SINS
by Cleo Kocol

Copyright © Cleo Kocol, November 2001
Cover art by Jenny Dixon
ISBN 1-58608-309-0
Gemstar Edition ISBN 1-58608-430-5
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, Ga 31636
http://www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter 1

Lisa woke knowing she had to divorce Gary. But she had fifteen minutes to shower, dress, and hurtle down the stairs and into her BMW. Dodging San Francisco traffic like a race car driver, she arrived at the airport parking lot with little time to spare. Racing, she burst through the first-class cabin door just as the flight attendant approached to close it. As if she had outfoxed the competition, the whole sequence left her feeling super efficient, momentarily suppressing the hurt of her failed marriage and setting her up for the board meeting to come.

Russell Sanderson would, of course, be on her side, but the others looked upon her as principal share holder and enemy. Once elderly Eon Smythe had patted her knee in an effort to rattle her composure.

She set her laptop on her seat, shrugged out of her London Fog coat, and glanced around the cabin. Her seat-mate looked up and smiled. Had he noticed first her wealth of red-brown hair, her trim figure and fine features, or her designer pants suit? She'd seen his type many times: upscale business man carrying a wallet filled with credit cards and no pictures of his family. Like Gary. To him, kids were something that happened to others, not him.

She put her laptop under the seat in front of her. Who was this man who would share the next few hours with her? Middle-aged, she guessed, prosperous.

"Carter J. Cameron," he said, his voice hearty.

Nodding curtly, she turned aside before he could tell her his life story and make a stupid pass that would leave her feeling more alone than ever.

"Excuse me, I didn't mean to intrude." His voice contained a strong element of concern and apology.

Startled, she looked directly at him. Concern always surprised her. The rugged lines in his face did not detract from his overall good looks; his full head of beige-colored hair frosted with gray came second to the kindly expression in his pale blue eyes. He probably paid at least $5,000 for his suit, and the order of her noticing surprised her. For years she had cultivated a bankroll, determined to insulate herself from the world. It hadn't shielded her from Gary's neglect. "Lisa Jacobs," she muttered, realizing the man in the next seat might not fit the mold she had created for him. Softening her tone, she said, "I'm not a morning person in case you were looking for conversation."

"No. I usually get more than my share." His voice rumbled pleasantly without being loud, and his attention went politely to the flight attendant who was beginning the familiar safety drill.

Lisa closed her eyes and reviewed the agenda she'd planned for the winter board meeting. Instead of following the usual routine, she'd surprise them, acknowledge her mentor and friend Russell Sanderson and then plunge in. She went over the process until she dozed and woke dreaming the familiar, comfortable dream about Benny, Benny who had befriended her when she needed a friend, Benny before the end.

Coming back to reality as slowly as possible, she found that her tray table was in place and the fragrance from a cup of coffee drifted beguilingly.

"I didn't know whether you took it straight or doctored, so I had the attendant bring the works." Carter Cameron indicated the coffee.

Gratefully, she took several sips. Still, the dream about Benny lingered. She had attributed some of Benny's kindness to Gary, and that had been a monumental mistake.

Breakfast arrived, and she attacked it with gusto, finishing an omelet, two strips of bacon, toast, and fruit as well as two glasses of orange juice. As she licked a drop of marmalade from her lips, she became aware that Carter Cameron was watching her. She raised her eyebrows.

"Sorry, but I think you're the first woman I've seen who appreciates breakfast."

Keeping her voice neutral-sounding, she said, "I stoke up so I can work through lunch."

"My most important work used to be done at lunch." Again he beamed a professional-appearing smile at her.

Where had she seen him before? Movie star? TV personality? The answer trembled just beyond reach, but the humming throb of the plane's engines produced a hypnotic effect. When she found herself dozing again, she reclined her seat, and closed her eyes.

Carter Cameron turned off his light and had the flight attendant bring her a pillow and blanket.

She muttered a thanks and watched him through a fringe of eyelashes. Why the solicitude? He didn't know her, and although she always attracted attention, she wasn't the beauty of the year. He sat quietly, and his face in repose had a solidity about it that appealed to her. She let warm thoughts carry over into sleep, and only after she awoke again, refreshed and feeling fully awake, did he click on his light--after asking her permission. Again, she knew surprise.

Gary had never been particularly considerate. At home she wore sleep masks to shut out the light that might suddenly glare in her eyes. He seldom greeted her after an absence, and if he thanked her for something, she usually wondered what had prompted such courtesy. But accepting his attitudes and actions without comment had made a workable marriage. He was as doggedly monogamous as she, free with his money, and as much of a workaholic. On their infrequent weekends or vacations together, the flurry of sex had pleased them both. It was no longer enough, she needed more.

She darted another look at Carter Cameron who was making several telephone calls that were models of cheerful talk as he made luncheon dates and jotted items in a notebook. Finishing, he turned his famous smile on her.

Of course! "You're the Senator," she cried spontaneously. An Independent, he had successfully played both sides of the aisle and periodically been profiled in political journals.

"Ex-Senator who decided to quit while he was ahead, although I believe I served my constituents from Virginia well." He smiled. "And you're...," his expression became thoughtful, "a sales representative for a large company, head of the western branch, returning to headquarters to make a report in person."

"Actually, you're rather close." She hesitated, and then spoke the truth like she had done so long ago with Benny. But Benny was dead, and this man, no matter his standing, was a stranger. "I'm president of Fennstein Publishing." On her way to a meeting where she would finally play hardball. After all, forty-nine percent of the stock was hers. She pulled a card from her purse and gave it to him.

"I'm impressed." He pocketed the creamy manila card with only the names Lisa Fennstein-Jacobs, Fennstein Publishing printed upon it.

Beyond him, she spied a slice of sky, the earth lost from sight. "I’m impressed by your congressional record." Last year, after hearing him speak, she'd registered as an Independent and sent a contribution to his campaign, the check too small for him to know her name, but large enough that she remembered. "I've listened to most of your speeches. My father was a county official out west," she added.

"Government service is a family tradition in my family, since the first Cameron settled in Loudon County in colonial times. What did your father do?"

"I'm not sure. He died when I was four." When she was eleven a stepfather had appeared, but she didn't want to think about that--or him. Rapidly, she asked Cameron questions, verging on but not really political.

As he fielded them adroitly, the plane bucked. A sudden jolting movement sent Lisa’s head bobbing and the papers on her lap flying.

"Here, let me." The Senator began retrieving her things.

"You suppose it’s wind shear?"

"No, I don’t think so." He spoke calmly, explaining that the phenomena usually didn’t happen mid-flight, and that statistically air travel was the safest way to go. He helped Lisa put her papers back in their folder and stow them in her briefcase. His eyes and manner had a courtliness she found relaxing.

The plane bucked again, see-sawing, as the 747, buffeted by winds, listed. The seat belt sign flashed on, luggage shifted, passengers cried out, and flight attendants took the closest available seats.

As the captain's voice crackled through the intercom, Carter Cameron put his hand over Lisa’s and began talking. His stories about his Congressional days made him the butt of his anecdotes. Lisa felt a sense of security and growing admiration for this man who could laugh at himself at such a time.

For miles the turbulence continued, tossing the plane as easily as a child lifting a feather. Murmurs of discontent rose, but Lisa heard Carter Cameron's voice rumble with such assurance, she knew nothing harmful would happen. When the 747 skidded down the icy runway at O'Hare like a bobsled on a track, she gripped the armrest and tightened the muscles in her legs but felt exhilarated, as if something wonderful was about to begin.

Again Carter Cameron covered her hand with his.

Momentarily, she wanted to rest her head on his shoulder, curl into the circle of his arms. The thought brought more alarm than the storm.

Zigzagging, the plane slid to the gate and stayed there.

News broadcasters said it was one of the worst blizzards in Chicago history. Lethal winds drove snow hard as gravel, pelting the windows in the terminal, creating cold drafts and steamy windows. No planes left the city that night.

For hours Lisa sat next to Carter Cameron in the waiting room, lucky to have a seat. Stranded travelers, bunching in knots at the gates, milling along the concourse, had stretched out wherever they could. One family set up a private spot with luggage, shading it with an umbrella and putting their toddler to sleep on a nest of coats.

"It's worse than Heathrow," Lisa said in the restaurant as she sank into a booth across from Carter. "Sporadically, I indulge myself in an orgy of London theater, but always I deplore the crowds." She went alone, without Gary who had no interest in the arts. As Carter Cameron admitted a fondness for the theater and confided that he was writing his memoirs, she studied his profile. In the stark illumination, the heaviness of his jaw spelled safety. She almost didn't hear the announcement--all passengers on their flight would be housed as near the airport as possible.

"That’s us." He led the way to the designated place of assembly.

Again his voice had that caring sound she associated with tenderness and security. With him at her side, she searched for her bags, made light of the inconvenience, laughed. At two o'clock in the morning when she arrived at her assigned hotel, thoughts of Carter Cameron flowed like quicksilver through her mind. Hurriedly, she placed a credit card call to Russell Sanderson, having him postpone the board meeting a day. Later, falling into an exhausted sleep, she woke only when the airline alerted her that her connection to Philadelphia was leaving in less than an hour. A raw wind whipped the pennants and flags, but no new snow was falling, and the runways were clear.

Numb, she rushed to the terminal and watched for Carter Cameron as thoughts of Gary swooped down. As proud as he was, she suspected he wouldn’t take divorce lightly.

In the midst of a crowd, Carter materialized at her elbow. "Here, let me help you with those bags." For a time, his hand touched hers.

Overly aware, she pulled her hand back. "My flight is leaving now, but I did want to say goodbye."

"In that case, I’ll help you to your gate. My plane for Dulles doesn't leave for two hours."

Dulles, Washington, D.C. She'd never see him again. "I can manage. Thanks."

"I'm sure you can, but assistance is always nice." He smiled.

She fought a smile back but didn't succeed. From one terminal to another, she raced, he in step, carrying her bag and laptop, she her briefcase.

Her flight poised to leave, she said good-bye, grabbed her belongings, and scurried aboard, thoughts of him edging past her guard. Hadn't she read something about him recently?

In Philadelphia, Russell Sanderson's short, stocky figure was a welcoming distraction. How strange that this congenial but boring man was her friend. The fragrance of his specially-blended pipe tobacco tickled her nose pleasantly while impatience bombarded her. She was always three steps ahead of him. Once she'd needed his plodding assistance, now she prodded for information, "Tell me what to expect tomorrow."

Russell helped her into the stretch limo. "The usual circle of the wagons."

She leaned back, encouraging him to elaborate as the driver edged the car into the flow of traffic wending its way into the snow-encrusted city.

Russell's monotone recital buzzed on as they passed the arena and the naval base and finally were in Center City. Six weeks since she'd seen her Society Hill house. The first time she'd stepped inside the property Fennstein had led her, and she'd been overwhelmed. Now the red brick treasure with the bars on the windows and the marble entrance-way spelled home. Gary had never seen it, had never even shown interest in it or her publishing company. He expected her to succeed without pats on the back.

"Thanks for meeting me," she said to Russell as the driver deposited her luggage on the stoop. Russell helped her navigate across icy patches to her door.

"My pleasure," he said, his breath puffing the air. "Call me anytime."

Lisa watched him reenter the limo before she unlocked the door and stepped inside. "Maria, I'm home," she called to the live-in Puerto Rican maid and exchanged a few words of chit-chat before letting the row house wield its magic. Once the marble entrance-way had found its complement in heavy furniture, dark wood, and a plethora of Etruscan artwork. After Ralph Fennstein's death, Lisa had redecorated, adding space and dimension with art deco and nouveau touches.

Hand on the wrought iron railing, she climbed the open staircase, her feet thudding pleasantly on the tread. The master bedroom, dressing rooms, and baths took up the third floor, and from the windows she glimpsed cars going back and forth to New Jersey. At night they shed a trail of light over the bridge while the river below became a dark, silvered, watery path symbolic of all that Ralph had given her. He had taught her how to act as if she'd been born to wealth, but sometimes it was hard to forget her past. No matter that Maria hovered, ready to unpack the suitcases, Lisa did it herself.

***

The next day a ribbon of sunlight worked its way through the cloud layer, and slick street ice had started to melt. Taxis, delivery trucks, buses, and pedestrians crowded the streets. Still, she arrived at the board room a half-hour before the meeting, took her place at the head of the table, spread her papers in front of her, and was waiting when the other members, ten men wreathed in an aura of power, entered together. All over fifty, all richer than anyone had a right to be, they continued a previous conversation with only perfunctory nods at her.

Distant but polite, she launched the meeting, taking pleasure in Ralph's picture on the wall, the burgundy draperies, the hushed atmosphere of mahogany and cut glass pitchers evenly spaced along the table, and in the fact that she was in charge. She passed out the agenda and called the meeting to order.

In those months before he died, Ralph had coached her in business procedures, had her practice using his tray table as a lectern, praising her when she did right, frowning and turning aside when she didn't. How she'd worked for that praise! Now, she knew she’d been working toward this moment. She listened patiently to droning reports, and after routine business items had been mulled over and discussed ad nauseam., she pointed to the next item on the agenda and announced, "Gentlemen, it's time for a change at Fennsteins."

Eon Smythe, pink wrinkled flesh stretched tight, reached for his glass of water. Other members adjusted ties, stared into space, or watched Eon as if for clues. Russell realigned his pencils.

Smiling, Lisa lifted the balance sheet, its figures so neatly displayed. "We have a good business," she proceeded. "It's brought us a consistent income that we don't have to defend to the stock holders."

As one the board members relaxed.

"I’m very pleased, but to keep those figures from plummeting--and they will--in order to compete in today's market, we need to change our policies."

"Change?" Eon's voice scratched.

"Expand. Be daring. Innovative," she tossed out the words lightly, but her heart fluttered, and perspiration dampened her underarms.

"What do you mean by daring, innovative?" Eon's nose wrinkled, and a smell not unlike mothballs and old parchment emanated from him.

"Perhaps if you'd explain," Russell Sanderson murmured.

Lisa leaned back, her pumps balanced on the base of her swivel chair. Would Sanderson still support her in an out and out fight? "Of course. Right now we do textbooks, and how-to manuals for academics, and they’re books we've routinely published." She looked around the table. "They’re wonderful, successful, and safe." She leaned forward. "Right, gentlemen?" Her heart was pounding.

Eon frowned, Russell fidgeted, the others stared. Smiling, she recited figures and threw out names of the publishing lines that had been the company's mainstays for years.

"Yes, yes, we know all that," Eon mumbled, coughing into a white linen handkerchief and glowering at her as he wiped spittle from his upper lip.

She waited until he stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket before she touched a control at her fingertips. The window draperies closed, a slide screen opened, and the presentation she had put together in San Francisco flowed across a large screen.

Catching a quick breath, she went to the front of the room and added her words to the slides and overhead projections of charts and graphs whizzing by. Photographs showed Fennstein Publications on shelves in bookstores, schools, and colleges. Other pictures showed publishers and publications that outsold Fennstein's two-to-one. The latter spoke for themselves.

Back at the head of the table, she hit another switch, and the overhead lights came back on, the draperies opened, and the screen disappeared. Nodding as if they had thanked her for the presentation, she said, "Gentlemen, in order to maintain our present position, we have to expand. To do better, we have to build for the future." She flicked a glance past each of them and said firmly, "We have to diversify." She stood facing the men. "If we don't, we can kiss Fennstein Publications good-bye."

"No . . . ." Eon sputtered.

"Yes," she corrected, waited a second, and then added, moving her hand in concert with her words, "We must make our name a household word as familiar as Simon and Schuster or Alfred Knopf."

While the members stared at her, she brought out a book with a drawing of a young and beautiful woman on the front. "How do we do that? We publish fiction. Popular fiction. Commercial fiction. Cutting edge non-fiction." She was speaking rapidly now, in complete control, her adrenaline pumping fast, color in her cheeks, a high running through her like wine on an empty stomach.

"Bodice rippers!" Eon Smythe sputtered, hands shaking, scowl in place.

She shook her head. "I think you're a bit out of date, Eon." As he blushed angrily, she said rapidly, "I don't believe they call them that anymore." Burying the board members in numbers, she recited statistics and ideas rapidly, handing around packets of information they could peruse at their leisure. She buried them in numbers and papers until nothing interrupted her and silence prevailed.

While she summarized the points she'd made, her executive secretary, Paula Ceske, came in and handed her a note. "A personal call for you Ms. Jacobs."

Surprised, Lisa glanced at the message. Carter Cameron was calling from Washington.

"He insisted I tell you immediately," the secretary whispered.

Lisa said, "I'll take it in my office. Excuse me, gentlemen." She'd never left a board meeting to answer a telephone call before. Knuckles cracked, chairs creaked. She barely heard either.

***

Carter Cameron had watched her disappear down the jet-way and had turned to go to his own gate when he spotted her scarf. A soft woolly length of cashmere, its pale green had brought out the emerald in her eyes. He'd noticed them immediately when she'd boarded the plane. And that wreath of red hair that turned auburn and gold depending on the light. He stuck the scarf in his pocket.

From Dulles the drive to Cameron Manor took longer than the usual hour. The storm had finally reached the DC area, and traffic was at a virtual standstill. He didn't think of the scarf again until he put his hand into his pocket. The subtle fragrance reminded him of exotic spices, and impulsively he held the scarf to his nose. He telephoned his secretary. "Sorry to bother you so late, Jessica, but I need a telephone number. Fennstein Publishing, Philadelphia. And have someone check out the owner, a Ms. Lisa Fennstein-Jacobs."

The next day his secretary had the information for him. Looking out at the barren trees, snow dusting the branches, he read, "Lisa Fennstein was married to Ralph Fennstein, founder and publisher of Fennstein Publishing, a respected and prosperous firm. Now deceased, Fennstein left his wife in charge of the business. The company has a good rating, and no trouble with the IRS. During Ms. Fennstein-Jacob's first year in control, the company put out a profitable book called, Travels with Fennstein, which was a compendium of Ralph Fennstein's public life, a departure for the company which brought it some publicity. A picture of Ms Fennstein appeared in 'U.S. News and World Report.'"

He picked up the phone. Since his wife had died, he’d never met anyone who had so intrigued him. It appeared that she was a widow using her maiden name. So many women hyphenated their names these days. He sent her roses.

***

On the Saturday after the board meeting, Lisa sat in Bookbinders, the restaurant that Philadelphia had claimed as its own, and let Carter Cameron draw from her the details of her triumph over Fennstein's old guard.

"Quite a coup," he said, his eyes admiring.

"As a starter we're bringing out Seduction, a Case Study, a not quite scholarly look at dating," she explained.

"It's sure to be a best seller," he said.

She relished his compliments, his gallantry, his unfailing courtesy. All week they had talked, on the telephone, then in person, drawing closer with each conversation. Snow once again feathered down, but inside, the warmth in the room seemed palpable. Always conscious of his eyes sparkling as he smiled at her, she talked, bubbling at times. He seemed to take for granted that she was single, so she said, "You realize I haven’t been immune to marriage." She forked a scallop, chewed, swallowed. She’d slide into her relationship with Gary obliquely, explaining what was necessary as she went along, not dump the whole thing on Carter at once.

Busy buttering a roll, Carter paused, "But Ralph Fennstein is deceased."

She shook her head. "Yes, but I meant I have another husband."

His smile disappeared, and a senatorial sound came to his voice, and his eyes grew frosted and distant. "I’m sorry. I wish I had known. I don’t make a habit of dating married women." He folded his napkin and placed it on the table next to his half-empty bowl, pushed his chair back a fraction.

