurt, to the people I have caused to feel subhuman, I am sorry. Truly sorry, from the bottom of my heart. I have no excuse for my actions. I am deeply ashamed for my behavior, and I will work every day for as long as I live to repent.

"To the people who work at GIC, I am not abandoning you. I love you all. I will be here tomorrow morning. I hope you will be, too. Anyone who wishes to follow me to one, or both, of the new groups is very welcome to do so. Now, I want to be as open and honest as possible, so I’m opening the floor to questions. Please ask.

"One last thing. Daniel, please let me see Marissa. I admire you every day of my life. Know that, if nothing else. You absolutely did the right thing. I wake up every morning, and I think of our daughter. How lucky she is to have you as her dad. I fall asleep remembering you and her laughing together. She belongs with you. I know that. But please bring her back. I want to know her. I want her to know me. I’m her mother, and I’m a better person now. Please, Daniel. I will do everything in my power to make sure you're not prosecuted. I will take care of you both. Daniel, just get in touch. Contact me. Our landline number is the same. We’ll meet. No one has to know. I don’t want to take her from you. I just want to meet her and maybe, if you’re willing, get to know her. Okay. I’m done. Any questions?"

The room erupted:

When did you realize Are you seeing anyone Have you told your parents Would your daughter be proud of you on and on and on.

Randy left the room, and for fifteen minutes, Frances answered each question as honestly as she could.

I always knew I was gay. Just couldn’t face up to it.

No, I’m not seeing anyone.

Yes, I told my parents. They are not supportive.

I hope my daughter will be proud of me.

"One last question." Frances picked a reporter from CNN. He had asked vanilla questions thus far.

"A rumor has been floating the past few years that you saw a prostitute. True?"

Frances's heart jerked. She had not been aware of such a rumor. Lie. Tell the truth. Lie.

She spoke again into the scramble of microphones. She would tell the truth. Partly because she was trying to be a better person. Partly because if she confessed to this other prostitute, maybe no one would find out about the new one. Plus, if she lied, who was to say the other prostitute would not come forward and expose her? She would lose all credibility.

"Yes. I did three years ago, for a few months. I left the experience more demoralized than ever."

"And you haven’t been to another?"

"No, sir," she said. "I have not. I am done hiding."

Chapter 31

Elena watched the press conference with her mother.

"She did good," Brenda said. "Really good."

"She did great." Elena could not stop smiling. Emotions crowded her body: love, happiness, hope.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"I don't know, Ma. Can't I smile?"

Brenda’s expression was skeptical.

Frances’s words: Your mother knows.

"I’m not sure I buy it," Brenda said.

Elena froze. "What?"

"That child was kidnapped. She was taken from her backwards, homophobic mother."

Elena felt the hollow at her neck pulsate and deepen. "What is your point?"

"She gets a call from her daughter and then, only then, comes out? Right. As soon as Marissa is back--if she comes back--Frances Dourne is going right back into the closet."

"No, Ma. No."

"What's going on?"

Elena wanted to tell her mother, to shout: I love Frances Dourne, she's a good person, and I'm proud to know her.

"Elena?"

"Frances is--she planned this long before Marissa called. Frances is gay, and she is sorry for what she has done. She’s not going back in the closet. Period."

"You know this how?"

"You asked if I was seeing someone. The answer is yes. I’m seeing Frances Dourne."

Brenda actually laughed.

"You asked where I went one night about two weeks ago. Do you remember what you were watching on TV the morning after that?"

The merriment drained from Brenda's gaze. "The news of Marissa’s call."

"That’s right. I went to be with Frances. She was in shock. You see the necklace she wears all the time? The hourglass? I gave it to her."

Brenda forced a smile. "She said she was not seeing anyone."

"We’re going to talk tonight." Elena folded her hands in her lap. "Frances says you must know what I’ve been up to the past two years. Do you?"

A terse nod. "More or less."

"Okay."

"So many times I wanted to--I don’t know. At first, I was glad you were working again. When I thought you were at your party planning job again. Then all the calls, the timing…" Brenda shook her head. "I knew something was off."

"I wish you had said something."

"I thought you wouldn’t want me to."

Elena sighed. "That, too."

"Frances said she was not seeing a prostitute."

"She lied. To protect me." Elena rose and grabbed her coat. "I have to get out of here, Ma. I’ll be back later."

*****

Elena went to Fort Scott Park. Isaiah's pile was gone. Already. She sat on a swing, and when she was finished feeling sorry for herself, she left a message on Frances's phone. "You did perfect. I am so lucky to know you." I love you.

Okay. She had a celebration to plan. A celebration without sheet cake and punch. Preparations had been lingering in the back of her mind for the past few days, but she had no idea what she should bring or what she should do. She would see Felicianna first. Get that thorn resolved.

*****

Felicianna was showing a customer the store's selection of antique coins and maps. Elena found the hourglasses and traced their edges, some rough, some smooth. She turned the hourglasses upside down and studied how the sand fell. Their falls were elegant.

"Elena. Hey. Like them?"

"They're exquisite."

"Twenty-five percent off for you."

"No, that's all right. Thanks, though." Elena surveyed the store. Empty. "We need to talk."

"Yeah, we do." Felicanna flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

Elena wet her lips. "I'm sorry you didn't know me anymore. I'm sorry I lied to you and that you felt the need to hire a PI. I wanted a place to myself. A little cave to myself."

Felicianna blinked. Turned pale. "Elena--"

Elena held her hand up. "Stop. Don't. There's nothing you can say that--just don't. Okay?"

Felicianna swallowed and nodded.

"I'm done. I've quit. I start back with Betsy after Thanksgiving."

"Good."

"I love you. I do. We have been through so much together. You saved my life. But…" Elena sighed. "It's time to say goodbye."

Felicianna's expression turned stricken. "Why?"

Elena met her gaze. She wondered what was playing through Felicianna's mind. Perhaps the first time they met, when Elena and four-year-old Isaiah entered another antiques store and met a cute, helpful clerk. The clerk's nervous gaze, her pink cheeks. The way their eyes met and their secret smile.

Their trips, to amusement parks, to the beach, to museums. Felicianna shaking her before she could cut farther into her wrist. Their first kiss, two nights after Elena was back home from her suicide attempt. The luminous glow in Felicianna's body as they had sex, the dread in Elena's own heart.

Felicianna's hopeful gaze that said: "I love you, Elena," and Elena's non-answers.

Elena's mind spun with ways to explain the end of their relationship. Clarity remained elusive. "You betrayed me. You crossed a line," she said, but that was not the reason. Not entirely. As long as she remained friends with Felicianna, she was providing an opportunity for Felicianna to hope.

Felicianna reached into her pocket and came out with her iPhone. "Will you stop texting, goddammit," she muttered.

Across from Elena was a porcelain doll. His eyes were creepy, stuffed dead-deer creepy.

Felicanna replaced her phone. "Will you answer me one question? With the truth."

"Yes."

"Please, please don't lie like you have been doing. I will believe your answer, whatever it is."

"What is your question?"

Felicianna's face turned angry. "Are you fucking Frances Dourne? Or were you?"

What the hell?

"Felicianna," was all Elena could say.

"How did she brainwash you? Is she that good in bed, Elena? Or did she dangle enough money in front of you and--oh! I know. She fed you some sob story about missing Marissa, and you bit it, hooker, line and sinker."

"Shut up."

"We would have been good together, Elena, you and I."

"No. Never."

"Why her? There must be a reason you accepted her. Why not me? I love you, Elena. I love you. We would be so, so good together. But you won't give us a chance!"

"I don't know what to say."

"The truth."

"Why do you think I'm seeing Frances Dourne? Is that what Darren told you?"

"He didn't have to tell me anything. You made it clear."

"Me?"

"Tabs in her memoir. Highlights. Analyzing it. Giving her your necklace. Buying her a damn $300 hourglass!"

"I did no such--"

"Don't lie! You owe me honesty."

Elena faltered in the silence that engulfed them. Tabs. Highlights. Oh, hell. She had been careful to keep the memoir in her briefcase after she started the tabs and highlights. "You broke into my briefcase."

"How could you screw her?"

Elena shifted her focus back to the porcelain doll. She ought to drop it. The sound of it shattering would be comforting. "Frances came out this morning. Did you know that?"

"Came out where?"

"The closet! She called a press conference and came out."

"Uh-huh."

Elena stared into the doll's eyes. "I have been working with her, yes."

"Working with her how?"

"Fine. I’ve been screwing her."

Felicianna slumped. "Why?"

Elena took a deep breath. "I understand you were worried about me, but you shouldn't have gone into my briefcase."

"I know," Felicianna muttered. "I'm very sorry."

Elena considered a quick hug but settled for an awkward pat. "Take care of yourself." She left Antiques by Anna and her best friend. Former best friend.

*****

Felicianna kept the store closed after Elena left. She locked herself in her office. Cried a little. Checked the news on her computer, saw the headlines about Frances Dourne coming out.

She played the coming-out video on her computer. She perked up at the end.

A rumor has been floating the past few years that you saw a prostitute. True?

Yes. I did three years ago, for a few months. I left the experience more demoralized than ever.

And you haven’t been to another?

Intense, honest-looking blue eyes. No, sir. I have not. I am done hiding.