The pain of rejection and loneliness stabbing her, she spoke rapidly, not knowing where the words came from, "I thought you knew. My name, after all, is Fennstein-Jacobs." Words rained from her mouth, unchecked, unplanned. "The marriage was a rebound thing for both of us, but no matter how hard we tried, it didn’t work. We recently called it quits. We had no children. He didn’t want any." Oh, god, what was she saying? At least the last was true, and divorce would make her marriage to Gary a moot subject. She lifted her eyelids, darted a look at him. Please, she wanted to cry.

"You’re saying you’re divorced?"

A fist pushed deep into the softness of her belly. Unable to speak, she nodded.

He took a deep breath. "Good." His smile flashed again. "For a while you scared the hell out of me. I know this is a bit premature, but all these years I've been waiting for the right woman. When I thought I might have found her, you dropped your bombshell." His eyes glittered at her.

The lie about being divorced twisted inside her like a snake striking, but if she told the truth, she was sure he'd walk out, and she'd never see him again. Since Carter’s wife died, Washington hostesses were trotting out reams of single women. "It's not premature," she murmured and looked away.

He smiled at her. "Good."

For a moment, she accepted his silent contemplation, seeing not his broad shoulders so expensively clothed or the diamond ring winking on his little finger, but the kindness she felt in his smile.

Later, dropping her at her house, he kissed her, neither timid nor bold in his approach. She liked the feel of him, so solid, so safe, and for a time she stood within the circle of his arms while the snowflakes drifted softly around them, bringing a hush of virgin splendor to Benjamin Franklin’s city. She felt the founding fathers would have loved this moment as much as she did.

The next weekend and the next, he made the trek to see her, and in between he called, whispering words into her ear as night wrapped the city, and she stretched sensuously beneath the down comforter. She knew a lightness of heart that hadn't been hers in years. On the fourth Saturday, she "did" the art museum with him, something Gary would have avoided if he'd ever come to Philadelphia. With Carter she strolled by Thomas Eakins' paintings and hurried as she neared her favorite picture, the "Staircase Group." She hadn’t been so happy in a long time, and she wanted to share with him.

"There," she said, stepping back so Carter could move closer.

The picture painted by Charles Wilson Peale in 1795 showed two men on a staircase that was framed by a doorway. The bottom step, leading into the painting, was a real wooden stair, the same size and color. Carter looked at the painting for some time and then, nodding, smiled at her. "For a moment I thought the step was part of the painting."

"Yes, that’s it. Reality and the semblance of reality become one. Isn’t it wonderful?"

He shook his head. "I’m no judge, but if you like that blend of reality with fantasy, it’s fine with me."

She knew a moment’s disappointment. "Oh, I’d hardly call it fantasy, it’s very realistic."

"Maybe we can call it a pleasant fraud." He tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. "I’m sorry, but I feel it was somewhat dishonest of the painter."

"Dishonest?"

"Perhaps I've overstated." He smiled and said lightly, "My wife used to say a lie was tantamount to murder to me."

Again that fist found her center, took her breath.

He shrugged. "Not important. Now, what do you say we go to dinner before we lose our reservations."

At her favorite countryside inn, oak furniture, chair rails, and a pub-like atmosphere with a dart board on the wall made it seem like a touch of old England. Carter ordered wine with each course, ending with port and Stilton cheese and talking about himself.

"I’m not a hard man to get along with. I have no mood swings or skeletons in the closet, and nothing pleases me more than spending an afternoon at the Smithsonian or the National Gallery. I like flowers and books and music and by now I suppose you know...," he looked up from his bowl of trifle, "I like you. Very much."

She met his gaze straight on, no subterfuge. "I like you, too."

"So tell me about your family, you as a child."

Tiptoeing around the past, she spoke of school day achievements and her devotion to her mother, brandishing truth like a club to ward off thoughts of Gary.

"I think we have a match," Carter said seriously, quietly.

Back at her Society Hill house, it seemed natural for him to follow her inside and then up to the third floor.

"Sometimes it doesn’t seem possible that we’re here," she whispered as he kissed her. She had never thought she’d find this trusting kind of happiness again.

Waking Sunday morning, Lisa knew a bittersweet moment. Carter with his kindness and gentleness had brought back the dream about Benny. She hated to go back to San Francisco and Gary. No matter how he reacted, she’d set up a separate domicile, not spend another night under his roof.

"I won't be able to return East for a month." She opened the blinds to a gray day, the gold, black, and white room stretching to infinity behind her.

"What I need is a month of Sundays," Carter said, beckoning her back to the white satin sheets. "You make me feel so damn young."

Back in California, as soon as Fennstein's San Francisco office was churning out information about the "Seduction" book, Lisa retreated to the "cabin" in Carmel. In a flurry of mutual good feelings, she and Gary had bought the vacation retreat the first year of their marriage. Constructed of cedar, its decks hung over the water, peaceful, secure. Gary was seldom there, athletic tournaments taking priority when he wasn't at the office. With the phone to her ear, Lisa sat in the sun and listened to Carter's drawl and imagined being with him. She flew back to Philadelphia before the month was up and left a message for Gary who was out of the country. "When I come home again, we must talk." He understood work taking precedence over everything else--he spent more time in Silicon Valley and in the Orient than at home-- but he would never understand another man. She had to be careful that he didn’t learn about Carter until she managed the divorce. As for Carter, divorce wouldn’t hurt him. He had no intention of running for office again, no intention of courting the limelight--only her, and oh, how she needed him. It was one thing to be a success in the office but another to come home to an empty house. She would have her attorney draw up papers, force Gary to listen. She needed Carter.

She called him the minute she got to Philadelphia, her coat still on, the breath of outdoors clinging to her. He flew up the next day. Two weeks later when she returned to California, a renewed sense of buoyancy and elation permeated her. She sprinted from the plane. Spring tickled the edges of winter, greenery sprouting, the sun shedding warmth. Driving to the San Francisco apartment she and Gary shared, she sat on the edge of her seat, observing the city with glee. It was as if its ambiance and charm unfolded for her alone.

The ebullient feelings remained until Gary told her his news. Not bluntly as he usually did but slowly, almost diffidently, and with a lost look about him that pressed against her so hard she thought she might suffocate, her dreams dissolved and disappeared. Fog obscured the Bay Bridge, rendered the Golden Gate unreal, its orange rails climbing the sky, no beginning, no end.

"Cancer," she repeated, letting the word out between them, feeling trapped but compassionate. How could she be otherwise? Gary was no ogre, just not for her, their marriage a misfit. "How long have you known?"

"Several months." He shook his handsome head and sighed. "I thought I could lick it, but I found out differently. By myself I can't do it. I need you, Lisa. Together, we can do anything." He came to her, so healthy appearing, an athletic man ten years her senior, intelligent, capable but lost. His sandy hair fell over his eyes, and when he flipped it back in place with a toss of the head, she thought her heart would break. Coming into her life three years after Ralph died, he had seemed the perfect mate, a man dedicated to his computer software corporation, a man who demanded little of her except a weekend now and then. Once they’d camped in the Sierras and hiked the high mountain meadows, but all of that had ended abruptly. Personnel problems, a production hold up, racket ball with business acquaintances – all took precedence over her. On their last anniversary, he'd been in Hong Kong.

Now she stared at him, aware that his hand shook, and when he took her into his arms, tears were running down his face. How could this perfect physical specimen have a malignancy?

"Oh, Gary," she whispered and touched him with little gentle pats, as she would a child. Maybe that had been the important element in their relationship always – her desire for a baby.

Pulling away, he said to her, and she realized the effort it took for him to admit it, "You've encouraged me when I’ve had, well, professional jitters." He sat down, his hands steady again. "I guess I can say you’ve been there for me." He aimed a glance at her.

"Yes," she said, a dull feeling of comprehension slamming into her. She had been his safety valve, calming him down when he was ready to explode from business pressures. "I need you, Lisa," he said, taking her hands and looking into her eyes. "I know I've not always been as sensitive to your needs as I should be, but I need you now. More than you'll ever know."

She muttered soothing words dredged from a long ago time--the fondness of one friend for another. He had never been her love.

"Please," he whispered, never having said such a thing to her before.

"It's all right," she murmured. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." Her hands were tender vessels stroking his cheeks, clasping his hands, holding him.

His mouth had an ironic twist, his tanned face was ashen, his eyes lusterless, but when he looked up, his gaze met hers fully. "Together, we'll lick this thing." He smacked one hand into the other, insulated again, behind a wall of his own making.

She was no quitter. She could not leave him now. She told him so.

***

On the way to Philadelphia, she wondered how to tell Carter. It was the honorable thing to do. But he met her with a ring and words that so far surpassed anything that Gary had ever said to her that a weakness began in her knees and spread throughout her body. If he weren’t holding her, she knew she would fall. Since Benny, no one had ever called her sweet, wonderful, and lovely in the same breath. Ralph had called her a seeker of truth. Gary had praised her business acumen. But neither man had said she had startling and grand ideas, had called her a woman of integrity as well as charm. Carter did. He said she delighted his eyes and senses, and he wanted to marry her. Now. As soon as they could make the arrangements. With animation he said how much his family would love her. He listed their names, presenting them to her as an oral gift, children, grandchildren, long-time servants, and friends made real in charming vignettes. How could she give up this man who had known power and glory, this country gentlemen of culture? She needed him desperately, needed his compliments, his admiration, and his respect. She needed him just as much as Gary needed her.

Not letting him see the depth of the despair she felt at the thought of losing him, she spoke about live-in arrangements and trial periods, giving him all the arguments that people had refined in the years since the seventies. Carter listened politely but insisted on marriage. The words--announcement party, engagement, family, friends--hung like a haze, surrounding her. She felt as if she were drowning.

They stood by the Schuykill River and watched rowers go with the current. It had been only a few months since they'd met. The grass, green and crisp beneath their feet, had only recently sprung from ground frozen or covered with snow.

He said, "I intend to marry you. I respect you too much to settle for anything less."

"But . . . ."

"No buts. You can continue your work with Fennstein Publishing. Jet back and forth between coasts as necessary." He captured her hands, held them to his chest. "Don’t you know, I’m proud of your accomplishments? Not only do you look like a million, you’re making a million!" He kissed her hands before releasing them.

"I haven’t done too badly."

"Listen to Ms. Modesty herself. But you don’t need to brag. Especially since your success was based on business conducted straight-forward, honestly. I’d say you don’t have a dishonest bone in your body." Playfully, he pulled her against his side, his thigh pressing against hers.

Her head pounded. "You make it all sound so simple. I’m sure some people would give you a philosophical discussion about the word honesty."

"Honesty?" He looked puzzled.

"Yes, is it ever that simple?" Please, please, let him say no, let him say there were gray areas.

"I think so. Honesty is honesty. But we're digressing. About our marriage, you can join me when you can. And later, we can think about that family you’ve always wanted."

"Oh, god!" she cried, her fear mingling with the wonder of his words, visions of handsome children, the perfect blending of their genes producing nothing less. How workable he made marriage to him sound. Back at her Society Hill house, she opened the blinds and looked out at the bridge. As she watched cars streaming in two directions, she couldn't hold back her worry. Was there no solution to her problems? The oncology specialist had told her in blunt terms that in six months, maybe less, Gary would be gone. Then there would be no doubt at all. Only the basest of creatures would leave Gary now. Carter would understand that, but he’d never understand her pretending she and Gary were divorced. If she told him, she’d surely lose him. But could she hold out, string him along? He was the only one who had ever made her feel special in the same way Benny had, and she needed that so much.

An inward shaking hit her. In the not too distant future, she’d have to set a date and go through with it. Carter would not be put off.

No, she couldn’t do that. Couldn’t be that dishonest.

But she had to. There was no other way. Both men understood her long distance commuting, so that would be no problem, and an intimate life with Gary would not even be a question. She wouldn’t have that to be ashamed of.

Yes, it could work if they married quietly. Carter would probably be glad about the lack of publicity. As for the other, for centuries men had been marrying two and three women at one time and getting away with it.

She shook her head vehemently. No, no, she wouldn’t be a bigamist. If fudging for a few months was bigamy, it was being done with the best intentions, and some of the things that had happened to her had not been committed with good intentions or with kindness either.

Chapter 2

Lisa was almost twelve years old when her mother remarried, and from the first, for her mother's sake, she pretended she liked Professor Leonard Southwick. Life hadn't been easy in the little house in California's San Joaquin Valley, but it had always been fun. Giggling over dishes, often putting them to soak to do later, she and her mother challenged one another to memory games: words of songs, movie stars, states. Money was tight, but so what? Her mother, Annabelle, created an aura of safety and rightness. And then it came to an abrupt end. Four months after she started dating the professor, Annabelle married him. Immediately, he moved them into a new neighborhood, a newly-built house. Harsh sun flooded the sterile new kitchen, a place for everything, and everything in its place.

"I wish we were back in the old place," Lisa confided to Annabelle.

Leonard Southwick overheard. "This house is infinitely superior." He pointed out the built-in appliances, the tile floor, the mini-blinds.

"But I don't know anyone," Lisa protested.

Leonard Southwick scowled. "Why do you want to?"

He was tall, and Lisa supposed sort of good looking, having even features and a mustache that some girls called sexy. Moving around the kitchen in an economy of motion, he put on the coffee and started the toaster. "It's a rare circumstance when one socializes with neighbors today." With a look, he pinned her to the spot where she stood.

Lisa avoided him as much as possible and spent most of her time at home in her room where she maintained a semblance of the past. Her stuffed toys and dolls filled one corner, her table and chairs and books another. When her mother joined her, she could almost forget Leonard while they talked and giggled. She had her mother’s hair, and people often thought they were sisters, jokingly asking which was the mother, which the daughter. Lisa loved those times, not because they proved she looked older, but because she was proud of her pretty mother.

After a while, whenever her mother disappeared into Lisa’s room, Leonard called out, "Annabelle, where are you?" his voice petulant and then demanding. Eventually, when Leonard was home, her mother seldom entered Lisa's room, and the fun times drifted away, never to return.

It was hard feeling like an interloper and attending a new school, too. Lisa missed her old friends and the easy camaraderie of the old neighborhood, and she hated Leonard’s rules. Never let doors bang shut behind you. Never raise your voice. Never walk on the carpet with street shoes. But most of all she hated how Leonard grabbed her mother and kissed her in front of Lisa. Sometimes, as if sending a message, he also rolled his eyes at her as if this were some kind of joke she was in on.

When Lisa's report card showed nothing better than a C, Leonard handed her a reading list and explained that he had most of the books on the shelves in his library. Once she tiptoed into his inner sanctum to find him ensconced in his red leather chair. Over the spine of his book he watched her as she went with indecision from one recommended book to the next, pulling volumes from the shelves and putting them back. "Has it ever occurred to you that you should start with number one?" He shook his head and looked at her in that mocking way and chortled a laugh, low, refined.

She believed he wanted to yell at her.

She hurried from the room.

"Why does she deliberately disobey me?" he asked Annabelle later.

"I don't think she does." Her mother's voice had that sweetness Lisa loved.

"I only have her welfare at heart," he said. "Education begins in the home."

Trapped by her mother, who also had her welfare at heart, Lisa read. By the second book, she was hooked. She vowed she'd never tell Leonard, but of course, he knew.

He quizzed her, and when she said, "Isn't it enough that I read them?" he raised his eyebrow, and his mouth pulled up at one side. A tuft of hair stood up from his scalp, devil-like she thought while he stroked his mustache. "Worthy adversaries, is that what we'll be?" His smile mocked her.

Lisa felt a subtle menace, but when she tried to tell her mother about it, no words were adequate.

"Lisa, he's doing so much for us, and you're not giving him a chance."

Lisa wondered if her mother was right. Trying to compensate, she joined the dinner discussion about what she'd read.

Leonard smiled at her genuinely for the first time. No lopsided grin.

Annabelle smiled, too, her hair a cloud of soft pink smoke in the reflected sunlight. The three of them were almost a family. Once they went to the San Francisco planetarium, and Leonard sat between them and explained the stars projected upon the domed ceiling. He knew more than the attendant.

Afterwards they had rabbit in wine sauce, watercress salad, and cherries jubilee at a restaurant so fancy the waiter asked Lisa if she preferred straight or watered wine. Like she was a grownup! She unbent enough to smile at Leonard, and after that, every time Lisa finished another book, they went to some place with white tablecloths and gourmet food.

"Education is the key to nice things," Leonard said, ordering French dishes and flaming desserts.

For the first time, Lisa believed him. The muted atmosphere soothed whatever troubled thoughts grabbed her. Once again her grades were fine, and she was making friends.

Still, Lisa wondered. Her mother appeared brittle, too eager. The little stucco house in Modesto had echoed with happiness, here in Stockton the stone and frame house had a quiet emptiness that bothered Lisa.

When she started high school, Leonard gave her a new reading list and helped select her courses. Following his instructions, she made the honor roll the first term, was elected to the student body, and began to count as friends the kids who were "brains." She also began to wonder about her stepfather’s career. Always he stood out in conversations, was the expert in any group he was in. So why was he stuck at a community college that taught auto mechanics and medical transcription as its most important courses? She wanted to blurt this out to him, challenge him to answer, but she never did.

Avoiding problems as much as possible, she joined the astronomy society and sang with the glee club, knowing Leonard wouldn’t object to field trips with those groups. When she came home bubbling with news, Leonard objected less frequently to restrained laughter and quiet merriment.

By her fourteenth birthday, Lisa had almost forgotten the unease of those first few months. Leonard wasn't that hard to live with, and she always felt proud when he and her mother came to school. Her girl friends said he was "sexy," her mother beautiful. Other parents appeared fat, infirm, and old in comparison.

It was almost Christmas when the accident happened. At the wheel of the car which Annabelle used when Leonard wasn't, Annabelle eased through an intersection. It was noon, the California sun shedding warmth and light. The radio was on. She probably didn't hear the other car that ran the red light and slammed into her. It was the only thing that gave Lisa comfort.

After a first stunned outburst, she couldn't cry. Her mother's image stayed with her through days of wearing a dark armband--because Leonard said it showed respect--through countless casseroles and cakes from the community college and suddenly sober kids from the high school. Wearing her shock like a shield, she got through it all, even listening to the preacher who had never known her mother. "Thank you for coming," she murmured to everyone.

For two weeks, she moved like an automaton.

One night a couple from the college "popped" in to see if there was anything they could do. Sitting stiffly, they said grief had its own time table.

Leonard said it was hard, but they'd get through it.

The couple said it was lucky Leonard and Lisa had each other.

His crooked smile flashed. Lisa almost didn’t notice.

For two more weeks, she walked around feeling as if there were shutters on her eyes, closing out everything but her recollections of her mother. Then one morning a sparrow landed in the back yard. A lone bird chirping, hopping around, pecking, looking happy all by itself.

Her mother would not want her to mope forever. She began to take joy in her classes, in learning, in singing again.

Six weeks after her mother's death, she was sound asleep when awareness struck. Someone else was in the room. Ridiculous. Childish to be afraid of the dark, looking for goblins in shadows. Of course there was nothing, no one. The doors were locked, the windows closed, no one could enter.

She eased her eyes open. Saw a shadowy figure. A man.

Leonard stood by her bed.

Leonard naked.

Leonard, leaning over her. Holding her down.

Whispering things. Bad things. About her swishing her ass. Teasing him. Running around in mini-skirts. "Looking like a damned tramp."

"No, no, I never." Trying to move, trying to get away. His body a stone weight, immovable.

His hand over her mouth, shut off protest, shut out the world.

Slobbery kisses. Hard hands ripping and tearing at her. Hurting, hurting.

His voice came over her tears, her sobs. Told her not to worry, it would be their secret.

She heard some words, not others. He said it wouldn't hurt so much later. She would learn to like it. He'd known that from the beginning. Passion showed in her wild eyes.

Then he was gone, and she was alone in the room that had become a hateful, fearful place, no longer a refuge.

For almost an hour she cowered beneath the covers. Afraid to change positions, or think or be, she lay stiffly, rigid and bleeding, staring at the faint light leaking in from outside. The moon drifted in and out from the clouds, and she drifted in and out of conscious thought.