What a crock of shit. Frances was still hiding. And Elena was helping her do it. How could Elena not see that Frances was using her, brainwashing her? Frances was only coming out to get her child back and was playing on Elena's guilt about Isaiah's death.

Felicianna ran a finger over her iPhone. No one had been texting her earlier. Part of her hoped the recording would be clear enough. Part of her hoped not. She was done babying Elena. If Elena was going to be Frances's Dourne's co-conspirator, fine. But Felicianna wasn't going to be part of the cozy little gang.

Chapter 32

Elena became aware of a ringringring, her cellphone. She raised a bleary eye toward the caller ID and the time. Natalie, her eldest sister, two-thirty p.m. "Hey, Nat."

She was calling to confirm Thanksgiving plans at Elena's condo. She and her family would be traveling from Rochester, New York, and would arrive Wednesday night.

A few seconds after the call with Natalie, the phone rang again. The number was unfamiliar, but Elena answered. Maybe Frances was calling from another phone.

"Hello," said a calm, deep male voice. "My name is Matt Lord. I run the website called--"

"I know who you are." Matt Lord made a living on gossip and from exposing celebrities and secrets.

"Am I speaking to Elena Marie Elise?"

Hang up.

He must have interpreted her silence as a yes. "Did you give Frances Dourne that charming hourglass necklace?"

The question caught her off guard.

"Ms. Elise?"

"No comment."

"Are you a prostitute servicing Frances Dourne, or were you recently?"

Now this was what she expected; nevertheless, a vise squeezed her lungs. "I have no comment. Goodbye." She hung up.

How? How? Shit. Shit. Shit! It couldn't have been her mother. So who? Felicianna? She wouldn't.

Elena found her mother in the living room. "If anyone calls about me, or about me and Frances, tell them no comment. Including Natalie and Sarah. Okay?"

"They’re your sisters."

"For now. Just for now, until I know what’s going on."

Elena retreated to her bedroom and left a frantic message with Frances. These years of friendship with Felicianna. Didn't they count for anything?

The police might come for Elena. Jail.

Elena shivered. One step at a time. The police probably would not bother to investigate. For one thing, they did not know the jurisdictions where the sex had taken place--the alleged sex.

But if the public outrage was high enough…

In Virginia, where Frances lived, and one of the locations where she had paid for sex with Elena, being a prostitute was a Class 1 misdemeanor, with jail for up to twelve months and/or a fine of up to $2,500.

Paying for sex was a Class 4 felony, with imprisonment for two years to ten years and a fine of up to $100,000. Marissa’s going to be found, and both her parents will go to jail.

Calm down. Elena knew from orientation that the chances of her being arrested were basically nil. If worst came to worst, all she had to do was drop hints about the VIPs the agency had serviced. But these thoughts were cold comfort at the moment.

She pictured public hysteria, moral outrage and prosecutors from Maryland and Virginia slapping her and Frances with a laundry list of charges.

What about the IRS? Lying about her job on tax returns, although she had been careful to exactly record her earnings and submit the proper taxes?

Thank God Frances had not let her come this morning.

Jail.

Record.

Frances, Frances, Frances.

I love you.

Felicianna, how could you?

Marissa.

Mom.

Me.

Fantasy world. Real world.

Elena could contact one of the lawyers the agency kept on call, but she liked the guy who helped her with the police after Isaiah’s death. She called him at home.

*****

Barry Blackmun, a religion reporter from The Washington Post, was polite. He was a graying, bespectacled man. Frances had granted him a private interview. She knew him from previous interviews and that he would do his best to present the story fairly.

"That's a beautiful necklace," he asked at the beginning of the interview. "Where did you get it?"

"From a friend."

The interview went well, until he paused at her office door on his way out. "Are you absolutely sure you saw one prostitute?"

"Yes."

Barry flexed his fists. "I like you. Your coming out was sincere."

"It was."

"I'm going to give you a heads up. Do you know who Matt Lord is?"

Uh-oh. Frances kept her expression neutral. "Yes."

"Is that necklace really from a friend? Or from a prostitute?"

How the heck could he know that? "No comment."

After Barry left, Frances loaded Matt’s website, The Matt Lord Report. Nothing yet.

Yet.

Frances called the prostitute. "We have a problem," Frances said.

"It’s my fault. Someone I thought was my friend is not." The prostitute’s voice was strangely calm. Bordering on numbness.

"Care to elaborate?"

"No."

"What do they have on us?" Frances asked.

"I’m not sure."

"We are at a point early enough that we can control how the news comes out. We can spin it the best way possible."

"I called my lawyer. He said to admit to nothing. He also said I don’t have anything to worry about. The police can’t get us. They have to have names, locations, dates, times, witnesses, proof. The less we say, the better."

"It will be fine. It will."

"What about your doormen? What if they run their mouths?"

"You visited me at my home. No one knows what we did inside. No one can. Only you and I know. We didn’t have sex. Okay? I paid you for one reason, one reason only. You helped me plan my coming out. Your lawyer is right. The police can’t get us because you and I won’t turn on each other. That’s the only way the cops can get us."

"What happens if we tell the truth?"

"I’m thinking an e-mailed statement to the media."

"How would it go?"

"I’m opening Microsoft Word."

"Don’t! Don’t type anything."

Frances closed the computer program. "I won’t. Uh…okay." She leaned back in her chair. "Okay, all right. This morning when I came out, I was not forthright about if I was seeing a prostitute. I promised her that I would not bring her into my mess. I was seeking help coming out, and she has been a true friend. Unfortunately, events have conspired that…uh. She has nothing to do with…please respect her privacy and direct your questions and concerns to me."

"Do we have to use the word prostitute?"

"What else can we say?"

"I don’t know. Forget it. Leave it alone. Keep denying or saying no comment."

"What about tonight? Howard Johnson?"

"My lawyer said not to have contact with you. I shouldn’t be having this conversation."

Frances’s throat closed up. "I see."

"Frances, I…I really…"

You’re dumped. Ta-ta. Tears welled in her eyes. "No HoJo. No bowling. Got it."

"Frances, are you crying?"

"We were going to talk and find a way to be together. We can still. I know we can."

"Your world has opened up. You can meet so many people. I’m part of your old life. It’s best this way. Best you get a fresh start."

"That's crap."

"I have to go," the prostitute said.

Elena. Elena. Her name is Elena. Frances realized her hands were trembling. "Elena," Frances said slowly. "Elena. I will be at our place tonight. Come if you can. At least call."

"I fell for you. I did."

"I know," Frances whispered. "Take care. Goodbye."

*****

At six o’clock, Frances got the room key from the front desk clerk. She did not care if he recognized her, and he didn’t. She let herself in the room. She set the sheet cake--chocolate, with chocolate frosting--and the ginger ale on the table. She did not let herself cry. With an unerring precision, she cut the cake into twelve squares.

It read: Happy brithday!

She had gotten it for seventy-five percent off. She went to get ice from the ice machine. She mixed ice and ginger ale into a Howard Johnson cup. She ate a piece of cake. She flicked the TV on and shuffled the deck of cards. Spider solitaire.

Traditional media was not carrying the news about Elena. Not yet, anyway. Nor was Matt Lord’s website. Maybe Frances would get lucky, and Matt would let it go.

No way.

He had called her soon after she hung up with Elena. Urged Frances to comment. Said he had Elena on tape confessing to servicing Frances. He probably wasn't going to run the tape, he said, but it was enough confirmation for him to go with the story. Frances had asked if the tape of this so-called admission was made legally, with Elena’s knowledge and consent. Matt Lord did not answer. After Frances hung up, she called her lawyer.

Frances quit her game of solitaire and booted up her MacBook. She connected to the Internet, to Matt Lord’s website. There it was, time stamped five minutes ago: FRANCES DOURNE LIED ABOUT PROSTITUTE, SAYS CALL GIRL’S BEST FRIEND

Elena Marie Elise. That was her name, and she was grinning at the beach, in a yellow bikini. She was with her son, he was eight years old then, and he was beautiful. Frances’s stomach clenched tight. Never going to see you again…

Elena Marie Elise. So she really had not lied about her name.

The knowledge of the name twisted and turned inside Frances.

Elena. Oh, Elena.

Frances could take no pleasure from the name. She swallowed hard and bit back tears. This was her coming-out celebration, damn it. She ate another piece of cake, and then another. She played solitaire and won.

Chapter 33

On Wednesday night, the night before Thanksgiving, Frances watched as the prostitute gave an exclusive interview on a "special" episode of Dateline NBC.

"What was Frances Dourne like?" Brian Williams asked.

The prostitute flipped her hair to the side. She crossed her legs and smiled flirtatiously. "Like a turtle. A scared old turtle. She tipped well, but I felt like I was betraying myself every time we met." She flashed another brilliant smile.

Obviously, she was not afraid of being prosecuted.

Turned out her name was Enid Dance. Her appearance had not changed much in the three years since she serviced Frances. Same long, shiny black hair, same fake eyelashes, but her orangey tan was ten times more vivid. Meaning, ten times worse.

"What do you think of her coming-out announcement?"

"I don't know what to think of it, to be honest with you."

"Did she tell you she was gay?"

Enid chuckled. "Her actions were clear enough. When a woman pays another woman to"--bleep--"her, it’s clear she’s gay."