She let her gaze find the door. Saw that it was closed.

Slowly, she edged from bed, worked her way to the bathroom, bathed and cleaned herself, wiping away the hateful evidence. Anger ripped through her at the thought of his hands upon her, took away the fear, let her mind zip through scenarios.

She wanted to hit him, scream at him, hurt him as he'd hurt her.

But how could she? He was too strong. No, she had to sneak away, leave. Three hours more, and he'd be getting up. People slept lightly toward dawn. She had to be quiet, not alert him.

She dressed rapidly, threw two pairs of jeans, two T-shirts, two skinny tops, underclothes, socks, an extra pair of shoes in a back pack. Grabbing a jacket, she threw it on top.

Slowly, she eased the door open, stepped into the hall. The plush beige carpet muffled her footsteps.

Pausing in front of his room, she heard his snores lessen, his breathing go even. She waited. Heard him get up. After his electric razor buzzed and the water in the master bath shower drummed, she eased the bedroom door open. The smell of sweat and musk brought back his naked body, his panting breath. A knife edged beneath her ribs, pressed in. She almost ran, but, pushing the thoughts away, she took a step in, then another.

She eased to the bureau where his wallet lay, pulled the hundred-dollar bill from the secret pocket, and backed out of the room.

The drum of water in the shower stopped, locked her into place.

He was dressing, doing his changing act, making himself into Mr. Southwick, the professor. Panicky, she rushed back to her room and threw her packed bag under the bed.

When he opened the door, she was seated at her dressing table combing her hair.

"Forget about peeling potatoes for supper tonight. We'll go out for pizza," he said, examining his shirt cuffs.

Anger ripped through her. Keeping her gaze on her reflection, she forced herself to continue combing. He was a blur, barely seen, part of the furniture.

He put his hands on her shoulders. "We'll get along well, Lisa, you'll see. I'll take care of you like any daddy should."

You're not my daddy, you despicable creep! The words shouted in her brain, exploded and then exploded again while an anvil banged against her skull, sent her head spinning. She reached for the hairbrush, the mirror, anything with which to hit him, smash that arrogant look from his face.

But he was already gone. She heard the Subaru he’d bought to replace the totaled Honda go down the block.

Ten minutes later, heart pounding, hands shaking, she left. Attempting to hide her trail, she bought a ticket for Modesto but didn't stay. Two days later, she arrived in Seattle where she'd never been and where Leonard would never think to look for her. Numb and scared, she sat for hours in the Greyhound terminal. The third hour a man wearing a uniform asked her what she was doing, "Your folks forget to meet you?"

"Yes," she said, wondering if he were a policeman. "Guess I better catch a bus home." Pretending to know what she was doing, she left, vomit filling her mouth. At the corner she let it fill the gutter before she moved on, buildings towering above her.

Like refined spray from an atomizer, rain misted the city. She walked uphill along slick streets past the Bon Marche department store where dozens of people waited, she feeling as if they all were watching her. Every few minutes city busses zoomed to a stop disgorging or picking up passengers. Groups of teenagers acting as if they owned the sidewalk jostled her. Adults glanced at her. Would they remember her later? She bumped into an old woman and apologized, hurried by, her shoulder bag clutched to her side, her eyes downcast, her cheeks red. Any minute a tap on the shoulder, the words, "you're a runaway" might shriek into the night, send her running for cover.

A police car moved slowly down the block. She pretended an interest in a corner window where Caucasian, Asian, and African mannequins modeling designer jeans and pull-over sweaters stared haughtily back at her. Reflected in the glass, the police car, passed slowly. After it was gone, she crossed the street as if she had a place to go.

Slipping and sliding downhill, she took a zigzag course, fear of the unknown pushing relentlessly at her. Stepping off a curb, she landed in water up to her ankles. A man laughed. "Clumsy, aren’t you?" His words followed her.

Another Leonard? Her feet squished in the tennis shoes Leonard had bought her. Somewhere she'd have to rub life into her toes, put on dry socks, change her shoes. If she could get through the night, tomorrow should be better. Mid July. The rain should stop, and the dry spell begin. She had read about it in school, seen a documentary about runaways collected in Seattle. Kids alone, getting along without adults, was something Leonard would never understand.

A sign flashed. Pike Place Market. Edging past stalls and stores where men and women were locking doors, putting signs in windows, and lowering grills, she felt a spurt of confidence. Proprietors and workers barely glanced at her. Fresh fish and apples, books, jewelry, kiwi fruit, kewpie dolls, old coins, and every conceivable thing to eat or use rapidly disappeared from view. Voices echoed, and the smell of greasy fried food and baking bread carried above the dampness. She navigated a maze of halls to a restroom, found it locked, pushed through another door, and was outside again.

A spotlighted series of stairs led beneath a freeway where cars zoomed, headlights cutting swaths in the dark. Far below a waterfront street gleamed, cars and people zooming by. Exposed, easily seen by anyone above or below, she ran, heard footsteps behind her, whirled around, gasping. Words and laughter carried from high above. "Hey, you all alone, little gal?"

She raced. Wind whistled around her ears, caught her scarf and sent it flying. She reached, missed, saw the wind flutter it out of sight.

At the bottom of the stairs, she stumbled over railroad tracks, under the freeway, sprinted across the street and climbed the stairs to the ferry building. Locking herself in a stall inside a restroom, she sat down, placed her backpack on the floor in front of her. She took off her wet socks, wrung them out, wrapped them in toilet paper, and stuck them in the outside pocket of her zipper bag before sticking her feet into dry socks.

Someone rattled the door. "You asleep in there?"

Lisa put on her other pair of shoes, gathered her belongings together. "Sorry." She unlocked the door.

"Sorry don't help." The woman shoving by smelled of perspiration, dirty clothes, and unwashed hair. "This stall's mine. See? When the fares aren't using it, I do. Understand?" Her jiggly fat arms took on the appearance of strength.

Lisa left the woman ranting.

In the waiting room, she sat through two sets of ferry riders, until the waiting room emptied, the women at the change windows glanced her way, and the fat lady came out of the rest room and glared at her.

Outside again, she listened to water from the Sound slosh against pilings. A misstep. Looking back, she struggled up another flight of stairs, tired now, muscles protesting, lack of sleep making her groggy.

On Second Street men filed out from an all night movie house where X's marched across the marquee. A room, no matter the cost, would break her. She needed someplace, anyplace, that would allow her to hunker down for a few hours. Already men in ragged clothes, some with dogs on leashes, had staked out doorways. Underneath the viaduct boxes and crates became temporary shelters.

Passing a closed staircase attached to the side of a building, she turned, went back. If she squeezed under the stairs, near the bottom, the ground would be dry and protected. Unless someone approached from below, she would be unseen, safe. Rapidly, she wedged herself in and stretched out, using her bag as a pillow.

But sleep wouldn't come. Holding her watch to the crack between the steps, she read two-thirty, then three before she drifted off.

A cold nose pressing against her cheek sent her sitting bolt upright. She pressed against the house to escape it until she saw that it was a puppy, fluffy and sweet, its rear end wiggling as it sought her approval.

"Oh, you darling!" Tears filled her eyes. She held out her hand. "Where did you come from?"

"Come here, Trouble. Now."

The voice rang low and urgent and led her to the long legs, the jeans with the split seams, the faded jacket. Looking up she saw the face, lit by the street lamp on the corner, a face so angelic and sweet and handsome, something lurched deep within her. The boy was young, no more than a year or two older than she, and he merely held out his arms for the puppy that leaped into them. "Sorry she woke you," he said softly, his voice low, she felt irresistibly drawn to him.

He positioned himself against the building across the way, back to the wall. Periodically, he glanced her way. Periodically, she glanced back, finally dozed.

At four-thirty cars passed, lights went on, people hurried by. Voices, the smell of coffee. All so normal. If someone in the apartments above saw her, would they report her to the police? Backpack in place, she pushed out from her sleeping place. The rain had stopped, and dawn shot rosy streaks along the horizon.

She glanced at the building across the way. The boy and the dog were gone.

At a coffee shop on Third Street, she ordered a Danish, put four lumps of sugar in her coffee, and had the waiter refill her cup. When she left, the sun was casting long red streaks at the sky. Kiosks were opening, venders hawking papers, and government workers were converging on the Federal Building from buses spewing out passengers. At a tourist and information booth, she got a map and memorized names and places.

On Fifth Street, she located the public library where homeless old men attempted to look dignified while they dozed over newspapers on the second floor. From among them an old woman, her general age and seediness impacting like a fist in the belly, stared at her.

Going up another flight on the escalator, for a moment she faced the boy coming down. He nodded as if he knew her, long feathery eyelashes brushing his cheeks.

His youth shone at her, positive and confident. "What happened to the puppy?" she called.

His face lost its sweet serenity, and his lips trembled as he mouthed, "Dead."

"Dead," she repeated, her heart lurching.

"Run over," he called back.

She stumbled off the escalator and stopped the first person she saw. "The ladies room?"

"To the left, past the auditorium."

In a stall she gagged, wiped her mouth, blushed the toilet. Was this the way it was, hurt coming suddenly, no notice, just throwing itself at you?

That night she lined up with the others at the Millionaires Club. "Better than the Salvation Army," the man in line ahead of her explained. "You got to listen to the preaching there."

Beans and rice and carrot sticks and a cookie. Coffee or Kool Aide. Loud talk surrounded her, sour smells, she tried to ignore. Forcing herself, she ate the food, listened to the talk, and later stood in line for a free bed.

The cots in the dorm had gray blankets, rough. Lying down, she put her arms over her head to shut out the light, the loud talk, the crazy singing. It wasn't until after midnight that things quieted down. Then came the coughing, the hacking. The farts.

She had to go down the hall to the toilet someone had stuffed with paper. Urine puddled the floor. Staring at feces and tampons clogging the commode, she fought back a vile taste and returned to bed.

In the morning, fatigue clung to her, but fluffy clouds rode the sky, and a clean smell permeated the city. At a pawn shop where violins hung on the wall, firearms gleamed in cases--shotguns, rifles, riot guns, pistols – and a watch winking with diamonds lay in the case in front of her, she screwed up her nerve. "I need ID."

"Why in the hell come to me for such chicken shit stuff? I want no trouble, see?" The tattooed snakes on the man's arms writhed.

"I just thought . . . ," She began to back out, tears in her eyes. She'd always heard pawn shops dealt in everything and anything.

"You damn kids think I'm a fucking cream puff. You got a damn pipeline to information. Who sent you?"

She fought the door. The bell rattled, the door stuck and then gave, tossing her into the street.

As she started away, he stopped her. His voice low, he said he had a few connections if she had money.

Three hours later she paid fifty dollars for a piece of plastic that said she was Lena Sonders, age eighteen.

"Won't pass close inspection. Flash it. Use it to make yourself some cards, maybe letterhead stationary." He also had a tattoo business on First Street. He said she'd make a great subject, and he’d do her for free if she'd say where she got it. It would be great advertising, a snake circling her tits, flowers along her arms, a butterfly on her cheek and her butt. "Maybe a snake coming up your ass. Nice little split tail like you."

Shaking her head, she rushed out. Leonard was only the tip of the iceberg, the underside extended dark and deep.

At a copy center, she created a past life. Fake parents at a fake address.

By early evening she was sitting on the grass at the waterfront park, watching the ferries go in and out, children playing, responsible adults nearby. Where would she spend the night? At dusk she began walking. The most promising places had already been staked out, people staring up at her from sleeping bags or from behind shopping carts.

At the space under the stairs she found the long-legged boy again. He said his name was Benny.

Chapter 3

Virginia's Route 7 led past ever-expanding housing tracts and the exit to historic Leesburg before Carter turned off on a narrow road that finally deposited them before the gates of Cameron Plantation. The entry led up a driveway flanked by Italian cypress. Beyond the trees Lisa glimpsed manicured lawn, sculpted box hedges, and daffodils, iris, and tulips bursting with blooms. She murmured, "It's very impressive."

"Not as impressive as what I want to show you." Grinning like a kid, he winked at her.

She tried to hide her overwhelming curiosity. The aged Rolls Royce stretched to imposing, but not ostentatious dimensions. Ralph Fennstein had told her long ago, "From old family, expect nothing showy"--a vintage Mercedes, or a well-kept Lincoln, not a trim new Lexus convertible. She expected the house to be the same--brick, perhaps, rather large, but not impressively so, well preserved, functional but not pretty. When the house popped into view, a vision of white pillars and pilasters and floor-to-ceiling windows filling her eyes with beauty, it threw Ralph's theory out of kilter. "Oh, Carter, it's magnificent."

He smiled at her indulgently, possessively. "That's not the surprise." Slowing, he passed the circular drive that led to the front door. "We're going to the horse barn first." The lines of his face softened, and his voice grew tentative as a young man's. Like Benny's had been.

Lisa relaxed.

He parked and, taking her hand, led her into a building that stretched long and low, obscuring the horizon. The unmistakable smells of horse, leather, and hay met her, and in the largest cedar stall, she glimpsed a foal.

Carter said, "He's yours."

"Carter, he’s beautiful. What a wonderful, thoughtful gift!. Thank you so much." Her voice breathy with excitement, she viewed the long legs, the awkward but sleek look of the animal. "I love him already." She moved closer. Like magic the intervening days in California were slipping away, locked in a compartment that had nothing to do with Carter. Leaning against the gate, she spoke wistfully, "I've never had a horse. Does he have a name?"

" Regent." Carter ticked off the horse's breeding.

"I don't understand a word you're saying, but I'm very impressed." She held out her hand for the colt to sniff. Horses filled the other stalls, and a tack room, having the appearance of a study in a fine house, led off to the right. "The thing is, I don't know how to ride."

Carter eyed her with a gentle gaze. "If you'll marry me, I'll teach you."

She looked aside. "You know my thinking on that." Her stomach churned, pressed at her breastbone.

He shook his head firmly. "It’s either now or never, Lisa. I’m not getting any younger."

Fifty-five. Old enough to be a real father. The thought brought a sense of safety and stability. She had barely turned thirty-one. She met his gaze straight on. Although his voice had a brook-no-changes sound, his eyes were still as warm and gentle as the colt he'd given her. Once, Benny had brought her a tabby cat who had walked along with her, heeling like a dog, seldom going off on her own. Muffins had been a derelict, too. And now Carter, who was more like Benny than any man she had ever known, was asking her to marry him. She had no doubt that if she refused, it would be the end. Clinging to the idea of being taken care of, cherished, she whispered, "Ask me again."

His eyes gleaming, he nodded. "Marry me at cherry blossom time when Bitsy can come down from Martha's Vineyard, and the boys can come from school."

She'd forgotten he had a daughter and two sons, almost forgotten about Gary. Pain ripping through her insides, she glanced away. Four years ago at a large party where fawning people ate fussy hors d’oeuvres, she'd met Gary. Until he’d arrived she’d been the main attraction. Athletic appearing, tanned, smiling, he'd been very much at ease. Effectively shooing the others away, he'd said his name as if she should recognize it. She had. A few days later, she'd let him take her to dinner.

Settling back on the banquette, she had met his gaze directly. Bill Gates move over, people usually said when Gary was around. "So what turns you on?" he'd asked. She told him she got high from successfully running the business Ralph had left her. Workaholic Gary had been entranced. He proposed marriage that night. She accepted the third month she knew him. Now, if necessary, she could get a fake certificate of divorce. She'd held Carter off as long as she could. A man in a marrying mood didn't linger. She said, "I’d be honored to be your wife, but let's make it a small wedding. Okay?"

He kissed her enthusiastically but said he agreed reluctantly. It wasn't the Cameron way. "But those newhounds could make us look ridiculous. The difference in our ages for one thing. Anyway, I need to get back to writing my memoirs. We'll sneak off for a short honeymoon. How about the Bahamas or the Virgin Islands?" He named a date two months ahead. Could she arrange her life properly by then? Yes, she'd have to.

***

On the day of the wedding, magnolia trees were shedding pink and white petals, but inside the house, multiple fireplaces took away a lingering chill. Lisa dressed for the ceremony in a room where Jefferson Davis had once rested during the Civil War and where the first Mrs. Cameron had come on her wedding night.

Following a tap on the door, a woman's voice, cool as spring water, said, "The Reverend has arrived. I thought you'd want to know."

"I'll be down as soon as I'm ready," Lisa murmured, recognizing the faintly acerbic tones of Carter's daughter, Bitsy. Bitsy, for Elizabeth. She would not let them rush her. Later, she wanted to remember this time as calm and peaceful, and not feel driven as she'd been when she'd married Ralph Fennstein, or ambiguous as she'd been when she'd become Gary's wife.

Slowly, she slipped on the off-white dress, simple but classic, the wool soft as down, with pumps to match. Her makeup and the pink carnations Carter had given her were the only touch of color, that and the blaze of her hair, brushed until it glowed, standing out from her face like a halo.

Going down the hall a few minutes later, her image reflected from a bevy of mirrors, her shoes made no sound on the Aubusson carpet. It was almost as if she weren't there. She paused, a ripple of apprehension running up her spine. No, she mustn't think like that.

Voices rose from the wedding party gathered in the library where paintings of early day Camerons scowled from gilded frames.

"You were a widower for a long time, Dad," Bitsy said. Her purple and black dress was a smudge against the warm glow of polished wood, old leather bindings.

"More reason to change," Carter answered, his gaze going up the open stairs. "My dear." A satisfied smile settled on his face. Flanked by his daughter and grim son-in-law, Burke, he appeared even more benign and loving than usual, smiling even at the two little granddaughters who ran in and out, nearly upsetting tables, running into people.

Lisa put her hand in his.

Bitsy's mouth widened a trifle. "How lovely and young you look, Lisa." Her glance slid past her.

"Thank you, Bitsy."

Bitsy cleared her throat and opened her pale, lashless eyes wide. "What, for saying the obvious? After all, I am older than you."

"Can you imagine, my daughter a Yankee." Carter spoke rhetorically and shook his head at the thought before he introduced the clergyman to Lisa.

Dr. Devonshire half bowed, folded his wrinkled hands and spoke in a sprightly voice, "How are you, my dear?"

"Fine, thank you. " Lisa smiled brightly at him and nodded at Burke, Bitsy's husband, whose dark blue suit made Carter’s beige look almost festive.

A silence followed while flames licked at logs, and Dr. Devonshire cleared his throat and ran a finger under his clerical collar. "Perhaps if we took our places."

Doctor of Divinity, Lisa thought. So legitimate. Her stomach was churning again. She stepped forward, determined. This marriage would be better than anything that had gone before, better for Carter, better for her.

She took her place beside him. His hair still blonde, barely touched with gray, his face relatively unlined, he appeared far younger than his years.

Burke stepped forward, a man so non-descript Lisa had trouble remembering how he looked even when she looked directly at him.

Belatedly, stiffly, Bitsy took her place, pulling the little girls with her, pushing one toward Burke, who snagged her before she could escape.

The words began--sonorous, important. Lisa knew a sense of oneness with Carter. They would be so happy, and one day she would have children, beautiful, well-behaved children. She stared at the flickering flames, the fire so clean, licking at the logs as if in a rite of purification.

The words, spiritual and practical, spun on, the reverend's voice a soporific, weaving a hypnotic trance of rightness.

"If anyone has just cause . . . ."

She stiffened. Could she have heard correctly? Those words happened only in movies, not in real life. She had never heard them before, had she? Pain hit between her eyes, slammed into her temples, raced through her body. An image of Gary appeared in the shadows behind the world globe, a specter of a tanned but dying man rising to haunt her. His wavy image grew solid, realistic, his gaze deadly, boring in. Was he already gone? Was that why her heart was racing, her hands clammy? Had he died alone, without her?