"So you two did not talk much."

"No. We were in a business relationship. That was all."

"She would come in and say ‘Please do this, or this,’ and that was it?"

"More or less. Or she wouldn’t know what she wanted, and I’d come up with something."

"And then after?"

"I would leave. Or she would."

"Are you gay?"

"No, but I have many gay friends."

"What do they say about her coming out?"

"Convenient. Too convenient."

"Why didn't you go public three years ago? Why now?"

Enid sighed. "I don’t know. I just don’t know. I quit soon after Mrs. Dourne terminated my services. I felt too dirty."

Mrs. Dourne. Nice. Frances’s dislike for Enid deepened.

"You went into the business to pay off college loans, correct?"

"That’s right. Law school." She laughed.

"What do you think Daniel Dourne should do?"

Enid Dance looked right into the camera. "Daniel, keep your daughter close."

Frances clicked the TV off. Damn. Damn!

Frances had spent the earlier part of the week dealing with insults, outrage and death threats. Not to mention the media. Her parents stayed largely quiet, only saying: "We will not discuss family business."

Nicholas stayed silent too, saying he had no comment.

No one from GIC had expressed interest in following her to one of the new organizations. The board of directors was making noises about appointing Randy Germain as the next GIC president. He had been on TV a lot the past few days, espousing his views that being gay was a choice, one to avoid. He had invited her for Thanksgiving dinner. She might take him up on it. Better than being alone in the penthouse. He and his wife had enough tact to keep the conversation free of entanglements.

Some reactions were positive. In general, gay-rights groups praised Frances. Their comments were along the lines of: "We are glad Ms. Dourne is being true to herself. We hope she follows up on her promise to repent for her behavior. We look forward to the development of her new organizations."

Gay people on the street were not as forgiving. "She won’t be able to make up for what she did," was a frequent refrain. "Too little, too late."

She knew that. She fucking knew that. She was sick of hearing it everywhere.

The media were cockroaches, omnipresent. Outside her penthouse building. Outside GIC’s offices, outside the new organizations’ offices. Following her everywhere, screaming, shouting, stomping. She could not hear herself think.

She had stopped answering her cellphone and bought a new one. All media calls or hate calls on the old cell. Someone had published her number online. Same situation with the landline phone, but she could not cancel that one. What if Daniel called? Frances let calls there go to the answering machine. So far, she had deleted all her messages.

Frances wondered if Elena had been trying to call the old cell. If she should call Elena again.

She should have come out sooner. She really should have. Should not have gotten a prostitute in the first place.

No matter. It was over with and done.

Frances would leave Elena alone. Elena could, and should, do better than her. She deserved a normal life. Frances loved Elena, if this feeling was love, anyway, so she would leave Elena alone.

The media had gotten to her son’s father on Monday. They camped outside his apartment in Northwest Washington until he came out for an interview. He showed them pictures of Elena, himself and Isaiah.

"She's a good woman," Kevin said. "I couldn’t ask for a better woman to be the mother of my child. She wasn't herself after our son died." And in response to another question: "Uh, well, yeah, that does look like the hourglass I gave her."

One reporter asked: "What would your son think of his mother now?"

Kevin narrowed his eyes. "Isaiah would be damn proud of his mom. He always was. No reason for that to change."

Kevin did not say she was a prostitute. Not even close. He said: "These allegations are ridiculous. You should be ashamed of yourselves."

Thank goodness for small miracles.

That was the funny thing about the situation. There was no proof, no shred of evidence Elena was a prostitute, much less anything linking her to Frances. Other than whatever was on the recording Matt Lord was not making public. The doormen were keeping quiet. Christopher, the text-a-holic, and the rest of Frances’s family, did not mention they had met Elena.

There was only what Felicianna said, but that did not stop the media from chasing Elena and her family. Elena’s "no comments" were damning, though. If she had not been with Frances, she would issue a blanket denial, right? And there was the fact she even had a lawyer. He had released a statement saying his client would make no comments, per his advice.

Frances recognized Felicianna from her pictures with Elena on Matt Lord’s website. Anna. Should have told her at GIC that I was coming out. The situation was as much Frances’s fault as Felicianna’s. As Elena’s.

Elena could not have stayed closed off to the world for long, and she emerged with her mother Tuesday morning. The video showed up on several websites, including Matt Lord’s, and on cable news channels. The day was cloudy and overcast, and Elena matched the mood perfectly. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes, and her hair flowed behind her.

Elena and her mother were leaving a doctor’s office. Because Elena’s condo building had an attached garage, they had probably escaped the condo unscathed. Someone at the doctor’s office had likely made a quick few bucks for tipping the media off.

Elena’s mother, jaw steely, eyes set, hooked arms with Elena.

"Please let me and my mother get in the car," Elena said, her teeth clenched.

"Elena Marie Elise!" the cockroaches howled, jamming their microphones in her face, a blinding chorus of flashes going off. "Is it true Frances Dourne paid you for sex?"

"Was she good in bed?"

"Do you think Marissa should stay with her father?"

"Did she want kinky stuff? S&M?"

"Do you have photos? Videos?"

"How has your son's death changed your outlook on life?"

"Is it true you tried to kill yourself after he drowned?"

"Is Frances Dourne a good kisser?"

"Do you want more children?"

Elena gamely fought through the crowd. No comment, no comment, no comment.

Chapter 34

Cindi called Elena on Tuesday. "Hey, babe," Cindi said. "How you doing?"

"Lovely. Never been better."

"Is she the one you were talking about?"

"Yes."

Cindi sighed. "My advice would've been different if I'd known."

"What would you have said?"

Cindi laughed. "Her."

"What's so wrong about her?"

"Nothing," Cindi said in a rush. "Nothing. Just the…someone famous like her, with her history. It's just…"

"I know."

"Guess you do. Can I help in any way?"

Elena clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. "Do you think I should try to…"

"Try to what?"

"Be with her?"

"Be with--" Cindi's tone was incredulous. "Are you serious?"

"Yes. I think she would be with me."

"Do what you feel is right," Cindi said. "I, uh, I didn't know about your son."

"No reason you should have."

Cindi cleared her throat. "You need me, call anytime. If you decide to, uh, be with her, then congratulations. I hope you will be happy, and I'll be the first to invite you two over for dinner."

"Thank you," Elena whispered. "That means a lot."

*****

On Wednesday, Elena got the phone call she knew was inevitable.

"Hello, Elena," Betsy Branaugh began.

"Betsy."

"I've been following the news."

"I'm sure you have."

"I don't know if it's true, and I'm not going to ask."

Thank you.

"However," Betsy continued, "we should have a little discussion about your plans to return."

Elena felt sick. Faint. "Yes. We should."

"You know I think the world of you, Elena. You were our best party planner. You worked tirelessly. You brought in more money and clients than anyone else. You were worth two workers. No, three."

"But it's best if I don't return. The firm has a certain image."

Betsy sighed.

"I understand."

"Maybe in a few months or a year…"

"Yes, maybe. Thank you for calling, Betsy. Goodbye." Elena disconnected the call and sank onto her bed.

The letter from Frances was what saved Elena's sanity, kept her grounded. She read and reread the letter as she periodically checked the media horde on the sidewalk.

So if you ever want to talk, if you ever need my help, I am here.

If you will celebrate my coming out with me.

How had Frances celebrated? Had she even celebrated?

Pretend this letter never existed.

Frances was forever on Elena's mind, try as Elena might to pretend Frances did not exist. Her smile, her laugh, her moans. Her lovemaking, her kisses.

Being in love hurt. Really fucking hurt.

*****

Thanksgiving morning dawned chilly and gray for Frances. She lay in the penthouse bed until noon, save for a couple of bathroom breaks. She would go over to Randy’s about four o’clock. For now, she was alone, with memories to keep her company. Her first Thanksgiving with Marissa, the chocolate cake Daniel made for dessert. The chocolate in Marissa’s face, in her hair, on the floor. Daniel laughing and Frances horrified at the mess.

If only she knew then what she knew now. She would smear the damn cake over her own face and laugh at herself. She was a fraud. She was not cut out to be a mother. She hoped to God that her daughter stayed right where she was.

About twelve-thirty, Frances wandered into the room with the three hundred and fifty-two hourglasses. Time to dust them. She still wore the hourglass around her neck. Maybe she should mail it back to Elena.

Frances finished round one of dusting. Two p.m. Maybe she would make something to take to Randy’s. Or she could dust and clean Marissa’s room. Yes, she would do that. First, she would have a hamburger for lunch. No ketchup.

*****

Victoria's father fell asleep about nine-thirty a.m., as the Big Bird balloon floated by in the Macy's Thanksgiving parade.

Victoria sipped from his remaining half can of beer. She spit the liquid back out. "Gross." How did anyone like this crap? She poured the beer out in the sink. He was drinking again. He had started Sunday. He’d tried to hide it at first by going out back to the shed.

She was fourteen. She was not stupid. Not blind.

Forget the parade. Victoria surfed the channels, hoping to catch something about her maybe-mother or one of the prostitutes, especially Enid Dance. She was from Jupiter or something. Her skin was alien orange. She must be a fascinating lawyer. Victoria would gladly attend court to watch her. The other one, Elena, Victoria felt sorry for. She should do what Enid had done and approach the media on her own terms. They would leave her alone a little then.

What was it like to have a child who died? Isaiah Norwood’s hair fascinated Victoria. Thick, everywhere, curly. She would have liked to run her fingers through his hair. When Victoria thought about her dad dying, her chest felt funny. Heavy. She wanted him alive and all right. She did not want him depressed and drinking. He needed help. He was wasting his life. But how could she help him? Markie's parents did not care. Markie's dad had driven her home that one night and seen her dad passed out. Said and did nothing. She did not trust the counselors at school or teachers, or whomever. They might try to take her from her dad.

Rain pounded incessantly against the windows.

"Daddy?" She poked him.

Nothing but the skk-skkk of his snores.

Skk-skkkk. She poked him again. "Daddy?"

A mumble. Rubbing of his eyes. "What?"

"Do you think Frances means it when she says she’s gay?"

He straightened and blinked a few times. "Did I fall asleep?"

"Daddy, do you think Frances means it when she says she’s gay?"

Irritation flashed in his eyes. "Probably. Let's watch the parade, all right?"

"What should Daniel do about Marissa?"

He groaned. "It doesn’t matter what I think he should do. He’s not me."

"Why did you start drinking again?"

He staggered to his feet. He fished a beer from the refrigerator, considered the can a moment, and replaced it. He got water. "The memories she brings back."

"Camp?"

"Yes."

"Were you with her only that one time? Or did you see her for other stuff?"

He sat back down. "I don't like talking about this."

"I know."

He switched the TV off. "Some other stuff, yeah. English class. Math. We sat together in math."

"So camp was like a school, too?"

"Yes."

"What was she like?"

"Extremely smart. I knew she would go far. And she did. She expanded GIC right quick."

"I worry about you. Your drinking."

"I worry about me too," he whispered. "And about you. You're fourteen. You shouldn’t be worrying about me. This wasn't how I envisioned our lives."

"How did you?"

He swigged from his water. "You, me, your mother. Maybe a little brother or sister. Several. All of us together. Happy."

She wanted to ask: How did the fire turn you into a hermit? I don't understand the connection. It's sad to love someone that much, that their death does this to your life.

"You say being gay isn't a choice, but you said at the restaurant in Little Rock that you truly loved my mother."

He stared at the glass in his hands. Tears shone in his eyes. "I did, though. I did love your mother. She didn't love me back. She was too scared to love anyone."

"But she loved me, right?"

Timothy lifted his gaze to hers. "Sexuality's a funny thing, Vic. Sometimes, it's not black and white, but instead a continuum. I'm gay, yeah. Except for that one woman. I fell for her. Hard." He drained the rest of his water.

Victoria felt cold. Why was her father avoiding the question? "Didn't she love me?"

His gaze roamed the room. He clenched his jaw, returned his focus to her. "Of course she did. Your mother loved you."

He’s lying. "How did the fire start?"

"In the kitchen. It, uh…" He refilled his water. "She was home alone."

"Did you guys live around here?"

"We’ll talk about this later. Maybe tomorrow."

"I Googled my mother’s name and the word ‘fire.’ There’s nothing."

Her father studied her sadly. "I’m sorry, Victoria. If I could, I would give you your mother back. But she's dead."

Chapter 35

Thanksgiving dinner turned out to be just Elena and Brenda. Natalie, Sarah and their families did not want to deal with the press. Brenda and Elena worked all day, in tandem but largely in silence. They put the turkey in the oven, made mashed potatoes, green beans, corn pudding, biscuits, peanut butter pie and chocolate cake.

Enough to last a month.

"I'll visit Sarah next week," Brenda said as they waited for the turkey to finish. She wore her blue sleeping gown.

"Good idea."

"And then Natalie for Christmas, if she doesn't come here."

"Good idea. The peanut butter pie looks good."

"I don't think I'm hungry, dear."

"I'll be right back." Elena went to her office. She was about to burst from frustration. She sat at her desk, ran her fingertips over the clock and got paper and pen out. The writing would be therapeutic. If nothing else, she could use it to explain to her mother, to her sisters, what happened. That she and Frances together were not cheap. That what transpired between them was true and meaningful.

Frances Dourne did not come to me for sex. She came to me so she would not have to be alone anymore. She is a wonderful woman, a special woman. She has done many things she regrets, and she's had to overcome quite a few obstacles to get to where she is.

I am honored to know her, and while it is not practical for me to continue my association with her, I miss her. Very much. We were wonderful together.

Elena stopped. Advice columnist Ann Landers had had a famous question: "Am I better off with him or without him?"

Elena had asked herself countless times if she was better off with or without Frances. Her brain told her without.

Every time.

Frances had cost Elena her party planning job. Steamrolled her chances of having a private life, of going to the grocery store alone. Her mother and sisters did not understand how she could be in love with that woman. Because of Frances Dourne, Elena was one of the most infamous women in the United States.

Not Frances's fault, Elena reminded herself.

Felicianna's fault. And Elena's own.

Still.

Elena had a choice. She could continue her pattern since Isaiah's death, run from her issues, take the easy road. Or she could fight for herself and Frances.

I love her, Elena continued writing. I love her very much, and that's not one bit practical, is it?

Elena’s brain told her to end right there. Her heart kept writing, and when she finished, she reviewed the statement and smiled. Her frustration was gone.

I was supposed to start back at my old job the Monday after Thanksgiving. Not anymore.

I was supposed to have a life as a private citizen, where no one knows my business. I'm supposed to be an out, proud, gay woman. Instead, I'm the newest target for many gays. A traitor, turncoat, a Benedict Arnold. The world knows me as a prostitute. A whore. People will never look at me the same again. I will always be dirty to them. Tainted.

I can't go out for a frappuccino because the press is all around me. Their flashes are blinding, their questions deafening. My family looks at me like I'm insane when I say I love Frances Dourne. Last night on Skype my sister Sarah asked why. Why I love Frances Dourne. I couldn't tell Sarah then, because I was still hoping I'd magically fall out of love.

It isn't happening.

I love Frances because she helped me feel again. She gave me my life back. She gave me a chance, and I gave her a chance. Because we click. Because we feel right together. Because she's not perfect. She opened herself up to me, opened her heart to me. She placed her trust in me. Because I just do.

My sister asked: "Does she make you happy? Because you can't be happy. You barely could take Mom home from the doctor!"

I did not know how to answer Sarah.

I know the answer now. My life may be in shambles, but I have confidence. I'll find another job. The media will go away eventually.

What won't go away is "what if." What if I had given my love for Frances a chance?

Practical to love her? No, not at all, but I love her, I love Frances Dourne, and if she'll have me, I want her.

*****

Brenda was setting the table when Elena returned.

"Ma, read this."

Brenda took the paper and read. Her chin trembled. At last, she said: "Good for you, Elena dear. You deserve to be happy."

Chapter 36

Frances was not sure how much longer she could tolerate Ryan Philpott. He was agonizing. His voice was high and squeaky, and he liked to talk about birds. Frances had nothing against birds or bird watchers. She did have something against bird watchers mumbling for thirty minutes about the red-headed woodpecker. During a pause, Nora, Randy Germain's wife, pulled Frances aside.

"I'm real sorry," Nora said. "He was Randy's idea. I didn't know he was coming."

"It's okay."

"Randy's having a hard time. A lot of people are. You're their idol. If you could be gay, they could be too. It's scary."

"I know."

Nora touched Frances's shoulder. "For what it's worth, you did the right thing."

"Really?"

"I'll be honest with you. I never liked GIC. Randy was the one who wanted to try it. I wanted to save our marriage, so I supported him."

"Are you two doing okay?"

Nora grinned. "We're great."

"He really is straight, huh? Straight enough."

"Yes," Nora said carefully. "I believe so."

*****

Friday morning, Timothy was passed out on the couch before eleven o'clock. Were the rest of Victoria's days going to be like this, on the couch with her passed-out father? She needed to deliver a wake-up call. She had watched him drive the truck countless times. Handling the gas, brakes and clutch would be tricky. What if her father woke up and caught her practicing? Or caught her stuck in the middle of their long driveway, unable to get the stalled engine going?

Well, if it happened, it happened.

She finagled the keys to the truck from his pocket. He had one hundred dollars in his wallet, and she jammed the bills in a sandwich bag. She stuffed peanut butter, jelly and a loaf of bread into a plastic bag. She knew a few other spots where he kept money, and she collected another five hundred dollars, for a total of six hundred. It wasn't like she was leaving him without resources. He had a motorcycle in the shed. Other cash hidden throughout the place.

Victoria kissed her father’s temple, her heart hammering. "Goodbye, Daddy," she whispered.

Skk-skkk.

She left a note:

Daddy, I've gone to Little Rock. I don’t know where to after that, but I’ll be okay. Please don't call the cops. I want a break. I will be back when the money runs out. I have six hundred dollars. I love you.

-Vic

She clambered into the truck. Maybe she would visit San Diego. Victoria felt like she knew the place already from Markie’s stories, but she wanted to see the La Jolla cove and cliffs for herself. She wanted to see the harbor seals play. Speaking of Markie. Victoria would call her friend before Monday, make sure Markie did not call the hotline on her behalf after Victoria did not show up for school next week.