She hugged her arms to her body to stop the sudden trembling. She’d never broken the law. Had not even contemplated it. Was she being punished?

"Wilt thou, Carter . . . ."

Pain throbbed, increased, raced through her. Above the globe the vision fluttered, grew faint and disappeared. A knife edged into her ribs and turned viciously. While she was being married, breaking the law, Gary could be breathing his last. But she mustn’t think of that. Couldn't think of that. She clenched her jaw, fought the feelings.

The minister's words continued--Episcopalian, Church of England, descended from Henry the VIII and before that the Roman Catholics. If she kept focused, she'd make it.

She had never wanted to hurt Gary. You don't divorce a man who's dying. Only an unfeeling person would do that.

Carter's voice came firm and clear, "I, Carter Cameron, take thee Lisa to my wedded wife . . . ."

As Carter continued, without hesitation, the specter disappeared. Her headache eased. Relieved, she made her responses in a clear voice, words tripping from her tongue like music. She lifted her lips for Carter's kiss, and without undue difficulty smiled at Bitsy.

As she and Carter stood grinning at one another, shaking the minister's hand, and calling one another Mr. and Mrs. Cameron, Charles and James rushed in. They had broken speed limits, they said, laughing. Handsome, younger editions of their father, they were smooth with praise and free with smiles. Less polished, but charming, they toasted the newlyweds often throughout dinner in the formal dining room. Laughing much, they kept the evening lively, two young men who saw nothing wrong in their father romping with a much younger woman. What should they call her, they asked, their eyes teasing but respectful, too. "Lisa will be fine."

At a small reception later the champagne flowed, the light from wall sconces dim, but the anecdotes and remembrances of Cameron foibles and follies, recited with laughter, were hearty. Carter's sons helped bring a relaxed informality to the evening that the neighbors followed. Horsey women in tweeds, pretty women in ruffles, country squire men and minor government officials, all admired Lisa's position with Fennstein Publications and her youthful beauty. She would bring a touch of business acumen that was much needed in Loudon County's women's circle, and her loveliness would add tone to all their beloved Virginia doings.

Moving with Carter around the small group, Lisa could almost believe the fairy tale they wove. Virginia, seat of presidents, manicured and prosperous, with its long history, was opening up its doors to her. Carter's sons, only eight and nine years her junior, were on her side, and eventually she would win Bitsy over, too.

In Carter's bedroom suite later, the bay window looking out over the sweep of drive where the neighbors' cars wended toward home, she said, "How sweet of the boys to rush home for our wedding."

"Yes, wasn't it? And Bitsy, what a sweetheart she is, coming all the way from Martha's Vineyard at a moment's notice. Not easy with those three babies." He crossed the room and put his arms around Lisa.

She pasted a quick smile on her face. "Believe me, I appreciate so much your family being here." She and Carter would fly to the Virgin Islands in the morning.

"Your family, too, now. We hope to make you very happy, my dear. It couldn't have been that exciting being married to Fennstein, his being so much older, and then you had such an unhappy second marriage. Gary Jacobs, wasn't it?"

The headache slammed into her again. She willed it away, but it just got quieter, pain throbbing underneath the pleasure Carter was determined to give her. After he was sleeping soundly, she popped a handful of pain pills. Still, it was more than an hour before she, too, was sleeping.

The next day a soft rain left shimmering images in the window glass. The boys had already departed for school when she and Carter left for the airport. Saying goodbye, they stood in the front hall near the door, Bitsy hanging onto Carter’s arm. "I don't want you to worry about anything, Dad. I'll stay here until you get back,"

Lisa raised an eyebrow. The fully staffed house certainly must run itself.

Carter smiled at Lisa. "I can always rely on Bitsy." He ruffled her hair as he must have done when she was younger.

The next week, on white sand beaches, beneath palm trees, and in restaurants where rattan and bamboo ambiance told Lisa that yes, she was in the tropics, Carter catered to her every whim, giving her breakfast in bed, late lunches, sex in the afternoon, and dancing till all hours.

"You know...," he said the last day, as they lazed in the rose and green bedroom, the inside blending with the outside, birds of paradise and swaying palms constant reminders of the tropics.

She looked up from the chaise, seeing the deep blue of the water beyond, Carter in khaki shorts, she with a negligee loosely around her, soft air caressing her skin.

"When you want to start a family . . . ." He sat down beside her, took her hands.

The thought of being pregnant while Gary was alive cut into her, slicing away large chunks of her equilibrium. "I have a family. The Camerons."

He smiled indulgently. "I'm just a family man at heart. I think we'd make beautiful babies."

"I want that, too. Next year maybe, or the year after." Lately she’d read articles about cancer patients whose disease went into spontaneous remission. Not that she wanted Gary to die. Oh, God! She glanced in the mirror to see if her thoughts showed on her face. "But not now. Not yet." The headache slammed into her again. She waited until Carter turned aside before she gulped a handful of pain pills.

Back in Virginia, the sun breathing new life into old foliage, and late blooming trees bursting with buds, she listened to Carter's stories of the past, loved having the Cameron name. At the local store where she went to buy the non-fat milk Carter should be drinking instead of all that creamy stuff he downed, they beamed at her. Now that she was a Cameron she belonged. Even Ralph's money and position hadn't insured that.

When Carter retreated to his study for a full day working on his memoirs, Lisa took one of the cars and drove into the District. At a phone booth on a corner where she'd never been before, she called California. As the phone repeated a hollow-sounding ring in her ears, she stared at the traffic, strangers in all the cars, just the way she wanted it.

"Hello."

Gary had been to the doctors, and nothing had changed. His voice had the glum sound of defeat.

"I'm sorry." The words were true.

"Not as much as me."

She couldn't argue that. "What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing. There's nothing you can say. Where are you? It sounds strange."

She glanced at the cross street. "Out of the office."

"I called there. They said you hadn't been in."

Her heart lurched and settled down. "That's what I told them to say. But I thought they had sense enough to put you through. The press won't let me alone now that we're doing that book about seduction, so I've had to be secretive."

"Really. Incidentally, I'm seeing Braddock again tomorrow."

"Braddock?'

"My doctor, for god's sake."

"Sorry. I've been rather busy here."

"Look, Lisa, when in the hell are you coming home?"

"Soon. I just need to tie some things up first."

The next day, Thursday, over Carter's gentle protestations, she left for Philadelphia. It was raining when she arrived. Maria was out, and the Society Hill rooms seemed lonely. Carter called, saying he missed her already and would join her on Saturday. The Virginia house seemed naked without her. The neighbors asked about her. The colt missed her. She was needed.

Smiling, she hugged herself, and called her secretary, "Tell me what's happened."

"Mr. Jacobs called. Said it was urgent."

The headache slammed into her again. She fought it off, remembering Carter's smiles, his consideration. "Arrange a board meeting," she instructed. "I'll be in the office early tomorrow."

She ran the tape on her bedroom answering machine. A few unimportant calls sandwiched a telephone message from Gary. "Where in the hell are you? I can't ever locate you. I need you here at home, damn it." She slept little that night.

In the morning rain came in spurts, gray clouds hurtling across the sky. The Delaware River unfurled waves that chopped at the barges unloading at the wharves. On the way to the office, her car skidded through a stop light. A siren sounded, and in her rear view mirror, she saw the squad car. She pulled over.

An all neck-and-shoulders cop asked for her driver’s license.

Her card case ID read Mrs. Carter Cameron. Hastily, she stuck it under the pile and pulled out the Fennstein-Jacobs driver’s license. The cop looked it over, cautioned her to be more careful, and threatened a ticket next time.

At the office she had time to arrange her papers and look around with satisfaction before the other board members arrived. With only a nod at each, she started the meeting on time.

Interrupting, Eon Smythe complained, "You set Fennsteins on a new course and then left us to handle it. Perhaps you'd favor us with your presence more often."

"Yes, yes, of course," she murmured, not saying she had to leave Sunday. "I think if we do a blitz of advertising, hit all the major bookstores, television, newspapers…. " She threw out suggestions and allocated tasks. Eon could take care of radio, Russell television. Driving the board, she moved swiftly through the agenda, forcing them to votes, and setting out the idea that in the future more work could be done from home. "E-mail me if you have a problem," she said, stuffing papers into her briefcase and declaring the meeting over exactly two hours later.

Eon sputtered, "Those infernal machines will be our ruin. "If you ask me, computers are ruining communication."

Russell Sanderson smiled. "Eon, just because you’ve never gotten used to them doesn’t mean the rest of us have to stay in the dark ages."

Lisa glanced gratefully at Russell and got to her feet. Tomorrow with Carter she’d go to Bookbinders again--their restaurant. And the next day she'd fly back to California. She'd call Carter from the air, murmur sweet things into his ear, remind him of that first flight. God, how wonderful life could be. She aimed a smile at Ralph Fennstein’s portrait before leaving the Board Room. Except for the main offices at Fennsteins, the outer offices were a rabbit warren set off by a refined and old-fashioned reception room--leather chairs, oak desk, hunting prints, and books everywhere. The rooms were all deserted, the help gone an hour ago.

She found a foot-tapping Carter sitting in the reception area. Frowning, he rose when he spotted her.

"Darling," she cried, "how wonderful, but I thought you weren’t coming up until Saturday."

He shook his head slightly. "I decided to surprise you, and come a day early, and I was surprised instead."

Hurrying across the gray carpet, she tried to suppress the cold entering her veins. "Aren't you even going to kiss me?" She smiled her brightest, lifted her head, hoped he would see that she needed his gentleness.

His kiss was perfunctory, hurried, a frown riding his face. "Lisa, the receptionist didn't recognize your name." His senatorial voice rang out.

"That's ridiculous." Walking swiftly, she started toward the elevators, he trailing her, her heart thumping wildly.

"No, it happened. I said to tell Mrs. Cameron that I was here. She told me there was no Mrs. Cameron working here."

She paused, looked up at him, and struck her forehead with a gloved hand. "My secretary must have forgotten to tell the rest of the help. That's what happened, I'm sure. How awful for you, darling. You must have been waiting and waiting." She tipped her head to the side and clucked sympathetically, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it, possibly see it.

He entered the elevator after her. "If I hadn’t been so tired – I burned the midnight oil last night – I would have come looking for you."

"So now that you have me, how about a better kiss?"

He brushed her lips with his while giving more attention to pushing the ground floor button than kissing her.

The headache started again, battling her vision, blurring the world. She couldn't change her name at work. Not now when Gary had started calling her, when he was waiting for her to come back to California. "Carter, you realize the whole publishing world thinks of me as Fennstein-Jacobs. It’s only good business to continue in the same way. You know, it’s the way things are done nowadays." She knew a moment’s relief for having explained it to him without incriminating herself.

" I thought you liked being a Cameron."

"Oh, I do. You know I do." She moved toward the front as the elevator door approached the ground floor.
"Then let the receptionist know who I am; let every employee recognize me."

"Of course, darling. They will all recognize you the minute you step into the building." She stepped from the elevator, a ‘stitch’ hitting her in the side, expanding into her chest. She'd take his photograph to the office, show everyone. Tell them, that when that man arrived, he should be shown into her office immediately, no questions asked.

And oh, yes, she must remove the picture of Gary she had on her desk.

Gary.

A weakness hit her, and she reached out for support, but Carter had moved on, and she was left to follow. Fear began to gnaw at her. Carter was not really like Benny. No one could ever be. The wonder of that first love rose with all its innocence and charm, the promise stretching out before her again, many-faceted crystals, each a memory so lustrous and poignant she’d never forget them. Suddenly, she had to pretend something had flown into her eye. Why else the tears?

Chapter 4

Seductively, the past became real once again.

That first night, walking the downtown streets, she and Benny talked at and past one another, he suggesting places where she could spend the night. Cardboard cartons kept off the chill, but a plywood shack was better when it rained. At times he swaggered, his expertise setting him above her, but his swagger was non-threatening, a heel-toe ballet, the steps basic, familiar, a matter of rote, not his innate being. It was her own pattern, pretending to be on top of everything when the edge of fear threatened to topple her. But because he also knew which places to avoid, which to reconnoiter, and where to dumpster dip was another reason to trust him. "You can’t believe the things people throw away." He sounded amused, or was it surprised?

Periodically, he paused in his monologues to grin, his boyish charm giving the lie to the swagger.

As night deepened, an old man, leaning against a shopping cart stuffed with his belongings, called out a greeting, and Benny answered, his voice light, "Jake, how’s it going. You all right?"

The gray-bearded man hiked his pants up and smiled broadly. "I’m just peachy keen, my boy."

"Jake, I think you’re pulling my leg."

"No, not this time, Ben."

For a time the two took one another’s measure, smiling and nodding in some silent communication. A little later a shadow-boxer on the corner, body odor announcing his presence before his image became clear, threw out joking comments that Benny tossed back. Friends. But two men didn't make a consensus, especially if one was ready for the loony bin. Lisa held herself apart, said little as Benny became garrulous, clusters of big words flying by her, rising and falling as if he were trying to impress her.

She almost went on by herself, but two old ladies toting shopping bags, one pushing her possessions in a supermarket cart, tipped the scales solidly in Benny's direction. Snaggle-toothed, gray hair popping out from under a knit cap, the oldest woman paused in a doorway to wait for him, a smile of pleasure lighting her face.

"Annie! How's your arthritis?"

"Bursitis, dearie. There's a difference, you know." She put a hand on the offending shoulder, reached the other out towards Benny.

He took it in both of his. "Sorry, you need anything, let me know. Don't forget now."

Not looking at Lisa, swagger gone, he pulled a sack of candy from his pocket for the woman. A little later a pudding-sack old lady wearing purple gloves received a bottle of hand lotion. She held it as if it were priceless.

Lisa glanced back to see the woman stripping off the gloves, applying the lotion.

As if there’d been no interruption, Benny continued his monologue to Lisa, "It's s possible to go from one street level to another without going outside. Handy sometimes." He rattled off the names of buildings and passages he used to go from Second to Fifth and not get wet.

Impressed, she said, "Expect me to remember all that?" She grinned.

He grinned back at her, shrugged. "As for meals, they’re no problem. Lots of ways to get food."

"You must have been here a long time."

A shadow moved quicksilver-like across his face before he shrugged.

Sympathetically, she almost blurted out, "I never want to see my stepfather again," but her natural caution kept her from confiding in him. The muted sounds of a city late at night was rising above the sound of their footsteps now that Benny quit talking. Tired and cold, she stumbled and lagged behind him. At the corner near a parking garage, he waited.

"Come on," he urged. "All the best places will be gone before you get to them."

"I don’t think you know any ‘best’ places."

He frowned and shrugged. "Think what you want to."

As she snapped a retort – after all, why should she believe him--she spied the gang hanging out on the corner near 2nd. and Pike, not far from the market. Two or three girls and a dozen boys spilled into the street, leaned against the lamppost, dragged on cigarettes, and pushed at one another, their shadows elongated as they moved in and out of the light. One called out, curiosity leavening the abrasivness of his words.

A cigarette dangling from his lips, the oldest, a boy pushing twenty, stepped into the stark brightness of city night. "Hey, Benny, what’s happening? Where ya been, man?" He stepped forward, street lights illuminating tattoos on his bare biceps, his nose pierced by a silver ring. "Ain'tja gonna introduce your woman?"

Benny steered Lisa across the street, a thoughtful expression crossing his face, time extending before he said, "She’s just passing through."

"Yeah, sure," a dozen voices sneered, laughter following. Teenage girls in thigh-high Levi skirts, boys with jeans hanging from skinny hips jostled one another, moving in and out, stick figures in a modern ballet.

"Wattaya mean passing through, Benny?" The girl licked her black lipstick and spoke to him but kept her gaze on Lisa. Gazing at her from heavily made up eyes, she darted out to walk alongside her. "She deaf and dumb or stuck up?" She jerked a thumb at Lisa and stabbed Benny with a look.

Smiling affably, he said, "Lay off, Brandy."

The girl poked Lisa in the arm. "Whatsa matter, can’t you speak for yourself?"

Lisa pulled away.

The girl's finger found Lisa's ribs. "I’m talking to you, bitch."

Facing the girl, Lisa shouted, "Don’t ever touch me again! No one touches me. Ever." Heart pumping murderously, Lisa kept her head up, her eyes defiant. Could this be happening to her? From some place else she heard the jeers and laughter cease, heard someone say, "She called your number, Brandy."

Suddenly there was silence while Brandy slowly backed off. "All right, all right." She held her hands up conciliatory fashion. "Just don't mess with me. Understand?" Walking away with an exaggerated strut, she tossed over her shoulder. "Touchy broad."

Her friends repeated the words. Shuffled movements. Laughter.

A small ferret-faced boy bowed in Lisa's direction, did an elaborate pantomime, touching his right buttocks, then his left. "Your majesty can kiss my ass, not here or here," he cried, glancing at the others.

"But smack in the middle," a dozen voices shouted, laughing and gesturing to their backsides.

Lisa hurried away, tears scalding her eyes, a sense of outrage fueling her, giving her strength.

Benny caught up, walked backward facing her. "The trick is not to let them bother you."

"Look, I don’t need a lecture." She felt close to tears.

"No, you don’t," he agreed. "You need a dry place for the night. A really safe place."

"So what else is new?" How could he appear so kind and innocent and protective when desperation was driving her?

He spoke softly, "If you keep it a secret, I'll show you a place nobody but me knows about."

Once again his voice filled with caring sounds, as if she were one of the old people, the touched, the infirm. Maybe she was. She glanced back toward the corner, invisible now. A mist, not quite rain, bathed her face, kept her awake, but her legs ached, and sleeplessness dragged her thoughts down, mired them in helplessness. She glanced behind her to see if anyone was following.

When she faced around, Benny had reached the corner and was standing on the curb waiting for the traffic light to turn green, although no cars were coming in either direction.

Lisa started across.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "You don't want to get a ticket for jay-walking." His voice was matter-of fact, a beatific expression still riding his face, his blonde curls falling over his forehead.

"Are you for real?" she whispered.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing." She had never seen anyone quite so beautiful.

***

The building was partially hidden behind a high fence. Pulling aside loose boards, Benny beckoned Lisa to follow him. Beyond signs shouting danger, back of a hinge-less door resting against the building, a hundred plus rooms rose several stories high. Once, in the days of party-line telephones, the structure had held nine-to-fivers. Faded prints on one of the walls showed women at an old time switch board. Other pictures reflected the building's role as headquarters for a lumber king, and finally the place where an ecology group put together pamphlets and brochures. But the last had more vitality than capital, and as plaster fell and bricks came loose, the city condemned the once grand building. Trash covered grimy chipped tiles at street level. Broken windows gapped, the three bottom steps were gone, plus two toward the top of the first flight. Grabbing hold of the stair rail, Benny swung up and past them, indicating Lisa should do the same.

Gingerly, she followed, skirting the second floor--where toilets (blushed by water Benny carried up in pails) – going to the third floor where Benny lived. But he showed her all the floors, like a landlord pointing out the best qualities. "Up here are the metal desks and filing cabinets, book shelves," he said waving a hand.

She glimpsed a battered conference table, a kitchen sink and fought against the damp smell, the whispery sound of rats, the sense of isolation. She had to settle somewhere. Memory spooked, exhausted, her mind churning, she claimed a room on the third floor, one with a lock, and stared defiantly at Benny. "I'll take this."

Hands up, he backed off. "I'm not arguing with you. I'm just trying to help."
"Thanks." She slammed the door in his face, pulled and tugged a heavy desk against it, and lay down in the middle of the room, using her backpack as a pillow. The swishing sounds of traffic carried from the overpass. A fog horn mourned, boards creaked and groaned, and wind whistled, startling and then lulling her to sleep with repetition.

Exhausted, she slept until the sun slid into view along the north wall and woke her. Lying still, she let the past move rapidly, frame by frame through her mind. Then deliberately she began to count the cracks in the ceiling. At seventy-three, a knock came at the door. "If you want, you can share my breakfast." Benny's voice, soft, polite, diffident.