San Diego it probably was. She would look at the atlas later, after she got a good start. She would not be free until she figured out how to get the truck going.

*****

So good, so far, Victoria thought. She had pushed the seat in so she could see okay and reach the pedals okay. Also she had gotten the windshield wipers working. She only needed five tries before the truck lurched and got lively.

She drove about five miles per hour. She was a new driver, and add to that the monsoon-like rain. Once in a while, the rain let up, and she could see better. She kept her eye on the time, and thirty minutes after she left, she was not even halfway to Little Rock.

Finally, she pulled in front of the Capitol. It was peaceful. Not many people were around the day after Thanksgiving. Victoria stayed in the truck and listened to the thuwmp thuwmp of the rain. She gazed at the Capitol. Was her father stirring awake now? Was he wondering where she was, where his keys were, where the cash from his wallet was?

When he saw the note and realized she was not coming back for a while, would he go to the police, against her wishes?

Or would he do absolutely nothing, let her have her break, and hope she returned to the cabin as promised? Because she would. She definitely would. Do nothing, Daddy. I will be back. I promise. I need time away, that’s all. To figure out how to help you. And myself.

"San Diego?" she whispered to the Capitol.

Maybe she ought to see another capitol instead. The United States Capitol, near where Frances lived. Frances was not her mother, but that was okay. Victoria would stop being a silly princess wanna-be. Maybe she would meet Frances someday, work for one of her new organizations. Of course, by that time, the organizations would not be new. Victoria would need to go to college. Frances would be like fifty when Victoria graduated. They would have a good laugh over Victoria’s adolescent fantasies.

She consulted the atlas. She needed to take I-20 and I-10 West to San Diego.

Victoria rarely prayed. Her father scoffed at God. But now she put her hands together and said: "Dear God, please take care of my father. And take care of my mother in heaven. Tell her I wish I had a picture of her and that I miss her, even though I don’t know her. Take care of Frances and Daniel and Marissa, and Sally Dourne, and Jupiter Enid and Elena and Kevin and Isaiah in heaven."

Chapter 37

Elena parallel parked near the penthouse building Friday night. Calling was no use; Frances's voice mail was eternally full. She probably was not checking the phone anymore, and Elena did not want to call GIC. From her vantage point in the car, Elena could see a couple of photographers outside the building. This was it. She would be photographed. Indisputably linking herself to Frances.

"Here we go," Elena whispered, and slid out of her car. She was head over heels in love, and she would let herself enjoy it.

*****

Frances was dusting more hourglasses when the doorman buzzed up. "You have a visitor. Your party planner, ma’am."

Frances stared at the buzzer. Party planner? Surely he doesn't mean...

"Who?" she said dumbly.

"Ms. Elise, ma'am."

"Ms. Elise," Frances repeated. She ignored the leaping in her stomach, refused to let the words take root. "Ms. Elise. Right. Let her up."

Frances raced to the bathroom to look herself over. Elena was here. Why?

To get the stuffed envelope she left Sunday morning?

To get the necklace?

Both?

Or to…

Frances did not dare let herself hope. After the harassment Elena and her mother had suffered, surely Elena was not here for a reunion.

The doorbell rang. Frances kept the necklace on but got the envelope from her nightstand.

Elena was lovelier than before, if that was possible. Her hair was down, and she wore low-slung yellow dress pants--a color Frances had never seen on dress pants, but they worked on her, they absolutely did--black heels, and a long-sleeved tight black shirt. She had no doubt planned for the photographers.

"Frances." Elena smiled cautiously, but Frances saw tenderness in her eyes, in her expression. Yearning. Longing. Or perhaps Frances was projecting her own wants.

Frances held the envelope out. "Do you want the necklace back too?"

"Oh, Frances. No money, no necklace."

A knot rose in Frances's throat. "Why are you here?"

"Because I want to be. So we can have the talk we never did. Is that okay?"

Yes, yes, so okay, you have no idea. "Does your lawyer know?"

"Yes. He's smart enough to deal with it. I want to be with you."

"Why me?"

"We're--we're--all right. Maybe I shouldn't say this because it's early, maybe too strong, but, Frances, I am in love with you. Very much in love with you. Is it practical to love you? Well, no. But a year from now, or thirty years from now, I don't want to be wondering: 'What if I had given my love for you a chance?' I love you, and if you'll have me, I want you. No catch. I just want to be with you. You're worth it. You really are. We're worth it."

Frances was too stunned to say anything.

"Frances?"

Her heart hammered. And here it is. The big moment. The "L" word. Frances was awful with relationships. With telling people she loved them. This woman, for whatever reason, was in love with her. Frances remembered all the times Daniel had told her he loved her, and her tight smiles, her occasional, quick: "Love you too" replies. She had never divorced him, had never pursued a divorce in absentia. The practical reason was that as long as she was married, at least on paper, she would not have to worry too much about finding men to date to keep up appearances. The emotional reason was because her husband had loved her, and she had loved him, in her own way. She had done wrong by him. By remaining his wife, perhaps she was telling him she loved him. As much as she could. And that she knew she had done wrong.

Now Elena, expression fretful, was looking at her. "Frances," Elena ventured. "You don’t have to--"

"I'm not good at saying 'I love you.' "

"I told you it was too early. That's not my point--"

Frances pressed a finger to Elena's lips. She would commit to Elena. Fully. She would not fail Elena like she failed Daniel. "Wait, wait. Let me finish. I’m not good at saying ‘I love you.’ I said it maybe a handful of times to Daniel. Handful of times to Marissa. No one else. But I love you, Elena, I do. And I’ll probably be saying it every five minutes because I’ll explode otherwise." Frances wrapped her arms around Elena. Elena, strong and substantial and soft and womanly, burrowed into her. Elena kissed her neck and started crying, but that was all right. It was good crying.

*****

They made love, again and again, and laughed and kissed. About midnight, they worked on a statement for the media, pending the approval of Elena’s lawyer. Perhaps something simple issued from Frances such as: Elena Marie Elise and I are in a relationship. We request the courtesy of our privacy.

They would not get privacy, of course not, but they had to put it in there.

"Elena Marie Elise," Frances said. "I am so glad your name is not Jill Smith. Or Jane Jones."

*****

Elena spent part of Saturday in Frances’s new offices--a small, one-floor space. Each organization would take half the space. Elena and Frances walked around the offices, discussing names, decorations and other ideas.

"I’m thinking a combined grand opening in mid-January," Frances said. "I’d like a bash. An opening-night party." A twinkle appeared in her eyes. "But I don’t know any party planners. Do you?"

Elena giggled. "You serious?"

"Serious as mud."

Elena jumped into Frances's arms and kissed her. Yep. She would be fine. She would make many contacts planning this party, would meet many people at the party. She would drum up enough business to keep her going for quite a bit.

*****

Victoria checked herself in the bathroom mirror Sunday morning. Not bad. No lines on her face, no circles under her eyes. She looked like she’d had a good night’s sleep. She probably had; she did not remember waking up any during the night. She squeezed the toothpaste tube and brushed her teeth. Approaching sirens bleated--an ambulance, probably.

She was at Thomas Memorial Hospital right outside St. Albans, West Virginia. She’d spent the night sleeping in the truck in the hospital parking lot. She’d started toward San Diego on Friday but changed her mind. She wanted to hear Francis Wellington preach. She wanted to see the town where Frances grew up. Maybe the house where Frances grew up, too. No, Frances was not her mother, the Wellingtons were not her family, but for three months, she believed maybe they were. A little, irrational part of her continued to hope. Besides, she wanted to look in the eyes of a man who sent his daughter away for one year.

Time to go. It was ten forty-five. The church was about fifteen minutes away. She had called Thrasher Independent Baptist on Saturday. Francis held his sermon at eleven. She wanted to be a few minutes late. Hang out in the back, unseen. Green hair was not appropriate for church.

The Thrasher Independent Baptist parking lot was full, but Victoria found a spot on the street. The church was a long grayish building with three crosses on the front. Boring. Her first time in church, and the building was like this. Didn't stop her from taking a picture with the disposable camera she bought Friday at a Seven-Eleven.

She crept into the building. The doors to the sanctuary were propped open, and Victoria stayed by them. The choir was singing a hymn, their voices lifting and falling together. Victoria surveyed the pews. Pretty full. She wondered if Nicholas Wellington and his family were there. Where did Frances’s mother sit? She must go to services, right?

Francis Wellington stood at the front, beaming at the choir. She took a long look at him. She felt as if she were living a movie. A person, and a town, she had read about, and seen on TV, were in the flesh now. Pretty cool.

"That was beautiful," Francis said. "Thank you." He turned to the pulpit. His gaze roved over the congregation, and Victoria was tempted to duck out of sight. Jeans. Green hair. Not church-like at all.

Didn’t matter. He did not see her.

"Let’s pray," Francis said. He bowed his head, clasped his hands together, and the congregation followed suit. Victoria snapped a couple of quick photos. "God, please bless everyone who is here today. Bless those who are sick and who cannot attend. Please help me to understand Your desire for a sermon today and to open the hearts of those listening and help them accept Your word." His voice crackled. "Amen."

"Amen," Victoria whispered. If she did not work for one of Frances's organizations, she might become a pastor. But her God was a different one than Francis Wellington’s God.

"Have a seat." The voice belonged to a stooped man. A tag identified him as "USHER." He guided her to a back pew and sat with her.

"Donald Wright," he said.

"Victoria Cove." He smelled funny. Was this how old people smelled?

"Haven't seen you here before."

"I'm visiting. I'm from Arkansas. I'm sorry about my hair and clothes."

"Oh, that's all right," he said. "Place can always use a little color."

The sermon was the last in a series about Jesus helping others. Francis Wellington talked about how Jesus did not put himself above other people, even though he was the Messiah. He traveled among the sick and healed them. He washed beggars' feet. "We should do the same," Francis intoned. "I volunteer at a soup kitchen, for example. No one is better than anyone else."

Donald Wright beamed and nodded.

Victoria managed a strained smile. These people did not practice what they preached. But as long as she was here…"My dad needs help," Victoria said. "Could you pray for him?"

"What kind of help?" Donald asked.

"I think he's an alcoholic."

Donald's expression was grave. "I will pray for your father, Miss Victoria, and I'll introduce you to Rev. Wellington after the service."

*****

Donald waited until most of the parishioners left. Francis Wellington's handshake was firm, but not too firm. His smile seemed genuine, as did the twinkle in his eye. This looked like a kind man. Was this her grandfather? If he noticed the resemblance between Victoria and the age-progressed pictures of Marissa, he kept the information to himself. Showed no signs of recognizing her. "Welcome, young lady. Did you enjoy the sermon?"

Possible People magazine cover, her and Frances Wellington beaming: Eagle-eyed grandfather recognizes granddaughter. Subheadline: "The green hair distracted me, but I knew who she was, all right. You know family, sure enough."

"Yes, sir. I might become a pastor someday."

"Is that right?"

Donald explained that Victoria was from Arkansas and wanted their help praying for her father. "Alcoholism," Donald said.

"Oh my. Are you here alone?"

"I'm with my mother," Victoria lied. "She went shopping."

"We could speak with her."

"No, thank you. Just pray for my dad. Okay? His name is Timothy Cove."

"Timothy Cove. We will."

They talked a few more minutes, and then Victoria excused herself to the bathroom. Otherwise, they would want to walk her out. Wait with her for her mother.

Not gonna happen.

Victoria headed out the church doors instead of making a left for the bathroom. She didn’t belong here. Time to go back to her father. She had three hundred dollars left, but she missed him more than she imagined possible. Home sweet home. Her adventure was over. Her break was over.

Chapter 38

About one o'clock on Sunday, Elena left the penthouse to do party planning work from her home office. Frances stayed at the penthouse, ready to tackle her own pile of work. The landline phone had rung several times that morning. Elena had deleted the messages.

You bitch, you cunt

You’ll burn in hell

Faggots rule! You’re not one of us!

The messages were getting less frequent but not milder. Frances was about to switch the ringer off and turn down the volume on the answering machine so she could work in peace. The phone rang, and Frances poised her finger over the delete button on the answering machine. It picked up after the second ring.

Hello, you’ve reached Frances Dourne. Please leave a message. *beep*

She braced herself for a new stream of vitriol. What came instead was a shaky, vaguely familiar male voice. "Uh, I’ll, uh, I’ll call back at two. It’s important. Eastern time." The voice had changed, it was Southern, but it was him.

Her heart thumped, and she grabbed the receiver. "Daniel?"

Several more heartbeats, then: "Frances."

She took a deep breath. Calm. Rational. "Daniel. Hello. How are you?" As if her husband were calling to inquire about a tea party.

"Not so hot."

"What’s wrong?"

The tea cakes didn’t come in, and we don’t have enough tea.

"She’s gone. She’s been gone since Friday morning."

Frances’s heart stilled. "Gone?"

"She left a note saying she’d be back, when the money runs out. She has six hundred dollars and a truck."

"Right. Yes. A lot can happen in a week. In a day. The world is dangerous."

"That’s what I tell her. She’s stubborn, like us both. We have to find her. You have to find her."

Calm. Rational. "Where did she go? Did you ask--does she have friends or--"

"Yes, yes. She hasn’t talked to her friends. I called the hospitals. Went to the airport and bus stations, and--" He whimpered. "Frances, she's gone."

"All right." Frances sank onto the couch. She pressed a hand over her eyes.

"She might be going to see you. She hasn’t shown up?" Daniel asked.

"She knows I’m her mother?"

"She’s suspected. She’s the one who called the hotline, but I think I persuaded her otherwise after that."

Hi, Mommy! Pretty doggy wanna pet doggy. Big, shining brown eyes.

"This is what we’re going to do," Daniel said with finality. "Give me your email address. I’ll send you a couple of pictures of her. And some other stats. Height, weight. You give that to the police. You hold a press conference. And you find her."

Frances felt as if she were drugged and in the twilight zone. Daniel was imploring her to find their daughter. "Why did she run away?"

"I have problems."

"What problems?"

"I never expected…I never…I had false IDs but not much money. I had connections, yeah, but…but then somehow, a day went by and we weren’t found. Then a week. Then a month, and I got more money from people. Then a year, and more money. But always I was looking behind my back." His voice dropped. "She hasn’t had any kind of life. Not the life I wanted for her."

"I lied when I said you could stay for her birthday party."

"I know. She’s a wonderful girl, Frances. You and I, we screwed up. But she’s wonderful. She’s so smart, and curious. I think you’ll like her."

"I’ll find her," Frances whispered.

"Her favorite food is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches." Daniel’s voice broke. "We play baseball. She has a mean fastball. She got her period last year. I don’t think she likes tampons. She wants a Facebook account. She wants a cellphone and a computer, and she wants to go to the mall."

"What are you going to do? Stay in hiding?"

"I’ll figure that out later. I’m all right. I’m at a library. The email's going to be traced to a proxy in Afghanistan or somewhere thereabouts. First you find her."

Frances gave Daniel her email address. And then the number for the Marissa phone. "Call me there. I always have it with me." She unfolded her MacBook.

"She has green hair in one of the pictures," Daniel said. "Still does. She skipped school one day and got it done. I think, uh, the green hair makes her feel special. She doesn't think she's pretty."

"Oh."

"If she wants to dye her hair again, I think you should let her."

"Green hair. Got it."

An email popped up, subject line: Marissa.

Frances opened it. She could not bring herself to click on the photo files yet. She studied the body of the email.

Victoria Anne Cove, a.k.a. Marissa Leigh Dourne

Nickname "Vic"

95 pounds to 100 pounds

14 years old

Green hair, brown eyes (naturally brown hair)

Approx. four feet eleven inches tall

May be driving a rusty yellow 1980 4WD Toyota pickup, license plate Arkansas 991 LNJ (no photo available of truck)

Best friend is Markie Cunningham, parents Richard and Kathryn. (501) 555-6578

Last seen about 30 miles outside Little Rock, Arkansas. Ask Richard Cunningham to show the police/FBI where she lived. Place is hard to find.

Markie is from San Diego. She said she and Victoria talked about taking a trip there sometime. Victoria was very interested in seeing San Diego.

Picture "Marissa1" with the green hair taken this month

Picture "Marissa2" with brown hair in June

"Any questions?" Daniel asked. "Make sure the pictures open. They’re only shoulders up. I didn’t have full-body shots."

Frances clicked one .jpeg open, then the other. She refused to let herself stare. Later.

"No questions."

Daniel hung up. No goodbye, no nothing.

Only then did Frances let herself stare. First she studied the green-hair photo. She took in pieces because the whole would be too overwhelming. The brown eyes, with a hint of her own almond shape. The huge smile, the light in it. Good God. That smile. Frances’s smile. The red, flushed cheeks. She must have just been laughing.

How could this girl not think she was pretty? She was beautiful. She took Frances's breath away. This was her child, this was her daughter, after eleven years. She looked happy. She really did.

And she was fourteen years old, alone, vulnerable and beautiful in a world full of predators, and had been missing three days.

Chapter 39

Elena went with Frances to meet with the FBI. They held the press conference at the FBI offices. Elena watched on a TV in a lounge; her presence at the conference itself would be a distraction, especially since she and Frances had yet to release a statement about their relationship. However, pictures of them together were everywhere. The media had followed them to the new office yesterday, and today to FBI building.

FBI agent Jimmy Haller opened the press conference. He and Frances stood at the podium, both their faces grave. They looked more like they were about to report Marissa’s death than her…

Her what? Disappearance? She had already been missing. Strange situation, this.

"Thank you for coming on short notice. We need your help," Jimmy said. "Daniel Dourne called Frances about one o'clock this afternoon. Their daughter has been gone since Friday morning. She ran away from her home near Little Rock, Arkansas." Jimmy turned on the screen behind him. The two pictures of Marissa--Victoria--filled the screen.

Frances glanced at the images, then back to the cameras. "Her new name is Victoria Anne Cove." Frances spoke slowly, unemotionally. Probably exhaustion and all she had been through in the past week were catching up to her. Frances read off a paper. "Her nickname is Vic. She is the girl who called the hotline. She may be driving a rusty yellow 1980 four-wheel drive Toyota pickup, license plate Arkansas 991 LNJ. She weighs about ninety-five pounds to one hundred pounds and is approximately four feet eleven inches tall. She has green hair--unless she’s dyed it again."