The sun casting benign streaks over the dusty room and the knot of hunger in her stomach decided for her. "Be with you in ten minutes." She adjusted her clothes, went down to the "ladies" room and looked at herself in a broken mirror. Was that really her? Slowly, she went back up to the third floor.

The large room Benny called home sparkled with cleanliness, and the food spread out on a long table made her smile and shake her head in admiration. Apples, breakfast rolls, cereal with milk in bowls, were all arranged on paper napkins. "You always eat this good in the morning?"

"When I can get it." He sat in one of the two side chairs drawn up to the table.
Sitting across from him, she surveyed the room. Two ancient swivel chairs flanked a faded, lumpy, but serviceable sofa, all touching a small Persian carpet. Fluted cornices and a chair rail as well as scenic wallpaper made elegant the west wall, while a bank of windows decorated the outer wall. The view down to the entrance led across a weed-filled yard to the blank wall of a warehouse.

"At night I balance plywood panels in front of the windows to block the light. No use advertising my presence is my motto." He poured milk on his cereal.

A kerosene lamp sat on the desk at the far side of the room. Above it a few books balanced at the end of a row of shelves.

"You read these books?" She held Great Expectations spine out.

"Sometimes."

"You read this one?"

He nodded.

She put the book back. "You like Dickens?"

"Sure." He pushed an apple her way.

"Why?"

"I can relate."

She bit into the apple, chewed, swallowed. "Me, too, I guess."

He smiled.

Despite herself, she smiled back, the pain between her shoulder blades lessening. She looked out the windows. "Pretty good view of the area?"

"Better from the top."

After breakfast, he left. She watched him weave through the broken boards in the fence. Once again she slept. When she woke it was almost dark. Quickly, changing clothes, she listened, heard nothing. Edging into the hall, she glanced toward his room. His door was open, and he sat reading. "It's okay," he said. "We're alone."

How had he realized her fear?

That night she followed him to the top story where standing on the eighth floor next to the floor-to-ceiling windows was like standing in space. Three streets were visible to the east while to the west the view led to the sparkling blue water wavering to the horizon. Lisa called it The Ocean until Benny very carefully explained that Puget Sound emptied into the ocean. "Those lights in the distance are from Bainbridge Island," he said, not touching her, not even looking at her. A breeze was riffling the water, and the air carried the chill of the far north. She hugged herself to stay warm, and turning swiftly, as if he had been aware of her movements, he slipped off his jacket and handed it to her.

"You can stay here in my building as long as you like," he said, warning her never to be seen entering or leaving, never to be seen at the windows. "The police would run us out or take us to the station. They do that, we get fingerprinted. They check a million files and, bingo, you’re back where you started."

He looked straight at her, no smile, an unasked question in his eyes.

"You think I'm telling you where I came from, you're dumber than I thought," she said swiftly.

He shrugged. "Watch out for winos, too. Sometimes they find their way in."

Deep feelings of despair hitting her, she said, "I’d die before I’d go back." But Benny's eyes held regard, not anger. She swallowed. "I'll keep my eyes open."

Later, she heard drunken men stumbling around at street level, and for days afterward the smell of cheap wine and raw urine rose from the first floor, but Benny's kindness, his solicitous attitude, made it all seem distant, unimportant. She began to feel safe.

***

Pushing memories of the past away, back home in San Francisco, Lisa taxied to the house. Buying the Victorian had been expensive, an excellent buy, Gary had said, its location in the Mission District a good one if you discounted the problems with the last earthquake. He believed in odds and was sure the next quake wouldn’t involve that area. Anyway, he had bought it as an investment. The way real estate continued climbing in the Bay Area, they could sell it at an enormous profit, maybe build one of those new one-of-a-kind places, computerized retractable walls and windows. He’d been working on it.

She found him in his study, the monitor showing he was linked with his office, he looking gaunt and tired.

"You work too hard," she said by way of letting him know she was home, the time in Virginia with Carter, the times with Benny in Seattle moving through her mind as rapidly as the cancer must be moving through Gary's body – too fast, too persistent. His belted Dockers showed pleats that hadn't been there originally, and his hands manipulating the mouse seemed extraordinarily long and slim.

In the past, he would have waved and continued whatever he was doing. Tonight, he swiveled in her direction. "So you're finally home. You were gone so damn long I thought you’d moved to the city of brotherly love."

She undid the belt cinching her polo coat. "I told you how it’s been. That Seduction book is keeping us all chained to the desk." She shrugged out of her coat, hung it up, and rummaged in her purse to give herself time.

"When I called they said you weren’t in your office." He scrolled down, selected a passage, moved it.

"Gary, I told them I didn’t want to be disturbed, but they should have known that didn’t mean you. I circulated a memo, spoke to some of them in person." She pulled out a pen as if she'd been looking for it. "I'll make another note, remind them again." She moved toward the bedroom, aware that he hadn’t swiveled back toward the monitor but was watching her.

"I waited dinner on you."

She hesitated in the hall. "But I ate in the plane."

He sucked in his already gaunt cheeks and breathed deeply. "It’s not like my days are fun-filled. I would think one meal together wouldn't be too much to ask." His lips came together, grim, angry.

"Sorry, if I had known . . . ." She repositioned her briefcase.

He turned from the screen, pinned her with a look. "The thing is I have something to tell you. I've become involved with the Bay Area Cancer Institute. The best scientists and medical men are doing innovative research, a holistic approach, the whole nine yards. I told them you’d help with a national fund-raiser, that you and your company were good with publicity, that kind of thing." He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and folded his hands.

She moved back into the room. "You told them what?"

He shook his head, sucked in a breath, hollowing his cheeks even more. "That you'd be happy to help. The thing is they think small, regional. Someone needs to shake them up."

She tightened her hold on the briefcase. "The publicity for the Seduction book won’t leave me much time."

"I would think that under the circumstances you could find someone else to do the work at Fennsteins. Anyway, the fund-raiser's a done deal."

She swallowed her frustration. "Do you have a projected date?"

He swiveled back toward the screen, began scrolling again. "Three months from now. Sooner if we can swing it."

How could she do any more? It would take all she had to juggle her lives in the next few months. "Gary, I’ll do what I can, but the Seduction book takes a lot of hands-on stuff, and Eon Smythe’s fighting me every step of the way."

He looked over his shoulder. "Are you trying to say you can't help me?"

She shook her head slowly. "No."

His eyes narrowed. "Well, it's clear you're trying to tell me something --- or hide something." He faced her again, rocked forward, and raised a finger. "I got it. You’ll have to spend a lot of time in Philly, more than usual, and you're feeling guilty as hell about it."

Relieved, she nodded. "I probably will have to spend a lot of time there. No telling what Eon will do next." Avoiding Gary’s direct gaze, she slipped out of her high-heeled pumps. "I really need to change." She headed for the bedroom, frantically trying to remember an incident that would illustrate Eon’s picky-picky qualities, but her mind had become sieve-like, emptied of all but the recent weeks’ satisfactions, and damn it, must her hands shake?

"Well, I hope you have some influence with someone. I don’t like being told my wife isn’t there." His brows had the downward slant of anger. In the past he had never repeated himself. Tonight he seemed to be circling back with a vengeance, his mouth squared, his hands making fists.

"I don’t blame you," she muttered, going back to him as he beckoned, forefinger crooking, head nodding. "I’m sure it won’t happen again." She pushed a smile across her face, directed it at him. He still had the tan of a man who had spent time in the out-of-doors, but his shoulders slumped, and his skeletal hands moved again, stopping her in front of his chair. "I contacted my attorney. California is a community property state. Still, it's important to have certain things spelled out." His voice came slowly and softly, not in the spurt of words and the assertive tone that usually characterized his conversations, and, reaching out, he put his hand on her arm. Unless he had sex in mind, Gary had never been demonstrative.

Her arm burned where he had touched it. She felt undone, guilty, not good enough. He was looking at her with openness, a film of tears in his eyes. "Damn it, I don't want to die!"

He had never been so open in their years together. Feeling trapped, she shook her head and opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Turning away, he muttered, "I've been sleeping down here, but please go on up to bed. I want to be alone."

Please was not his word. Gratefully and guiltily – he must be really sick--she climbed the stairs.

In the morning, on the way to the office, she stopped at a gas station and called Virginia. Carter was her future, the man who inquired about her health, not the man needing her care, the only person since Benny who had put her first.

He answered on the second ring. "Lisa! Where are you? Sounds like a pay phone."

"It is. I got so eager to hear your voice, I pulled into a gas station. I needed gas anyway."

"That’s sweet, and I appreciate it, but why not call me from your car phone?"

Why not? Her mind a blank, she counted the seconds whizzing by.

"Lisa, you there?"

"Yes. Something’s wrong with my car phone. I couldn’t get the dumb thing to work." The lie came so fast, her head began to throb.

"Honey, I’m having trouble hearing you."

"I said I miss you."
"What? Call me from the office. Okay?"

As soon as she was behind her desk she dialed. Through the window the city slipped away from her toward the ferry terminal. Once she had loved the view, now it meant nothing. She waited for Carter to answer. Then it hit her; her accountant, unfamiliar with the number, would question the call, want to know whether it was business or pleasure. Too late now, Carter was rumbling, "Cameron here." She’d have to deal with the accountant when the time came. Sinking into a whispered exchange of love and sweet talk with Carter, she put the problems from her mind. If she hurried, she could wrap up the Fennstein business in a few days, mollify Gary, and get back East before Carter became too restless. "I really should get back to work."

"I didn’t realize you were such a workaholic," Carter's teasing tone held elements of Southern chauvinism attached.

"Successful workaholic," she murmured and hung up in time to field Gary's call. In the three years of their marriage she had seldom heard from him during the day. Now he wanted her to meet with the people in the Bay Area Cancer Institute immediately. "It’s important to say yes when these people are ready to talk."

The last thing she needed was another job. Irritation stayed with her, despite the fact that the institute in the Berkeley hills sat amid showy pink azaleas and deep purple lavender. The pink stucco building with its tile roof fit into the landscape well, and at any other time the setting would have thrilled her. Not today. The staff stood in the door waiting when she drove up, reminding her of all the work and the juggling she'd have to do. She counted four doctors, the administrator, Robert Frontenac, and several others, all with folders of information. Everyone smiled and greeted her as if she were their benefactor. Smiling, she said the proper words, exuding the right amount of charm and expertise. Everyone smiled back except one man who looked past and through her. She deliberately ignored him.

The white-haired, silver-tongued administrator took her arm and led her down the entrance hall. "AIDS is the big publicity getter now, but cancer affects more people. Your husband said you were eager to help us launch a national campaign. With Fennstein Publishing leading the way, our campaign is bound to be a success."

She shook her head, lifted her hair from the back of her neck, and waited until it settled into place on her shoulders before she answered. Carter liked her locks loose – "feminine" he said – and she had not taken the time to put it back up like she usually wore it to the office. She had steeled herself for patronizing looks, but few had come. Was she looking for trouble? "I’m afraid you give me more credit than I should take." She added a modest shrug.

"I don’t think we overestimate you. We heard what you’ve done with Fennsteins. I think you’re far too modest." Frontenac smiled as the sun caught the red streaks in her hair and set them ablaze. He steered her by offices filled with workers, the others in the entourage following, all adding a word or two when clarification of specialties was needed. Only the one man remained aloof.

She slid a glance by him, saw that he was tall, slim, hawk-faced.

With Frontenac guiding her down halls and through breezeways from one building to another, she had no chance to wiggle free, declare her independence from the scheme they and Gary had developed. Experts showed her what the Institute was doing. They loaded her with papers and statistics. Gary hadn’t exaggerated. These people were probably good. Their intelligence was evident, and more than likely they were on the cutting edge. As much as she dreaded the thought, she had to find time for them and the project. Thank god she had the Fennstein people taking over most of the Seduction book publicity.

"Is something wrong?" Frontenac asked.

Forcing a smile, she shook her head. "No, I was merely trying to assimilate all this."

Shaking hands all around, she said she’d be in touch and began forming ways to get out of the project, but when she returned home she found Gary looking so wan and helpless that she knew she was irrevocably committed to the fund-raiser.

For a week she lived with a phone in her ear, making the contacts necessary to set up the event. She hired people to contact hotels, discuss the needs for the evening, and select a few facilities from which she could make the final choice. She had people talk with caterers, musicians, florists, and the media and report back to her. She needed lists of headliners, stars who would attract the public and bring the media out in force. She needed idea people and detail people, and she needed the authority to run it all in the way she thought best.

Using the Fennstein name, she contacted Barbra Streisand’s publicist and private secretary. Barbra’s secretary called back. They had checked out the Institute and found their work extremely exciting. "Ms. Streisand will be glad to do the benefit. And give our regards to Mr. Fennstein, Ms. Streisand remembers him as a fine gentleman."

Lisa remembered, too. She looked out at the ferries and boats in the bay, cold objects contrasting vividly with her warm memories of the untarnished blue of Puget Sound. But that was past, prologue to what was happening.

All week she sneaked calls to Carter, once from a restaurant that added the phone tab to the lunch check, twice from the old-fashioned phone booth at the Colonial Bookstore in hopes to stave off his calls to the office. Four times he’d called her, twice at home. She'd been frantic, afraid Gary might pop into the room at any time.

"You sound distracted," Carter said when he called the office.

"Just busy."

"Can’t talk without a secretary hearing?"

"Something like that."

He chuckled. "So, I’ll call you tonight."

"I’m not sure what time I’ll be home." When she'd given Carter the number to her private line, Gary hadn’t been home. But now…. "Maybe I should call you."

"No problem, I’ll keep calling until I get you."

And have Gary hear? "No, I don’t want you spending your time calling when I might not be there."

"So when will you be home?"

"Hard to say. Ten perhaps." Gary usually fell asleep before then.

"Not till then?"

"I have to hold the hand of an author who’s doing a reading. Some writers are very shy."

"Honey, you work far too hard."

"It’s the way it is in this business. I promise to pare things down to the bone when I return East."

"I’ll hold you to it."

This time he didn’t sound as if he were joking.

Oh, god, how she hated this juggling act. The past rose again, sweet and innocent. For a long time she watched the water and remembered that time in Seattle.

Chapter 5

During that first week in the abandoned building, lethargy and fear settled upon Lisa like a dressing gown, once slipped on not easily thrown aside. Never venturing far from her pallet bed, she listened to Benny’s portable radio late at night. "So what do you really think?" the talk show radio host asked, and callers from across the nation answered. Their impassioned speeches about love, capital punishment, sex, or gun control burned into her, became the thoughts that left her sane, that blurred and blotted out her own existence. The building moaned and cried, protesting the wind and rain that buffeted it. Bricks fell, rats scurried. She slept as much as possible, read dog-eared magazines and old books she found on the upper floors. Arcane facts marched through her dreams, and when she woke, she watched people wander the streets below and imagined she was in another time and place. Thus she held reality at bay.

After a week, Lisa began to think of the abandoned building as home. She scoured the floors for furniture and accepted with grudging grace the throw rug, the artificial flowers, and chipped coffee mugs that Benny brought her.

Before long their mornings together were the high point of her day. He’d knock on her door, she’d answer, and after he returned to his room, she'd hurry to the Ladies’ Room on the second floor before going to what he grandly called his apartment.

Breakfast rapidly took on a symbolic meaning. If Benny were talkative, if the meal was plentiful, the day would flow, one part into another with a seamlessness she loved. But if he only grunted a greeting and stale food in scant supply was slapped upon the table, it was a portent of the day to come.

The first time that happened, her gaze stayed on him, her eyes hard and direct, not allowing him an escape. What was wrong? In that week she'd concluded that the grime of the world had to be examined, ground under, avoided. But shaking his head, Benny turned away from her, and she saw that he was tired, an exhaustion that was more than physical, and she imagined him suffering some trauma not unlike hers, and she said nothing more.

At night, when Benny returned to the building, he emptied his backpack of treasure. Once he had two cartons of chocolate milk. They sipped it like children, and challenged each other to guess how much they had left in their carton, sipping when there was nothing to sip and laughing when the other discovered their ruse. Benny said he’d never had a sister. "Before."

A warm glow moved through her chest. Open, almost happy, she smiled at him.

Benny frowned. "Don't expect me to be here always." His voice had a ragged sound, and he turned aside all overtures. The next morning he drank two cans of beer with his breakfast and bragged about what he would do in the future. As he posed and postured, Lisa tried to smother her disappointment, but she was sure he knew. His face blushed, he frowned at her. She spent the day in her room.

The next day he swaggered like the street corner kids, talked tough. She told him he'd never amount to anything.

"Oh, yeah? I got dreams, see."

One day he said he would sail around the world, see places like Rangoon and Timbuktu. Maybe see the Mulmein Pagoda. His eyes gleamed with ambition. "Looking eastern to the sea," he sang. His voice had a sweet, direct quality to it, "There’s a Burma gal a setting, and I know she thinks of me."

"For the wind is in the palm trees," she added, spontaneously.

It was the first time she chimed in, finished a song or a sentence for him. When it happened the second time, an awkwardness and an awareness set in, to be followed by a naturalness she found totally satisfying. The mornings became the focal point of her day. She left the building with Benny and walked the streets in tandem, he introducing her to the city. "Don’t hang around where homeless congregate. Don’t look like a runaway," were two of his maxims. Being secretive and proprietary about "their home" was number one.

Daily, she saw old folks ridiculed and humiliated, and daily she determined not to take the easy route of booze and drugs like the girls who met in the Bon Marche’s rest room, girls obviously high on something. Because she looked older, the police didn’t hassle her.

"The trick is to look good when you go out there. You know, clean. And busy, like you have someplace to go," Benny advised, patrolling the upper floors of their building after dark, making sure no one had discovered their hideaway. Night dipped and swirled over the city, the full moon shedding silver light. It cast a gilded glow over the Sound and made the streets below magical, non-threatening.

Occasionally, Lisa ran into the kids she’d seen that first night. The girl, Brandy, showing her a grudging respect, passed on information about new kids in town, the best free restrooms to bathe in, the places where people treated you with respect.

Lisa recognized the other gang members, knew the names of a few, Wolf, Princess, Batman, and Boss. Boss wore a leather jacket, issued orders, and made the flesh on Lisa's neck crawl. On warm days he bared his chest and flexed his muscles until the tattoos on his arms danced.

"Hey sweet stuff, wanna do me?" he asked, hand to his crotch, pushing out his pelvis when she passed, calling after her, "I'm talking to you, Ba-bee."

Wolf and Batman, hanging close to him, hooked their fingers in their belt hooks and leered. The rest echoed, "Ba-bee."

Eyes averted, Lisa scurried by and afterward went out of her way to avoid the corner where Boss and his gang hung out.

She said nothing to Benny, but he knew. One day he said to her, "Boss won’t hurt you. He thinks you’re my old lady."

Pulling her hand from his, she cried, "I’m nobody’s anything."

"I didn’t say you were."

Still, awareness rippled between them. Although not as tall or as muscular as Boss, Benny appeared older than his sixteen years. His shoulders had breadth, and his body had the proportions of a man grown. Only his face betrayed him, so sweet looking that even older women succumbed to his boyish charm, tourists asking him for directions, pressing coins and dollar bills on him as pay. Once he came home with bag full of groceries, fresh vegetables, fruit.

"You rob a bank?" she asked that night as they looked down at the city from the top floor, he pointing out the railway depot and the yard where the busses parked and also identifying Mars, Jupiter, and the North Star.

"Of course not."

She pulled back from the railing. "Then how’d you get it?"

"I got ways."