Jimmy now: "If you have seen Victoria or a girl matching one of these pictures, or a truck matching the description, please call this number." The number appeared on the screen as he spoke it. "She may be heading toward, or be in, San Diego, California. She might also be in or headed to the D.C. region."

Reporters burst out with questions, but Jimmy shook his head. "Thank you for your help."

The Little Rock FBI office had agents at Markie’s house. They would soon be interviewing Victoria’s teachers and classmates. The pictures and descriptions had gone out to police stations in the United States, Mexico and Canada.

But all Elena and Frances could do today was wait. They would rest, let the FBI investigate, and go all out tomorrow, the both of them, together and individually: morning news shows, talk shows, radio shows, whatever they could get.

Victoria would be found.

*****

"It doesn't seem real," Frances said. She took in the bare walls of her daughter’s room. In one week, would posters clutter the walls? Would clothes be strewn everywhere? She placed the two gifts on the floor and stretched out on the bed. There was no doubt the runaway girl was her daughter. The girl’s--and Daniel's--fingerprints were everywhere in the Arkansas cabin. "Come lay with me."

Elena was peering out a window. "She'll enjoy the view."

"Bet you she's afraid of heights."

Elena snorted and drew the curtains shut. "What else are you thinking?"

Frances shrugged. "Just that with abducted children, a lot of the time, they don't have the best lives. They have limited or no access to health care. They're home-schooled. They hide. That's her life. That's that girl's life." Fatigue pressed down on Frances. "Tomorrow's going to be brutal. How many times can I brush off questions about you?"

"We released the statement. Tell them you love me, I love you, I'm a party planner, I'm planning the opening-night party for your new organizations. And that you're on the show to discuss your daughter, only your daughter."

"Yeah."

"Maybe they'll find her before tomorrow. You won't have to do the shows."

That's more scary. "What do I say to her? 'Hello, nice to meet you, I'm your mother?' "

Elena's smile was shaky. "I don't know."

"How are you doing?"

"Me?"

"We haven't had time to relax and enjoy each other."

"I'm not worried about that. We will."

"I love you, Elena. I want to take you on a vacation once everything's calm. "

Elena grinned. "You better."

"Is it going to be hard for you having her around?"

"Because of Isaiah, you mean? No. It'll be good to have her." Elena joined Frances on the bed, and their lips met for a deep kiss. The Marissa phone rang, and Frances put it on speakerphone.

"Your father called the tip line," Jimmy said.

"My dad?"

"He was with your daughter this morning. She showed up for his sermon. He's a hundred percent sure. There are other witnesses. Victoria Cove, father Timothy Cove. Pray for him because he's an alcoholic. She said she was in St. Albans with her mother. Victoria left your father about noon. Said she was going to the bathroom but never came back. No indication where she was going, but we're hoping she's still around. Police are looking for her and the truck. She's okay, though. She's all right. Maybe she's heading up here next."

Frances and Jimmy talked for a couple of minutes, and then Frances hung up. She rubbed her eyes. The alcoholism information was not new. Markie and her parents had told the FBI about it. "Her with Dad. The first place I wanted to run away from. I should laugh, right?"

"Mmm."

"The age-progression pictures are close, don't you think?"

"Yes."

Anger filled Frances. "Didn't he see the resemblance? Ugh. Who knows. If I'd met her out of the blue, maybe I wouldn't have said anything, either. Maybe I wouldn't have recognized her." Frances let her gaze roam the room for what seemed like the hundredth time. "You think it's all right? Ready for her?"

"It's ready for her to decorate it. You ready to be her mom, Frances?"

"No," Frances said, but grinned. "I didn't think I was ready to love anyone either, but I have you."

"That you do."

The rest of the afternoon, and then the evening, passed excruciatingly slow. Tips poured in, but nothing too helpful. A few people around St. Albans, especially staff at Thomas Memorial, had seen the girl Sunday morning.

But she seemed to be gone from St. Albans now. The drive to Arlington, Virginia, was six hours. No sightings, though. No green-haired girl showing up at GIC, or the new offices, or at the penthouse building, wanting to see her mother.

No green-haired girl anywhere.

*****

Victoria was on I-40, on the outskirts of Little Rock, when the rhaaaa-rhaaaa-rhaaaa of police sirens jerked her awake.

Careful. She had been falling asleep. Should have pulled over at a rest area in Forrest City, but that was hard when she was getting so close to her own bed. She checked the time. Two a.m. She pulled over on the shoulder. The sirens whirled in her rearview mirror, a carousel of red and blue.

The cop did not get out until two oh-five a.m. Had he been calling in the license number or something? He was an Arkansas state trooper and did not look much older than Markie. He had a head full of black hair, and his smile was white. His eyes were blue, like Frances’s. "Do you know why I pulled you over, ma’am?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "No, sir." 'Cause my dad reported the truck stolen? Reported me missing? What if the police try to take me from him?

"Two reasons. One, you were weaving."

"Oh. Wow. That's--I'm sorry, sir."

He grinned, looking at her. Really looking at her. Thinking maybe she looked a little too young to be driving. "License and registration, please."

"What's the second reason you pulled me over?"

More sirens, another car. It parked in front of the truck. A man and a woman jumped out. Their uniforms were those of regular cops, not troopers. The trooper stepped back and let the woman cop take his place.

More sirens, a third car. State trooper. Then a fourth, regular police. Oh, God. Daddy’s really mad.

"What's your name?" the female cop asked gently.

Her hands were trembling. "Victoria."

"Victoria who?"

"Cove."

"How old are you? You’re out a little late."

"I’m eighteen. Please let me go home."

"Honey, you have to come with us. A lot of people have been looking for you."

"Is Daddy mad?"

"No, no. He's not mad."

"Why can't I go home?"

The female cop exchanged a glance with the first trooper.

He nodded. "We'll be square with you, Victoria. We don't know where your father is."

"Why?"

"He's gone away."

Victoria's chest squeezed. Fierce tears stung her eyes. "Why?"

The woman again: "Honey, come with us. We'll straighten everything out."

"Why is he gone?"

Another meaningful glance between the female cop and the trooper was answer enough. Betrayal slammed into Victoria. Her father had lied about her mother. And, apparently, Victoria had lost him. "I only wanted to help Daddy," she mumbled.

People magazine cover, similar to one she had imagined before: Reunion of the year!

"I never lost hope," Frances Dourne says, tears in her eyes, and daughter Marissa adds: "I love my mom to bits." Along the column: Daniel Dourne found dead. Marissa weeps for her daddy.

*****

The man who met Frances and Elena at the Little Rock FBI office introduced himself as Agent Paul Lundy. Elena was worried about Frances. She had been largely silent for the flights and had thrown up during the layover in Memphis.

Now, Frances broadcasted a bright smile. Her hair was in a bun, every strand in place. Her face was fresh and bright, her eyes eager. Her breath was perfect cinnamon and spearmint and bubble gum and Crest toothpaste. She wore a black business suit. "Nice to meet you, Agent Lundy. Thank you for taking care of her. I'm Frances, and this is Elena."

The bright smiles, the fakery, were bad signs. She looked like the old Frances Dourne. Elena was afraid Frances was on the verge of a collapse.

"How is she?" Frances asked. That was another thing. Since Daniel's call, Elena could not remember Frances referring to her daughter by name--be it either Marissa or Victoria--except for one "Victoria Anne Cove" during the press conference. Only "she," "her," and sometimes, "the girl."

Must be hard. She had been Marissa for fourteen years. Now she was Victoria.

"She's fine. We haven't questioned her because, well--" Agent Lundy flashed Frances a grin--"because her mother wasn't present. She did say that, uh, she never meant for--" Lundy made an expansive gesture--"for this to happen. She wants her dad back. She was trying to get help for him."

"Has she talked about me?"

"No," Agent Lundy said. He motioned for them to follow him. "Let's go meet her."

*****

Paul Lundy reached for the handle of the door, and Frances wondered if he could sense her fear. "Wish me luck, Agent Lundy," she whispered, hearing her voice coming from a long way off.

"Good luck."

Frances gripped Elena's hand. "Come with me."

"I will."

The room looked comfortable. Fresh white paint. Orange couch. Table with magazines. Water cooler with an abundant supply of Dixie cups.

Two women were at a table in a far, dim corner. Looked like they were working a jigsaw puzzle with a girl. The girl. But the girl was more like a shadow. The women got up. "Agent Rita Richards," one said. She shook Elena's hand, and then Frances's. "This is Gail Connors with the DCFS. Child Services."

"Victoria," Gail Connors called. "Your mother is here."

Frances was paralyzed. She wanted to move, had never wanted to move more, she wanted to go to the girl and put her arms around the girl, but she could not.

The shadow stood, and invisible fingers prodded it forward bit by bit. Frances still could not move, but Elena met the girl halfway. Little pink tutued girl grown up, three years old gone on fourteen. She had red, swollen eyes. Green hair pulled back in a ponytail. Parallel hips, no curve, flat chest. But deep, dark, suspicious, betrayed grown-up eyes.

"Hello, Victoria. My name is Elena."

"I know you," the girl said. "You're one of the prost--"

"I'm your mother's girlfriend."

They looked good together, the girl and Elena. Natural. Elena was good with people. This girl--Frances could not call her Marissa just yet, or Victoria--this could not be her child, how could this be her daughter all of a sudden in the same room as her, after eleven excruciating years?

"Have they treated you okay here?" Elena asked.

The girl glanced toward Agent Rita Richards. "They've been real nice. I guess. Do I call you Elena?"

"Sure."

"You look better in person than on TV."

Elena laughed. "Thank you. I think."

"I'm sorry about your son. He had cool hair."

Elena grinned. "Almost as cool as yours, huh? Should I call you Victoria?"

"I guess. Whatever. I don't remember my mother. I don't remember being Marissa."

"When I was little, I called myself Victoria sometimes. I also liked to call myself Mary or Elise. Sometimes, I'd use a whole bunch of names in the same day."

The girl's eyes glinted in interest. "I like your real name best." She ventured a tiny, quick, timid look at Frances, and Frances's heart skipped several beats.

Elena curled her arm around the girl's waist and whispered something, Frances had no idea what. Maybe: She barfed at the Memphis airport. Everything's out, so don't worry. Your clothes are safe.

Or: Your mother loves you.

Elena tugged the girl forward. "Victoria, this is your mother." Frances, this is your daughter.

The many ways their reunion could play out flashed in Frances's mind again. Running into each other's arms. Wailing. Smothered cries of: "I love you. I missed you." Or a slow, gradual, but no less meaningful, hug.

Nothing was happening--unless staring counted.

This girl was Marissa only by blood. Not by memory, not by feel, and certainly not by name. She was Victoria Cove. She was lovely, though, with her tear-stained brown eyes, startling green hair, track pants and blue polo shirt. She looked curious. Sympathetic to Frances's pain and indecision.

The girl held her right hand out. "Hello."

Frances took the hand, felt calluses, hard work, years of labor, years of character, on the girl's hand. This was not Marissa's smooth baby skin.

"Hello," Frances said. "Hello, Victoria."

The girl smiled, a fleeting movement, but enough. These were her daughter’s brown eyes, the same shining brown eyes looking at Frances with love. "You're pretty," the girl said. She smiled again. Looked at Elena. "You too."

Frances realized her hand was still in Marissa's. In her daughter's hand.

"Where's my father?"

"I don't know."

"What's going to happen to him? You meant it, didn't you? That you'll try to help him and--he's bad. He's in bad shape. He’s an alcoholic. I don't like to think about him alone."

"I meant it," Frances said. She glanced around to find Rita Richards. The FBI agent and the child care worker had retreated to the door. Too close for comfort. Frances whispered her reply. "He'll probably call. Hopefully soon. You can talk to him. I don't know what happens after that."

"I don't want to answer FBI questions about him."

"You don't have to. I'll get a lawyer for you. It'll be all right."

"But he has to give himself up. He can't keep hiding. He needs help."

"We'll work together. You and I. We'll talk with the FBI. We'll get him a good deal. He'll get a lawyer. We'll get your father and his lawyer to talk to the FBI or prosecutors on the phone. We'll get him in rehab. We'll help him."

"Thank you."

"Can I--could I hug you?" Frances asked.

"Whatever. I don’t care. Yeah, I guess you can."

Frances kept Victoria’s hand in hers and slid her other hand around Victoria's back. She closed her eyes, held her daughter to her, and enjoyed the feel of them together.

Chapter 40

Elena parked at the Howard Johnson. She tugged her hood over her head and hurried to the third floor. The door was unlocked, as promised. Frances was in a chair, reading a set of orange stapled papers.

They kissed hungrily, and Frances guided Elena to her groin.

"Are you wearing a dildo?"

Frances laughed. "Yes, ma'am. I'm excited to see you."

The Marissa phone rang, and Frances grimaced. "You're early. I was going to turn it off."

It was true. Elena was fifteen minutes early. She winked. "Answer. We have four hours."

"Hey, sweetie," Frances said into the phone. "What's up?"

While Frances talked, Elena skimmed the front page of the orange set: Victoria's rough draft speech for opening night, which had been pushed to the end of January. Victoria had been back only six weeks, but she wanted to be involved. Frances had objected that it was too early, that Victoria might be overextending herself.

In one of Victoria’s ears, out the other.

Victoria had written the speech herself. She was adjusting remarkably. Loved the attention. She would go far, this media darling. The cameras loved her, and she loved the cameras. Frances and Elena had a handful and then some with Victoria. Already Frances was fretting about Victoria dating and getting pregnant, and Elena would smile and kiss Frances, and then Frances would blush and laugh. They would not have it any other way.

Elena turned to the second page to find the section Frances was talking about earlier. The section was supposed to explain the rationale behind the shift of The Daniel Group, which was supposed to have been the organization to help track down missing children.

My first day home, my mother, Elena, Brenda, and I played Pictionary. Guess what? My dad was right about my mother's artistic ability. She can’t do butterflies. No offense, Mom!

We're a good family, the four of us. I'm where I should be, but someone's missing. This didn't have to happen. I should have my mother and my father. I'm confident he'll get in touch someday, but a lot of damage has been done. That first night home, after I finished teasing my mother about her butterflies that were really bats, and after she pointed out that my mice looked like rabbits, I told her that there were already a lot of missing children organizations. Maybe something along the lines of mediation, training, conflict prevention, resolution, whatever, would be more practical. When I was two years old, my mother kept me from my father. Later, my father kept me from my mother. I'd still be with him if I hadn't run away. I'd still think my mother was a dead woman named Susan. Both my parents lost sight of who they were hurting most. Me. Their child.

The Daniel Group aims to get parents working together toward a solution that's best for their children. Come home, Daddy. Please. Do it for me. Do it for you.

"Elena?" Frances held the phone out. "Your mom's asking if Victoria can try your black nail polish." Brenda was watching Victoria while Frances and Elena had their date night. Brenda and Victoria had immediately taken to each other, and Brenda spoiled her rotten.

"Hey, Ma. That's fine. Victoria gonna do your nails, too?"

Victoria's laughter rang out in the background. Victoria's voice: "Elena! I'm gonna dye your mom's hair green! So we match." Victoria had re-dyed her hair green last week.

Frances raised an eyebrow. Wow, she mouthed.

"Uh, wow," Elena said, echoing the sentiment. "Be gentle with Ma."

More laughter. "I will."

Brenda spoke: "Have a good night, dear. Don't eat too much." Victoria and Brenda thought Elena and Frances were at a restaurant.

"Be careful, Ma. See you later." Elena hung up. "Did you hear what my mother said?"

Frances’s lips twitched, but then laughter spilled forth. "Don’t eat too much. Oh, Elena, sweetie. Please. Please. Eat the hell out of me."

"Turn the phone off now?"

Frances grabbed Elena to her. "Yesss. You're so hot tonight."

Elena was wearing a skirt, and Frances unzipped her pants. She fell back into the chair and unsheathed the dildo. Elena straddled her and moved her underwear aside to let the dildo in. Its fullness was bracing. Perfect.

"Oh, God," Elena breathed. "Just what I needed. Been horny all day."

"Been thinking all day about fucking you."

Their mouths met in a kiss, and Elena shifted her hips to allow Frances better access to her breasts. "You better tip me well."

"Oh, I will, baby."

THE END

CHECK OUT Q. KELLY'S OTHER BOOKS

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Caris and Lena share a perfect, passionate kiss that they cannot stop thinking about. Plus, they can help each other in ways no one else can. They try to build a friendship, but their growing attraction gets in the way. Can Caris and Lena move past the taboo of their attraction and find their path together?

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The Odd Couple: Morrisey Hawthorne and her four-year-old son, Gareth, have a pretty good life. Then one day they meet Charlene Sudsbury, who is trying to move on from the suicide of her son, JP, three years before. Gareth is nearly the mirror image of JP, and Charlene connects instantly with him. Not quite so with Morrisey, who can't escape fast enough after Charlene shows her a picture of JP. Charlene is convinced Morrisey is hiding something and sets out in search of the truth.

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Can these two women overcome the obstacles that separate them from the happiness they seek?

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All in the Family (coming January 2012): Allison Albrecht and Samantha Cannizarro are thrown together when their parents become engaged. Sam is deaf, so Allison begins to learn sign language. Allison is eager to please Sam and to make a good impression on her. Sam does not care about good impressions. She is a loner, always has been, and she resents her new instant family, especially her stepmother-to-be. Sam is also reluctant to bond with three-year-old Allen. However, Allison and Allen gradually crack Sam's facade, and the two girls fall in love.

But life in a stepfamily is rarely easy. Throw in romance between two stepsiblings, and the ride is going to be bumpy.

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Third (2012 release, date TBA) Helen Franklin is horrified when her dying father leaves her a most unusual inheritance: a woman. Furthermore, the woman, Anne, is anything but ordinary. Helen tells herself she does not have time for Anne. Yalia, Helen's wife, has been distancing herself from Helen for three years, and Helen needs to decide if she wants to save their marriage.

Then the unexpected happens; a romantic relationship develops among Yalia, Anne and Helen. Can the three of them figure out their lives together, especially when time might be running out for Anne?

Check Q. Kelly out at http://qkelly.blogspot.com

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Email her at yllek_q@yahoo.com