The next day, as the sun began its slide behind the mountains of the peninsula, near the piers, Lisa spied a group of people surrounding a street musician. Soft folk music carried to her, and as people shifted positions, she glimpsed Benny strumming a guitar, a sweet, far-away look riding his face. Chording, occasionally plucking the strings, he sang along, his voice clear as a bell, sweeter than the accompaniment he coaxed from the instrument. His face registered the deep emotions of the song, sliding from love to disappointment and finally loss. Although his voice, sweet as it was, had a weakness to it, a softness that made people strain closer to hear what he sang, they responded viscerally. His face reflected the pathos of the story, and Lisa wanted to reach out, reassure him that it would be all right, for the sadness in his face made clear that he knew what such words meant. A momentary silence followed the last note. Head bent, he clutched the guitar to his chest. "Bravo!" someone shouted. He raised his head and smiled, and all around the circle tourists pushed forward to drop dollar bills into his open guitar case.

Lisa hurried away before he saw her, a lump in her throat. She understood the people who hung onto his words, applauded his singing, nodding along with the rhythm. Whenever Benny spoke seriously to her, his voice sounded as soothing as it did when he sang. Hooked by the song, mesmerized by the expression on his face, his gestures, the glint in his eyes, people were carried beyond themselves, as she was. Benny and his songs blended so well even the most hard-hearted reached into their pockets for money to give him. It bothered her that she felt so warm toward him, warmer than she ever had about anyone except her mother.

That night as he unloaded groceries from his backpack--a jar of peanut butter, six oranges, a bag of chocolate chip cookies--she said, casually, "I saw you at the pier. You sing really nice."

For a moment he met her gaze, and she felt as if she were bathing in honey, licking it from her hands. She put the peanut butter and the cookies on the shelf.

He shrugged. "Somebody said I sell a song."

"Maybe that’s it. You got this way of …." She gestured helplessly.

Again the look, fleeting but unmistakable.

She looked away.

Blushing, he pushed his guitar under the bed.

Confused, sensing his embarrassment, feeling hers, she said no more. That weekend, when he asked her if she was up to a sermon, she accompanied him to the Salvation Army kitchen where they had a free meal of ham steak, potato salad, and corn on the cob.

"My mother put sour cream in her potato salad," Lisa said, a need to talk about her life rising faster than her desire for anonymity. "And when she worked around the house she tied her hair in a pony tail. People said we looked like sisters."

"She must have been pretty."

"I suppose. We always had Stove Top Stuffing with pork chops on pay day. Or barbecued country ribs. Not spare ribs. There’s not enough meat on them. Your mother fix country ribs?"

He looked away. "My mother never cooked."

She began to build up a story about him in her mind. Floozy mother, abusive father. That night, in Benny‘s room, she talked about the past, telling him the things that had sat in the sweet file of her mind, and when she finished, she said to him, "How about you?"

"Nothing to tell."

"Or nothing you want to tell?" She felt mean, pushing at him.

"At the moment." He rocked back in his ancient swivel chair, oak she imagined, shiny but scarred. It squeaked, and he grinned like he always did when it happened.

She grinned back. "You don’t owe me any stories."

"Thanks." He straightened and put his hand over hers. "Partners?"

She liked the feeling it gave her of being his special friend. "Partners."

A beatific smile spread across his face.

Looking away, she ended the spell.

As the mystery of the downtown area left, she looked for things to occupy her mind and to calm the jitters that periodically raced through her body. Once she inadvertently participated in a march that formed near the city hall steps. Men and women with bullhorns and signs spread out along streets that had been roped off, and some woman stuck a sign in Lisa's hands. Before she could ditch it, she spied Boss and his buddies leaning against a car parked along a side street, their bodies reflected in the shining hood.

"Hey, Lisa," Brandy cried, her lipstick a slash in the pale white of her face.

"Hey, Lisa," the rest of the gang echoed.

Lisa held the sign out toward the parade’s organizers. "Look, I never said I would carry it."

The woman who had been assigning organizations places in the lineup-- ACLU, NOW, The League of Women Voters, and King County Democrats leading a host of smaller, less well-known organizations – took the sign from Lisa and handed her a sheet of paper. "Okay, you can help with the chants when we get started. The words are all typed out."

"But I don't know…. Lisa protested, gaze on Boss who was gesturing to her, winking, grinning. She let the demonstrators sweep her off, down the street, toward the Seattle Center, their voices linked as they marched, shouting, "Ronald Reagan, he’s no good, send him back to Hollywood."

The political posturing escaping her, Lisa looked for a way out. Adults ruled the world, and the men in it took what they wanted – like Leonard. No, she didn’t understand any of that, only the daily life she led with Benny was understandable. She needed to find him, talk to him.

When Boss and the others could no longer see her, she fell out of line and worked her way through the crowd. But Benny wasn't near the Bon or playing his guitar at Pioneer Square or near the Pike Place Market. Frustrated and lonely, she took the last of her money and bought a ticket on the city bus, round-trip to the end of the line.

She rode through neighborhoods where new cedar houses stood next door to seasoned old bungalows and elegant Victorian mansions, past Lake Union where fancy houseboats were docked to where modern dwellings perched on the top of hills. Evergreen trees and huge rhododendrons decorated the hillsides, flowers bloomed everywhere, and away from downtown, a small town atmosphere prevailed. A woman on her way to Lake City told Lisa about her grandson, another wondered if Lisa was in high school or college, and everyone smiled at her. A person could make a life here, nothing reminded her of California. Slowly a sense of real freedom entered her mind.

First go back to school. Get a diploma. The future beckoned, intriguing but unclear, Benny with her in one of those doll houses, everything clean and sparkling.

Shadowy dark lurked when she returned downtown, but she felt high, unafraid. Inside the free zone, she got off the bus, wanting to walk, to let her dream float a while longer. She didn't hurry until she was a block from home. Benny would be worried, she had never stayed out alone after dark.

Quickly, she moved the loose boards, ducked through the fence, replaced them, and threaded her way across the lot to the building. It was tricky balancing the heavy door, reversing her position and replacing the door. She paused to catch her breath.

What was that scraping sound? Like feet over concrete.

She pricked her ears. Heard nothing more. Breathed trapped air. Saw nothing move.

She hauled herself up the stairs. Rapidly.

Not smiling, a look of worry on his face, Benny met her at the top.

She told him about the march. She didn’t mention seeing Boss and the others.

The next day she went with Benny to the movies. As "An Officer and A Gentlemen" flowed across the screen, she let him hold her hand during the love scenes, and that night she talked to him about her plans. She talked about school, not about the vine-draped cottage for two.

He said he understood. He, too, had dreams of the future. He smiled at her, as if the plans were not for him alone.

She went to sleep that night with a smile on her lips.

The next day at the library she researched requirements for getting an equivalency diploma from high school. If she boned up on math, memorized historical data, she could do it. Then a job and college courses. At dusk she headed home humming, the future dangling like fruit waiting to be plucked.

She found the door out of place.

Of course, Benny had to be just ahead of her. Or maybe that old man and woman who had holed up on the street floor last week had come back. Pushing debris and trash aside, they had moved in. Their battered stools, table, and cardboard cartons still leaned against the wall like tired soldiers. Had they come back? Detecting movement, she narrowed her eyes to peer into the shadows. Someone stood opposite her, just out of the shaft of light coming through the boarded windows. "Who's there?"

"Surprise!" Moving like a predator and laughing like a scavenger, Boss stepped into view.

Jerking involuntarily, her heart smacking against her ribs, she swept the room with a glance. Should she try to back out, get to the street? If she called out now, no one would hear, not even Benny if he was in his room, door closed.

"Ba-bee, you swish your ass at me sooo nice."

"What are you talking about?" she muttered, stalling for time.

"It’s payoff time." His hand went to his crotch, and he laughed as her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened.

She made herself stand still. "Get out of here."

He took a step closer. "Stupid cunt bitch, you heard me."

If she sprinted to the stairs, climbed high enough, she could lash out with her feet, kick him in the face, send him reeling backwards. She braced herself, got set to run, started to move when Wolf and Batman strolled into sight, one to her left, the other to her right, their taunting laughter shivering up her spine.

She dashed toward the stairs, reached for the railing. But Boss was there first. Skidding to a stop, she shifted, ran as if in a maze, turning, spinning, reversing, watching the three men gradually close the distance to her.

Grabbing her, Boss dug his fingers into the flesh of her arms, and as she struggled, he looked toward the others and asked, "Ain’t this a rare piece of meat?"

"Prime cut," Wolf whispered, suddenly beside her, his breath fanning the back of her neck.

Boss chuckled. "Hey, Batman, you ever seen such pretty little titties?" He ran his free hand across his breasts.

"Ain’t seen 'em yet, Boss."

In one quick movement, Boss ripped the blouse from her body.

As the tattered remnants of the soft cotton fell to the trash-littered floor, she screamed and went limp.

"Shut up, Bitch." He clamped a hand over her mouth.

She bit his foul-smelling, foul-tasting fingers.

Hollering, he swung his fist, the broken and dirt-clogged nails folded from sight.

Ducking, she deflected the blow, took it on the shoulder, felt it spin her like a top, send her reeling. On her knees, she caught her balance, started to rise, anger filling her mind, giving her strength.

Grabbing a handful of hair, Boss pulled her up, facing him, held her in place. "Look at me, you red-headed bitch. It’s not that pansy Benny Boy whose gonna fuck you. It’s time you had a real man, Ba-bee. A real man."

He fumbled with his clothes, and instinctively she quit struggling as Wolf and Batman closed in, their faces full of lust.

"That’s better. Take it easy, and you won’t get hurt," Boss said, grabbing her jeans, reaching for the zipper. Swiftly, she brought her knee up, and at the same time saw Benny highlighted against the door frame, his body outlined in gold. As her knee found its target, he leaped, landing on Boss.

Falling, Boss collided with the others who were racing forward, sending Wolf off balance, Batman to his knees. Rolling free, Boss rose, the others a split second later. All three moved slowly, silently toward Benny who crouched, waiting, a loose board bristling with nails in his hands.

"Lisa, get out of here," he cried, moving away from the stairway. "Go home, leave."

As the three converged on him, Lisa grabbed the rail and pulled herself up and darted a glance below. No one had seen her leave. Benny, flailing with the board, landed a blow on Boss, caught Wolf in the back, and was lifting the board to hit Boss again when Batman grabbed him from behind. They struggled. Dust rose, swirled, thick and heavy. Fear hit her hard.

Off balance, Benny lost his grip on the board, and before he could retrieve it, Batman pinned him while the other two hit and kicked him. Lisa reeled. Her head spun, fear for Benny and herself smashing into her. If they caught her, what happened with Leonard would be child's play. Shaking, she backed away from the stairs and raced to her room.

Throwing on a T-shirt and sweat shirt, she looked around, unable to think straight. Had to get away. Run. Hide. But how, where? They would see her if she tried to get to the street now. Shaking, she climbed to the eighth floor and listened. Boards creaked, windows rattled, struts protested. Once Brandy had worn a bruise like a beauty patch, her eyes shifting whenever anyone mentioned it. Another time a big car filled with well-dressed men of Leonard's age had opened a door and pushed a girl out. Her clothes were rumpled, blood ran down her legs, and she looked blankly toward the gang hanging on the corner.

Lisa had moved instinctively toward the girl. Brandy had held her back. "You don’t wanna mess with those people."

Now, when no sounds carried up the stairwell, Lisa inched to the windows. Below, in the weed strewn lot, Boss was weaving his way toward the fence. Cautiously, she put up the sash. On the still night air, his voice carried clearly, "The bitch has to be out here."

"I’m telling you, Boss, we looked all over. But she can’t stay hid forever."

The three ducked through the fence and sauntered down the block. When they were out of sight, Lisa ran down the stairs. Through the light leaking in the door, she found Benny sprawled, spread-eagled unconscious, cut and bruised, blood flowing. "Oh, my god," she cried. "Benny, speak to me."

She put her head to his chest, heard the steady beating of his heart. Hurrying, she went back upstairs. Moving carefully, she brought down the bucket of water from her bathroom and spilled it over him.

Groggily, he came to.

"We’ve got to get you upstairs," she whispered, determined to hurry. As gently as possible, she washed the blood away from Benny’s eyes and pulled and prodded him to his feet. Boss might come back any minute.

"I’m sorry," she whispered as a moan escaped Benny's mouth. Arm around his waist, his arm draped over her shoulders, she tugged and coaxed him up the stairs, not letting him rest until he was in his room. She let go only when he collapsed on the bed and drifted off, unconscious again.

The moon was drifting in and out of the clouds. By its light she gingerly examined the cuts and bruises, checked for broken bones. Rushing, she tied a towel to the gash in his head and three towels later stanched the flow of blood. All the time she cast worried looks over her shoulder, imagining Boss climbing the stairs, bursting through the door.

Still, she had to go out. Boss would be looking for her near the market, the waterfront, or the bus depot. If she hurried, she had time before he came back. Raiding Benny's stash, she grabbed a handful of money.

At the nearest drugstore, squirming in the bright fluorescent glare, she bought iodine, bandages, Band-Aids, tape, aspirin, and bottled water. Other than a customer at the front counter, no one browsed the shelves.

"You hurt?" A suspicious look crossed the pharmacist's face.

"No, no, my kid fell off a chair, cut himself."

"If he doesn’t get better, you better take him to a doctor."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

She hurried out. Light spilled to the sidewalk and spotlighted her. She felt naked. All the way back she kept looking over her shoulder, jumped when a cat yowled, flattened herself against a building when a car zoomed by.

She found Benny in a deep sleep or dead. Alarmed, she woke him, feeling for a pulse, jostling him, calling his name.

"Stop it," he muttered.

For a week she slept in a chair next to Benny's bed while he faded in and out of consciousness. He was her responsibility, her family, and she would not let anything happen to him. Daily, she bathed his wounds, swabbed them with iodine and fed him aspirin--four at a time every four hours. Luckily earlier in the week Benny had hauled up buckets of water, brought in canned beans and fruit, peanut butter and bread--she could hold out for a while.

Two days later Boss and his buddies came back. From the second floor she listened, ready to race up and barricade Benny's room if necessary. But in the dim light Boss saw only the broken stairs and not the way up. "They sure ain't been living high," he said, kicking over one of the chairs left by the homeless couple. "Big Shot Benny. Ha!"

Relieved, Lisa hugged herself.

"By the looks of things, they ain’t been here in a while," Boss said. "Scared as they were they're probably back in fucking California."

All three laughed, and Lisa felt freer and safer than she had since the attack. She slept well for the first time since it happened.

One morning, stiff-limbed and bleary-eyed, she woke to find Benny conscious and watching her. "You saved my life." His eyes flashed blue as the sky, his voice sounded as solemn as the national anthem on the Fourth of July.

She brushed hair from her forehead. "You helped me when I needed it."

"Then I guess we’re even."

This time she didn’t avert her eyes or look aside when his gaze held hers. She sat up straight, flexed her arms. "I took twelve dollars from your guitar case. For aspirin and stuff," she spoke softly.

"It’s okay. Anyway, what’s mine is yours."

Again the look. She pulled herself together, stood, stretched, and unkinked. It was like all the bad things they’d encountered had brought them together, and something wonderful waited in the future, something that would take them to a place of pure peacefulness

Glowing inside, she fixed him breakfast and hovered while he ate hungrily. She told him about the day Boss and the others came back. "They thought the stools and things were ours, and that we had moved out." She didn’t tell him about the gut-wrenching pain that had shot through her wondering if they would discover the way up the stairs.

Again his eyes found hers. "You okay?
She nodded, unable to speak.

He held out his hand.

She put hers in it and slowly let him draw her to the bed.

"You were very brave," he whispered as she stretched out beside him and looked up at the ceiling cracks.

"Bravest person I know."

She cried then, the tears that hadn’t come when Leonard had assaulted her, when she'd run away, when she’d found Benny unconscious. Finally, she slept.

She woke in the afternoon to find that Benny had been up, bathed, and shaved, and, not touching her, stretched out on the edge of the bed. Separated by the lumps in the mattress, they talked until evening shadows moved irrevocably across the wall and over the floor. The breeze coming in from the Sound had the tang of the sea. Afterwards she recalled that night as magical, a time of gentle touching of faces, of hugging, she sleeping curled in his arms all night, he telling her he loved her, the words hanging in the air like a protective mist. She repeated them in her mind.

In the morning with the sun brighter than usual, he kissed her, and she put her hand to her lips in wonder before kissing him back. Much, much later, he touched her breasts, her legs, and she ran her hands over his clothed body, in awe of what was happening. A new dimension was opening, like a flower that bloomed one petal at a time. One day they had been children, with children’s bodies, now all was changing. Even as it fascinated her, it frightened her. Jumping up, she declared it was time for breakfast. They still had lemon Kool Aide. Would he like some with his donuts? She didn’t tell him they were running out of water, that she was rationing it, that fear of Boss and his buddies still tortured her.

All day she found herself looking forward to the night when she would snuggle with Benny, whispering secrets before sleep took them both. That night, their hands, moving of their own accord, found and explored places and things, and suddenly, three days later, she knew that Benny wanted more. Because she loved him with her mind, because her body knew a keenness of feeling she'd never experienced before, she made no protest when he said he wanted her to be "his woman."

Awkwardly, he fumbling, she knew he was as inexperienced as she. What had happened with Leonard had nothing to do with the magic of love.

Longing surged through her like lightening, tingling in her lips and hands and body. Trembling, she got up and without looking at him, took off her clothes and lay back down. If love was a closeness that surpassed anything she had ever known, than she loved him. No other relationship could compare. This was different. So very different.

With his arms around her, she lost contact with the world, for now what was happening was the world. It mattered little that it took days until they had it right, the wonder of it caught her, held her. He was the world as she wanted it. The grandness of it overwhelmed her. At odd times later, browsing Elliott Bay Bookstore, strolling through Freeway Park, the memory of their coming together struck her, leaving her weak-kneed and astonished. She knew a tingling awareness of her body, one part gliding so effortlessly into another that she wanted to broadcast the greatness of it. She sniffed Benny's clothes, buried her nose in the unmistakable aroma that clung to his skin, his hair, kissed the smooth skin, ran her hands over the developing muscles that bulged his arms, broadened his chest. Something had changed within her, taken her from a separate place and given her contact with another. She was sure that strangers looking at her would know that something special had happened. A glow burning in her center showed on her cheeks, blazed from her eyes.

"What’s your name?" she asked as she and Benny lay together in the graying of day, night ready to leap into the building. "Besides Benny."

As he hesitated, she whispered, "I’m Lisa Southwick."

"Benjamin Todd Grayson. Didn't I tell you before?" He kept his gaze on the ceiling.

"Southwick was my stepfather’s name," she said and like a tornado the need to tell Benny everything swept over her. Slowly at first and then faster, the words spilled from her lips, tripping over themselves to get free.

His eyes registering a deep sadness, Benny held her tenderly, the inner corners of his brows rising, his lips soft on her cheek, his hands gentle. "It's all right," he whispered. "If I ever see the old man, I'll beat him to a pulp."

She held up a hand mirror, and he laughed along with her seeing the yellow bruises on his face, the cuts still mending.

As their food supply dwindled to nothing, she asked, "You think Boss is watching this place?"

From the second floor vantage point, they looked down. The entrance was a dark hole. Except where light leaked in around the propped up door, the first floor stretched dirty and dungeon-like. All the windows had been boarded, and Lisa barely discerned the cardboard cartons the winos had used as cupboards.

Except for the creaking of the building and the wind whistling through the cracks, she heard nothing. She pointed to the stairs and whispered, "When I first saw them, I didn’t think anyone could use them. It doesn’t look possible."

"No, but eventually, Boss will figure it out," Benny muttered. He moved back into the hall, a frown on his face.

Sometimes at night she imagined she heard footsteps on the floor below. "You mean we just stay here like sitting ducks?"

A semblance of a smile passed across his face. "I’m thinking the police might catch up with him soon."

"What do you mean?"

"If someone let’s them know he’s dealing…."

"You know that for a fact?" she whispered.

He shrugged.

A silence descended between them. He was going over the line of street etiquette. Weren’t they supposed to stick together no matter what. "Whatever you decide, I’m with you," she said, seeing Benny now as someone far wiser than she’d initially thought.

He smiled one of his angelic smiles, and his voice became light and frothy, full of fun as he suggested they go up on the roof and star gaze.

The thought struck her that they never got to discuss what had brought Benny onto the streets of Seattle, but who wanted to dwell on problems when the heavens beckoned? She raced him up the stairs.

***

Within days, squad cars closed off the Market area. Policeman on horseback patrolled Pioneer Square, and plain clothed men, recognizable by their white shirts and dark suits, were everywhere. Boss never had a chance. They caught him with a reefer in his pocket and hustled him off.

In the Bon Marche restroom, Brandy wondered aloud who had snitched.

Lisa shrugged. "Who knows?" she said easily. For the first time she felt older than Brandy, more mature, certainly more capable.

"Maybe it was Fred. He and Boss never got along that well," Brandy put a layer of gloss over her black lipstick. "You know they picked up Wolf and Batman, too?" She inspected her reflection in the mirror.

"They nail them?"

"I don’t know, but nobody’s seen them." Brandy laughed. "No big loss, actually."

Lisa chuckled, and Brandy put her arm around Lisa’s shoulder as they nudged their way past racks of dresses toward the elevators. "I think Fred’s taking over," Brandy confided.

Instead the gang broke into segments that went their separate ways. Occasionally Lisa glimpsed Fred near the Market, or Bozo and Brandy working the tourists along the waterfront, but the others faded from view. She stored faces in her memory bank and forgot names as life with Benny became a succession of days so sweet she knew she would never forget them. When they needed money, he sang and played, going as far as the University District, until dollar bills covered the bottom of the guitar case. They drifted, meeting each day as it came, no worries, nothing but each other. They planned a nebulous future together, sunny days, warm nights, a house on stilts, and an apartment in the city. Money would come from fabulous careers. Marriage would bring children, conceived in love and raised with compassion. On this they were certain. Kids needed parents who loved them.

Benny said he was sure he could pass a GED. He coached her in algebra, geometry, and trig. She quizzed him about government. Judicial, she’d cry, and he’d say Supreme Court. Legislative, she’d add, and give him ten seconds to give a proper answer. He brought her breakfast in bed, waited upon her when she didn’t feel like getting up, and almost daily brought her little gifts--a book of poems, a flower, a scarf, or perhaps a new word he’d discovered reading. After she had dreamed of Leonard, a Leonard who looked like Boss, Benny brought her the tabby-cat, Muffins. The screams of her nightmare had startled them both, and Benny had whispered that somehow, in the daylight, he would erase the terrible remembrance forever. The kitten and Benny’s concern almost did.

Each day became an enchantment, a fairy tale. But one day the enchantment ended suddenly and violently and left her all alone.

Chapter 6

Pushing thoughts of the past away, Lisa greeted Eula who cooked and did light housekeeping at the Virginia estate. Then taking her seat at the table in the window nook, she waited for Carter. The fragrance of fresh coffee permeated the large kitchen with its beamed ceiling and wide planked floor, but until Carter arrived Lisa was served nothing else. Not wanting to change the pattern, make Eula purse her lips and Carter's eyebrows to rush together, Lisa said nothing. Anyway, Carter was used to the routine. When he sat down to glance through mail piled near his plate, Eula wasted no time serving a hominy grits and country sausage breakfast that never varied. This morning was no different.

"If you’ll excuse me." Carter deftly sorted the mail into two piles, handed Lisa's across the table, lifted his silver letter opener and smiled politely at her.

"No problem," she answered, slitting with a finger tip her own mail, most of which had been forwarded from the Philadelphia office. Surface contentment hung in the air of the room that had changed little since the earliest Cameron had arrived with the Continental Congress.

After finishing his eggs and a second cup of coffee, Carter always announced, "I think that’ll be all, Eula."

"Yes, sir. I’ll be upstairs if you want me."

After she left the room, Carter unfolded the Washington Post. "Did I tell you I always read the local news first? Then national."

"Yes, we can trade later." Lisa opened the Philadelphia Inquirer and pushed down the little frisson of irritation that assailed her. After all, birds were landing on the dew wet lawn outside the windows, their songs a positive delight.

"Good idea." His smile held some of the fiery sizzle of last night, and remembering, she felt a little guilty. Carter’s courtly, southern-gentlemen style mostly fed the needs that had simmered inside her so long. Watching his eyes rise and fall and counting the pages turned, she waited until he had worked his way from local politics to the social scene before she held out the Inquirer. "I think you’re ready for this."

"So you noticed." Pleasure showed on his pleasant face. "You might find the weekly interesting. The columns and gossip are a good way to learn who’s who in the county." He pulled it from the stack of papers delivered with the mail.

Lisa big-eyed him over the rim of her coffee cup. "Good idea. But I’m perfectly content with just my husband’s company."

Carter chuckled, and his hand touching hers set an electric charge racing through her. Not since Benny had she felt that way. It should be enough.

As Carter released her hand and passed the paper over, three or four letters and a postcard fluttered to the floor, folded evidently within the paper’s pages. Carter scooped them up and glanced at the card before handing it and the letters to her.

She glimpsed a scene showing California redwoods.

"Looks like a postal from California." His voice showed mild interest.

Who but Gary would have written from California, and who but Carter would use the word "postal?" The shimmering sun-filled room went gray. Taking the initiative, she blurted out, "I don't think I've heard anyone use that old-fashioned term before."

"What?"

"Postal."

Carter pressed his back against the window seat, his head rising above hers. "I hadn't realized it was old fashioned." His words had a stiff, unbending sound.

"It was only a comment, an observation," she murmured, surprised that her voice sounded normal, that her hand didn’t shake. A humming bird was fluttering around the bird feeder. She concentrated on it.

"Point taken," Carter muttered and disappeared behind his paper.

Rapidly, Lisa turned the card over and read, "I suggest you contact the Cancer Institute, see if there’s something you can do long distance. Can’t hurt our cause. G."

Hurriedly, she stuffed the card in a business envelope and glanced at Carter again. Could he have seen the message? She doubted it, but if so, how damaging could it be? G could be anyone. Gloria, Genny, Ginny. She’d think of something if she had to, but first she’d call Philadelphia and tell them not to forward any more mail, avert trouble before it happened. The staff in Philadelphia could already have forwarded other letters, damaging material. Flanked by dogwood, the mailbox sat on a strip of lawn across the ditch from the entrance. For the next few days she’d have to get the mail before Carter had access to it. "Who picks up the mail?" she asked casually, hand on coffee cup, bone china, Cameron crest.

"I expect Eula does that." He looked across the table. "Why?"
"I just thought it’s such a nice walk down to the road, I’d enjoy it."

"I’m sure Eula will be glad not to have the responsibility. But are you sure you want to commit yourself to another job?"

"I don’t view it as a job when I can commune with nature." She leaned toward him, needing to catch and keep his attention, remind him by a glance, a shrug of the shoulder of all they had shared. "Anyway, Eula has more than enough to do."

He chuckled. "You’re not only incredibly beautiful but incredibly sweet." He leaned across the table, kissed her. "While Eula’s gone," he whispered, his lips playing with hers.

"Would it be so awful if she saw?"

"Well, no, but it’s just not something a man of my age does."

"But it could be," she teased, smiling playfully up at him.

He didn’t return the smile. "No, I don’t think so. It’s important to maintain certain standards no matter how stuffy."

"Of course." The light morning air began to turn heavy and oppressive.

After that, Lisa rode before breakfast, sneaking out before Carter woke and bringing in the mail before Eula set out the juice and made the coffee. He had showed her the basics and took pride in her equestrian accomplishments. The mare in the stall next to her colt proved a gentle and reliable mount, responding to her every command but overriding them when they didn’t make sense. Lisa enjoyed her time alone in the dew-dampened woods. Deer ran out ahead of her, squirrels chattered, and birds took flight as she rode at a decorous trot, pushing back all feelings of discontent.

The first Sunday after she started riding, Carter, wearing a suit and tie, waited for her in the barn. "We're going to be late for Doctor Devonshire‘s sermon," he said matter-of-factly but looking pointedly at his Rolex watch.

"I could have been ready if I’d known we were going to church," she said leading the mare into its stall. As she undid the girth, pulled off saddle and saddle blanket, she apologized, "I didn’t know you were religious."

Carter half shrugged, an apologetic smile on his lips. "Certain things are expected. Camerons have had a pew for as long as there have been Camerons."

The touch of diffidence made her vow to please him. She ran into the house, showered, and dressed in twenty minutes.

He grinned as she hurried down the stairs. "Beauty like yours deserves a cathedral, and that's what you'll get."

Fifty minutes later, sitting close to him in Washington's Cathedral, her high-heeled pumps in line with his wing-tips, she smoothed down her sophisticated black dress. The building had the solemnity as well as the beauty of a famous place, and she enjoyed watching the pomp and glory of the procession, ecclesiastics and acolytes gowned in red, black and white, their solemn pronouncements echoing as they had through the ages. The fragrance of the incense wafting from censors, the magnificence of stained glass windows and a Bishop saying the Eucharist helped add to the theatricality of the whole. "It’s magnificent," she whispered to Carter a moment before she caught sight of the man staring at her. Three pews up and to the left, he kept turning to look whenever the congregation stood, kneeled, or sat.

She had difficulty dragging her gaze away. Why did he seem familiar? She was sure she hadn't met him at the wedding or the local store, and they hadn't entertained, Carter declaring he wanted her to himself for a while. No, it had to be someone she'd met elsewhere. That intense face bothered her. She played back the last weeks, and like a flash, it came to her--the Cancer Institute, her playing follow-the-leader with the doctors, he filling in statistics when the administrator hesitated. He had shadowed the group, a bored and slightly arrogant look on his face. Younger than the others, his sharp features and high forehead seemed to go with his angular body, his nervous energy. Had he recognized her? Was that why he kept looking back? A leaden feeling weighed her down. Gary's world and Carter's world were supposed to stay apart not collide. Heavy with guilt-- my god what if he spoke to her?--she focused on the music. But her mind reeled.

Following Carter down the aisle, she shook hands when he did, smiled, acknowledged introductions, bobbed her head, blurted words.

At the door Carter hesitated, and she was forced to turn with him, smile. The mint julep green of the countryside grew dull, and the sky thudded with sudden thunderclouds she hadn’t noticed before. Were they real?

"Lisa, this is…."

Carter's voice rose from the vacuum. Words twisted from her lips. She smiled at a senator and his wife, joked with a former tobacco lobbyist, and flirted with a member of the president’s cabinet.

"My wife," Carter repeated, pride apparent in every nuance of his voice, every movement of his body, every glance of his eyes.

Behind him, coming closer, the man gained on them. Color rose in a tide as he sidestepped a couple and came straight toward her. Her cheeks flamed, and with an apologetic smile she fanned herself and muttered, "the humidity." Turning, she walked quickly toward the waiting limousine before Carter could stop her.

"Something wrong?" he asked in the privacy of their car, people waving, he smiling, the man from the Institute staring, a puzzled expression on his face. "You were rather precipitate, leaving like that."

She pressed her back gratefully against the seat. "No, of course not. It's just that I was up rather early. I really didn't realize it was Sunday. Suddenly, I felt a little faint."

He leaned closer. "You're not…?"

"No." She shook her head.

"Well, time enough later," he said in a chummy way, patting her hand. Silence built, and he broke it saying, "If you're feeling up to it, we'll stop at the Laurel Brigade Inn."

"If you like."

"Camerons always dine there on Sundays. Did I tell you the Inn goes back to revolutionary days?"

She nodded.

"In the churchyard across the way Camerons have been buried since the 1600's actually, although we don't know much about those early members."

"By all means we must stop."

"Good." He pressed her hand.

She imagined a skein of embroidery thread, bright as butterfly wings, tightening around her.

Back at the mansion, as soon as she could, she called Philadelphia to check her voice mail. Gary’s messages showed up like pepper among the salt, his voice acerbic. Aware that Carter might pick up an extension, her heart raced as Gary's biting words ripped into her.

Had she contacted the Institute, or didn’t she give a damn? Her publishing company had demands, but wasn’t he, her husband with cancer, equal in importance? When was she coming home? Or did she want him to start radiation treatments alone?

Frantic, she said to Carter that night as they sat with their books, the quiet punctuated by a chiming Grandfather clock, "I really should go into Tyson’s Corners tomorrow. It seems I didn’t pack enough clothes, and I hardly think you'd want your wife going sans clothing."

He looked toward the hall before answering, and she knew he was checking out whether anyone could overhear or not. "I might enjoy that, but I'm afraid we're not into nudity yet."

"Then I better hit the stores. I never did get proper riding garb. I feel like a little match girl when I show up in jeans instead of riding britches."

" A pretty little match girl."

"Thank you, sir. Still…."

"No worry. I have some shopping of my own to do, and when we're through, we’ll treat ourselves, go into the district for an elegant lunch at Sans Souci. We haven't been there yet, and it's time I showed off my bride."

"I'd love it another time."

"I hear a but."

She shook her head in a way she'd seen Bitsy do. "Carter, shopping is a woman’s thing, not coed, and certainly not done by the clock." Her voice purred, and ignoring his glance toward Eula who had materialized to see if there was anything they wanted before she retired, Lisa smiled at him in a flirtatious manner.

He couldn't help smiling back, but she could see he was uncomfortable.

As soon as Eula left, Lisa hopped up, ran to him, and sat on his lap. "See, I can practice restraint," she murmured, kissing him.

"Of course, I never said otherwise."

"But you thought it," she teased, kissing along the bridge of his nose and wondering if she had said too much, gone too far. His smile had faded, and his eyebrows were drawn together. He could be so sweet yet so inexplicable. She went back to her chair that sat precisely where it had always sat. Early on, she'd tried some rearranging, but Carter had shown surprise, Bitsy had protested, "Home doesn't look like home any more," and Eula had vowed she'd never seen such moving of furniture as long as she'd been with the Camerons.

Holding on to his book, Carter lifted a finger. "I didn't mean to intrude on your shopping trip. You're right, you don't need me on top of you. Besides, I really need to work on my memoirs." His voice had a fake heartiness similar to the one he used with constituents. Had the first Mrs. Cameron welcomed him on shopping forays?

"How's it coming?"

"Bitsy's being an invaluable help. She said to say hello to you, by the way."

"Tell her hi for me."

She couldn't imagine ever becoming Bitsy's friend.

The next day she called Gary as soon as she located a closed telephone booth, rush hour traffic streaming by. "I should wrap up things here soon," she said, "and be home in a few days."

He said he'd believe it when he saw it, and why in hell didn't she ever call him from the office? Why in hell did she treat him this way? He was dying, for god's sake.

Her stomach hurt like it had so long ago when Benny….

Once again her mind made the backward leap.

Chapter 7

"I'm going down to fill the water buckets."

Lost in her copy of Wuthering Heights and thrilled with the tale of Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, Lisa said, "Okay," without looking up. She almost missed hearing Benny's footsteps on the stairs and the muffled sound of the outside door being shoved into place.

An hour later, realizing she hadn’t heard him return, she called, "Hey, Ben - e - o," but no answer came. Sometimes they played games, hiding from one another, laughing uproariously, dashing to "home." After a time, she repeated her call. Still no answer. Mildly alarmed, she checked out the building, peeking behind dusty shelves, looking behind half-closed doors. But he was no where in the building, and the water buckets hadn't been filled. So he had met someone who needed help. Was doing his good deed for the day. She went back to her book.

Another hour passed. Puzzled, she looked down from the eighth floor. A toyland of cars and miniature people showed on the streets below, but not Benny. Worried, she did busy work, tidying their room, writing lists. Still no Benny. Fear began to trickle in and then struck hard, sending alarm bells ringing in her mind. Ignoring the unusual heat, the dust motes motionless in the sun's rays, she hurtled down the stairs and out of the building.

What if the police had picked up Benny for some minor infraction of the law? How would she know if there had been a routine sweep, whatever? The regulars, too lethargic to move, stared from corners and doorways, easy targets, their eyes not quite meeting hers. They'd be no help. Panicking, she ran in and out of the Market, rushed along the waterfront, asked anyone who might know, "You seen Benny, the boy who plays the guitar?"

Heart thumping, she forced herself on, expecting to see his familiar, now very dear, silhouette around the next block, across the next street, standing out from the crowd. Every other morning she had watched him shave, he hiding his pride in the accomplishment, she admiring the way his shoulders rippled as he moved, his arms and hands a symphony in tune with her thoughts.

Maybe he was on the way home. Or waiting for her in their rooms, that sweet smile on his face, wondering where she was.

She rushed back to the building, called his name as she topped the stairs to the second floor. "Hey, Benny, I’m home," she shouted, her voice hopeful.

Creaking silence answered.

Of course, if he was in his room with the door closed and the radio going he wouldn’t hear.

But he wasn’t anywhere in the building.

The place reeked of loneliness.

Shaking, she left a note for him and went out again, urgency clawing at her now.

Near the Ferry Building, in front of MacDonalds, Brandy leaned, moving now and then like a model on a runway. Posing, she lit a cigarette.

"You seen Benny?" Lisa called, ignoring traffic to rush across the street. Horns tooted, brakes squealed.

Tossing a match to the pavement, Brandy said, "I thought you’d be with him. Or maybe you two aren’t as tight as I thought." She raised her eyebrows in a questioning way, her smile going sidewise.

Lisa caught her arm. "What are you talking about? Where's Benny?"

Brandy pulled away. "Hey! Careful. I bruise easy." She smoothed down her fake leather mini skirt. "Last I heard your boyfriend was at Harborview."

"Harborview Hospital!"
Brandy puffed smoke into the air. "Is there another Harborview?"

"What happened?" Lisa croaked the words, her voice rough as the terror rushing through her.

Brandy shrugged. "The way I heard it Boss sent him a message, special delivery."

Lisa shook her head. "Boss is in prison."

"He's still got friends outside. I heard a couple of them paid Benny a visit."

A vision of Benny being beaten shot into her mind. "How bad is he?"

"Figure it out yourself. He’s in the hospital."

For a second Lisa stood, rooted to the spot, her mind racing. People were passing, cars zooming by, a ferry tooting, all normal sounds. What was she doing here? She had to be with Benny. Turning abruptly, she raced for a bus.

Brandy tossed her cigarette down and called, "Wait a minute, you going to the hospital, I’ll go with you. I know where they got him."

At the top of the hill, where helicopters routinely flew in and out with patients, the medical complex looked down upon the city. With Brandy whispering instructions, Lisa hurried to Benny’s floor and told the white clad woman behind the desk, "I came to see Benjamin Todd Grayson." Using his full name for the first time gave the situation validity, made it real and very frightening, the idyllic days fragile, easily broken. A tingling in her chest rushed to her extremities. She focused on the woman whose pale blonde hair contrasted vividly with leathery skin and plucked eyebrows. A strong antiseptic hospital smell overrode her perfume. "What room is he in?"

After a long moment the woman looked up, disinterest in every line of her body, her finger maintaining her place on a list. Her eyes did a quick inspection. "You his sister?"

Lisa shook her head. "No, his…ah, fiancee." The word sounded strange, a relic from the adult world. The tingling in her chest increased.

"Girlfriend," the woman said. "That’s not a family member. Only family members are allowed in."

"But it’s as good as family," Lisa argued. "We’re going to be married." Someday. At least they'd assume that. The fluttering in her chest increased.

The woman shook her head. "According to the rules that does not constitute family."

Lisa leaned closer. "I won’t stay long, I won’t bother him, I promise."

"Kid, don’t argue with me." She pointed a pencil at Lisa as if it were a weapon.

"I’m not arguing." She kept her voice calm, and a phrase from a movie pressed against her lips, and she repeated it with as much dignity as possible. "I’d like to see your supervisor, please."

The woman sighed. "I think I’ve heard it all. Keep it up, I’ll call the cops." She looked down at her papers. "If I look up once more, and you’re not gone, you’re in trouble."

Brandy pulled Lisa away from the desk. "I know where he is. I sneaked a look at those charts when that bitch was putting you down. Come on."

Lisa followed her down a white hall past rooms labeled Staff Only to a dim room where a body lay under a sheet, tubes connecting it to myriad gadgets and liquids.

She tiptoed to the bedside and looked down. The bandaged, pincushioned patient whose chest barely moved was Benny but not Benny. How could someone who had held her that morning, whispered about their future together be lying there? The fluttering in her chest hit her hard. "It's me, Lisa," she whispered, putting her lips next to his ear.

His eyes never flickered.

Tears wet her cheeks. Pitching her voice for him alone, she said, "I’m here, and I won’t leave you. I promise. I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye when you left for the water, but I was in a good part of the book and…." If she had only looked up when he left, let him know she cared. "I really like those plans you made. I mean going to those places, seeing the world." She dabbed at her tears, blew her nose, watched his chest move, up and down, felt helpless, afraid. A sob escaped her lips, reverberated in the stillness.

A nurse rushed from the connecting bathroom. "I’m sorry, but we can’t have that. Even though he doesn’t seem to be responding, he may hear you." She checked his IV, put two fingers on his pulse, and cast a glance at Lisa. "You his sister?"

"Something like that," she muttered, trying to control herself.

"I'm sorry." The nurse shook her head, went to the door, and held it open. "I know it's hard. However, you’ll have to leave."

Lisa pressed her knees against the side of the bed. "Please, just let me say goodbye."

The nurse shook her head. "I really shouldn’t, but I know how hard it can be on family."

Leaning down, her hair creating a curtain, Lisa whispered to Benny that he was going to be all right, that she had to leave, but she’d be back. Nothing seemed real. Benny wasn’t that person lying so quietly, Benny was the street musician, the sweet man who made love to her and fixed her breakfast and carried the buckets of water up the stairs, and held hands with her in the movies. No, this wasn’t Benny. This was a stranger, and she didn't know what to say or do. Reluctantly, she backed away from the bed. "I’ll be here tomorrow if you’ll just let me see him for a minute," she muttered in the nurse's direction.

The woman smiled. "We never turn our back on family."

"I’ll be here," Lisa said.

Brandy put her hand on the nurse’s arm. "God will reward you," she said and folding her hands in a prayerful attitude went solemnly to the door.

Walking silently past Jefferson Terrace and down the hill, Lisa barely noticed as Brandy skipped along. The future had lost its glitter, and nothing was clear anymore, sharp claws dug repeatedly at her stomach, ripping her to shreds. She woke repeatedly during the night, unable to get her breath.

The next day she rushed straight to Benny’s floor, waited until the woman at the nurse's station turned her head, and then sneaked down the hall.

"I’m not really into the sick scene," Brandy said, trailing her. "I’ll wait out here." She leaned against the wall and fingered a pack of Camels.

Entering Benny’s room, Lisa willed him to be awake, willed him to recognize her, and willed the nightmare to be over. Her eyes were sand-filled, her mind mushy. How could she possibly say anything to cheer him up? She closed her eyes, gathered herself together, and opened her eyes.

The bed was empty, stripped, no one in it.

Frowning, Lisa turned around, her gaze passing over each piece of furniture, every place he could be before she hurried out, shaking her head. "I must have the wrong room, he isn’t there."

"Hey, speak for yourself, kiddo, I’m not that dumb," Brandy said, pointing to the number, "That’s it."

Lisa shook her head. "Then we’re on the wrong floor. Something. No one’s there, and the bed’s not made. See for yourself." Voice rising, frustrated, Lisa looked around. She spotted a man in a wrinkled hospital suit standing by the elevator directly across the hall next to a gurney holding a body covered with a sheet. "Why’s the room empty?"

"What?" He looked around.

Brandy pointed to the body. "It from here?"

"Oh." He shrugged. "Just picked it up."

"He’s dead, ain’t he? That why he’s covered with a sheet?"

The attendant nodded. "You family?"

Brandy waggled her fingers. "Yeah, sort of."

Lisa moved closer. "We just came to see him," she said, nothing in her thoughts clear, the possibilities too staggering to consider, denial uppermost in her mind.

"Sorry," the man said. "They just sent me up for him." The elevator doors opened, and he pushed the gurney in, nodded at Lisa and Brandy, the doors closed, and gurney, body, and attendant disappeared.

"No, " Lisa muttered, shaking her head back and forth, the awful message undelivered. "That wasn't Benny. It couldn't be."

Brandy pointed toward the recently vacated hospital room. "Get real, Lisa. There’s no one there. Jesus Christ that was Benny. Benny’s dead."

Biting her lips, Lisa shook her head. "No, it’s not true. You can’t tell me that."

"You heard the man, and we saw…." Brandy motioned toward the elevator.

"We saw nothing. They might have moved him to another room. I don’t care what you say." Lisa strode down the hall, purposeful, having something to do momentarily dulling the dreadful possibility that Benny might truly be gone. Clearing her throat, she asked the woman behind the desk, "What room is Benjamin Todd Grayson in?"

The woman who had been there the day before looked up. "You back? I told you…."

"I just want to know if he’s been moved." Lisa kept her head high, her eyes direct.

Either the seriousness of her tone or the directness of her gaze made the woman glance down her list. "Benjamin Todd Grayson is no longer a patient," she said, her voice neutral.

The pain in Lisa's chest rose to her throat, pressed behind her eyes. She gripped the edge of the desk.

Brandy shouted at the woman, "See what you’ve done. I think she’s gonna faint. And it's your fault."

Lisa’s legs buckled, but she held on, fought back the nausea, and managed to walk out, Brandy trailing her, muttering about unfeeling hospital personnel.

That next week the rain started, and Lisa heard it pattering against the windows when she wasn't sleeping. When she looked out Mt. Rainier was gone, lost behind a gray mist, and Benny wasn't there to tell her it was temporary. Each night she gulped the sleeping pills Brandy brought her.

One morning, hearing voices, she fought her way past the aftereffects of the pills. Not even glancing at herself in the mirror Benny had brought from the dump, she pulled on jeans and sweat shirt and struggled into his room. A squat, broad man sat in Benny’s chair, a thinner, taller man in hers, and Brandy perched on the kitchen table. They were drinking wine and eating stale potato chips.

"Hey, look who’s back?" Brandy cried, waving a hand toward Lisa. "Lisa, this is Gonzo."

The squat man said it was a hell of a note about Benny. He gestured toward the other man. "This here's Speed."

The other man glanced at her in a way that sent shivers up Lisa's spine.

"We'd offer you a glass, but the bottle's empty," he said. "How about we get another?" Speed's snaky eyes met hers. "Unless you'd rather have beer or hard liquor. We aim to please." His tongue touched his lips, and a ghost of a smile never reached his eyes.

Heart hammering, she went to the shelves, busying herself, pretending to look for non-existent crackers. Anger made her cool. " Sounds like a plan, but where in hell are the crackers?"

"You dead set on crackers?" Speed's snaky eyes gave her the once over.

"I like the kind with stone ground wheat," she said, glancing over her shoulder. Someone had been going through Benny's clothes. His powder blue pull over, his faded jeans, the pants with zipper pockets were spread out next to Brandy.

"Brandy will find us some of those crackers, won't you babe?" The squat man rubbed his hand over her back. "And I'll see what I can rustle up. Have us a party." He winked at Lisa.

Brandy giggled. "You get the booze, I'll get more than crackers." She winked, laughed, got down, moved to the door. "See you later, Lisa, gal." The men unwound slowly and followed her.

As soon as they were gone, Lisa ran to her room, packed her things, and dug out the secret stash of money Benny had hidden behind a loose brick. This place belonged to him. He should have been sitting in his chair, smiling his sweet smiles, not Brandy's creep. The utter horror of it gripped her, and a deep hollow spot in her stomach doubled her over. On her knees, she crawled to the window and looked down. Morning was moving in slowly, traffic light. "From here, it’s my city," Benny had said once. Now, she determined to make it hers. For him. Brandy and her creeps wouldn't stop her.

Rapidly, she ran down the stairs. "Oh, Benny," she whispered as she put the door back in place. He had been her companion, her lover, her friend, and now she was all alone.

***

Two days later she had a job working at the Food Circus at the Seattle Center and a day later, she had a room in a private home. The job, a busy one at minimum wage, gave her little time for dwelling on the loss that rose at times in suffocating waves, but it provided uniforms and a chance at free food. Pizza, salads, Mexican, Chinese--that and more were available in the shops that circled the large inside room. Tables for eating surrounded a floor where dance troupes and musicians entertained, where school kids displayed their art, where locals came to see what was happening. The hustle and bustle, the color and the ever reverberating voices and sounds filled her days. Exhausted sleep filled her nights. When she wasn’t working, she was studying for her GED. The past was sinking into a dream realm, unreal.

One day several weeks into slapping mayonnaise, lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles on submarine sandwiches, she spotted Brandy, wearing thigh-high boots and denim short-shorts, standing on a chair beyond the square dancers. Waving her arms, Brandy called, "Hey, Lisa, you some kind of worker bee now? Don’t hang out no more?"

Lisa waved a curt acknowledgment.

"Come on over when you’re through. Okay?"

Lisa nodded. The future she and Benny had dreamed about trembled on the brink of actions not quite defined. They had nothing to do with the Brandys of the world.

"So, okay, see you later," Brandy shouted and jumped down, holding on to the back of the squat man's chair. Another butterfly tattoo had been added to the ones fluttering down her arm, and a purple streak adorned her hair.

"Hey, watch it," Gonzo cried and grabbed at her, his hand sliding over her backside.

Grinning, Speed cocked a finger and pointed it at Lisa. "Gotcha," he mouthed.

When her shift ended, Lisa left by the back door and caught the first bus away from the Center. Her room with an elderly couple in the Fremont Section of the city, away from the downtown area, represented a new life. But now that Brandy had found her, she’d be back expecting Lisa to take her to handouts and money. During those first days of hollow-eyed hell when Benny died, Brandy had helped her. "How can I ever thank you?" Lisa had asked rhetorically. Brandy had shrugged, her skinny shoulders forward into a cleavage, "So you owe me," she had said. "I won't let you forget."

When she left work, afraid Brandy might have followed, Lisa rode the bus past her stop and then doubled back to the dormer room she rented in a house in the Fremont district. From her windows it was possible to watch the boats on Lake Union and plan a future. On the strength of her experience at the Food Circus, she got a job at the Hub at the University. Still only fourteen, she looked older. Her ID said so.

Surrounded by clattering, clinking dishes and the constant hum of student voices, she studied. Cliff notes. High School Math. Government. When she found a reference to something she and Benny had discussed, his voice lived again in her memory, and the ache returned. From the windows at the Hub, she’d look out, finding peace in the green foliage and the passing of students, their arms filled with books. Some day that would be her.

Six weeks later, she took and passed the GED, and as soon as the next semester started, she enrolled in English 101 and US History. At times she felt very lonely. No one at school approached her, and she spoke to no one. Thoughts of Benny returned vividly. Writing through the pain, she scribbled words that flowed over the paper and discovered she had a talent for writing. Whether essays, opinion pieces, or clever and creative articles or stories, she had the ability to turn poor papers into winning ones. She tutored a failing student who recommended her to another. Soon, she had a small business. At first she charged only small sums, and then as her confidence grew, she demanded more and added basic business courses to her overall plan.

A year and a half later she determined to move out of the dark, stifling house where she had a room. Six months after that Ralph Gunderson Fennstein advertised in University papers for an assistant. He needed someone to word process his memoirs, someone to do research and to be there when he needed them. He wanted an A student who was taking only one or two classes, a student who would devote most of his or her time to helping him.

She determined to be that student.

Chapter 8

A note from Lisa's secretary in Philadelphia said that Fennstein’s latest hot-shot author would be speaking at Haskins Bookstore in Sausalito. Due to some screw up, no copies of her book had arrived at the store. Could Lisa see that they got there?

That night she told Carter that trouble in the San Francisco office demanded her return. She’d swing by Philadelphia on her way, pick up some copies, see if she could trace the other shipment, soothe the author who was about to leave on her tour.

"I must remember to avoid this prickly author’s book. Who is she?"

"Mave Robertson who wrote Diet the Robertson Way, a commonsense approach to fiber and fantasy."

"Sounds horrendous."

"I’ll be back just as soon as I bring things into line," she murmured, adding tales of other ego-fed writers who had needed their hand held at various times. The trip would give her time to swing by San Francisco, mollify Gary.

"You have the true makings of a mistress of the plantation." Carter murmured.

She was beginning to think just the opposite.

In San Francisco Gary met her at the airport, thin, sallow-skinned, beady-eyed and burning with disease, he tossed words at her as she collected her baggage. "You’re late. People have been calling about the fund-raiser, and the Institute has lined up additional people. I need you here."

Before his illness, he had never voiced such sentiments. "Gary, I said I'd do what I can. As soon as I get back from Sausalito."

Although Haskins Publications sprawled and was two stories tall, the book store had the look of intimacy. Thick carpets muffled sound; strategic chairs and displays invited browsing, while a coffee house atmosphere made sales seem irrelevant, but the cash registers clinked steadily. Lisa arrived with a box of books minutes before Mave Robertson was scheduled to speak. Recognizing Lisa, employees, hurried to set up a table next to the podium in the step-down area where speakers held sway. Chet Haskins, owner, hauled his three hundred plus pounds of flesh up from his padded chair to clap his hands in glee at her presence and to insist that whatever Lisa wanted, he’d do his damnedest to get. As clerks unpacked, Lisa assured Mave, who was pushing fifty and hated it, that more volumes were on the way. Mave’s prickly attitude and "to hell with the establishment" looks always made for the soft-glove treatment.

"I’ve checked with Borders, and they assure me that they already have a shipment," Lisa explained, "and Barnes and Noble are setting up their displays now."

Running a hand through dark hair cut short as a Marine recruit’s, Mave muttered.
"Sometimes I think I should have gone to William Morrow & Company in the first place." She flexed her muscles much as a fighter facing an opponent in the ring.

Lisa's soothing smile fell into place. "Now, Mave, you know we’ve never let you down." She tacked a poster about Mave’s book to the front of the podium and tried to ignore the fatigue that plagued her. Already people were beginning to fill the chairs spread theater style between the stacks of How To and New Age literature.

Mave shrugged her shoulders. "That’s what he told me, too." She indicated Chet who hovered on the periphery talking to a man who stood with his back to Lisa. Through clever promotional stunts, Chet Haskins’ one time mom-and-pop operation now equaled the big chains in publicity and sales. Early on, at Ralph’s urging, Lisa had learned all aspects of his old-fashioned style business, by-passing middle men and dealing directly with outlets. Although she seldom bothered herself with such details today, owners like Chet respected her knowledge.

"At least you’re going to have an audience." Lisa said to Mave. Book signings often were attended by one or two people and a few curious who talked throughout a presentation. and left before it was finished.

"So maybe I’ll attract a few more." Feet wide apart, Mave began one of the exercises she illustrated in her book, explaining to the two women who had staked out seats in the front, that this stimulated the body’s energy and the brain’s endorphins. To Lisa she muttered, "I come to a book signing and find it’s a quasi debate for pity’s sake." She touched her right hand to her left foot, her skirt hiking up to display a thin, highly muscled thigh.

Lisa moved two books toward the front of the table. "Debate?"

Mave lowered her voice and stepped closer. "Some prick challenged my conclusions. Not that he can say a fucking thing to shoot me down. I mean I have testimonials for god’s sake." She pulled papers from a briefcase and slapped them on the podium.

"Don’t worry about naysayers. Controversy sells books." Lisa could no longer ignore the fatigue nagging her relentlessly now. She’d leave soon after Chet introduced Mave. Gary was enough to contend with, she didn’t need an author whose book would have been lost in the mid-list if several people hadn’t come out of the murky medical-half-light to claim miracle cures. She rearranged more books, passed out bookmarks with Fennsteins and the name of Mave’s book on them and, as Chet moved toward the podium, turned her professional smile upon him.

He tripped, caught his balance at the last moment and hanging on to the podium stood with red face, his breath rough and ragged, his jiggling flesh slowly settling into place.

Lisa pretended not to notice. Gary would undoubtedly be querulous again tonight. He hated waiting to see the doctor; he hated being treated like everyone else at the clinic. He was still the head of a company, for christ sake, and here he was standing in line like a noboby?

Chet cleared his throat, and the thin intense man who had been a few steps behind him, turned so that he faced Lisa, his razor-sharp eyes narrowing as his gaze touched hers.

A stitch snaked through her chest. It was the man from the cathedral, the man she believed had been at the Institute. If so, what was he doing here?

"Lisa, Mave, I’m assuming you know Ed Barker," Chet said.

Although he named Lisa first, Mave snapped, "We’ve had the honor."

Lisa shook her head. Ed Barker? She’d never heard the name, but the man staring at her was the man who had stared at her so intensely at the National Cathedral. Beating back the memory, she kept her face impassive, her eyes steady.

"Ed’s from the Cancer Institute," Chet said. "I understand you are working with his people on a fund-raiser, event-of-the-year type of thing." He beamed his well meant smile.
"Oh, yes, of course," she said as if nothing untoward had happened. "The people from the Institute are doing marvelous things." She turned her gaze on Barker. "I believe I met you when I took a tour of the facilities. But what’s this about refuting Mave’s book?"

He shrugged and smiled politely. "We aren’t actually refuting the book. It’s a given that a low-fiber diet will help prevent cancer. But curing it? No." His head tipped to the side, he continued to regard her. "But didn’t I see you back East recently?"

"Ms Fennstein-Jacobs just came from Philadelphia where Fennsteins has their headquarters," Chet said, obviously pleased to display his knowledge, his smile beaming from Lisa to Barker.

Barker shook his head. "I was in D.C., Virginia, and Maryland, not Philadelphia. It had to be in one of those places." He kept his gaze on Lisa as if expecting her to say something more.

"Fennsteins supplies many stores in the D.C. area. Maybe that was it. Or you saw my double. Everyone apparently has one I understand." She smiled, glanced at her watch. "I believe Mave was to begin at seven."

Chet adjusted the microphone to his height and introduced Mave. Lisa waited until he finished the introduction before she stepped away. In the ladies room, she washed her face, put on fresh makeup. If she could avoid Barker, she would, but when she came out, Mave’s amplified voice was telling about a woman she claimed was diagnosed with cancer. After starting Mave’s regime of diet and exercise, she was cured.

A ripple of spontaneous applause broke out when Mave added details, augmenting them with charts and graphs. She followed this with three more touching stories of people who had had miraculous cures. "Now I’ll gladly answer questions."

In the crush of people, it was impossible for Lisa to get away from the podium.

A sea of hands beat the air, most of the questions non-threatening and the comments flattering. The questioners remained seated, ordinary people unused to public speaking. But Ed Barker stood in front, and his voice rang through the room, lauding Mave’s diet and exercise regimen, repeating elements of her talk.

Heads nodded throughout the room.

Chet Haskins, in an honest reference to his own problems, said he might even be tempted to leave his chair for something so beneficial.

When the smiles and gentle laughter subsided, Barker added, "The so-called cures you told us about were probably spontaneous remissions. It happens all the time."

Mave accused him of being biased. "You come from a place where the newest thinking is still the scalpel and bombardment with radiation."

"Radiation is standard treatment everywhere."

"At least at his Institute," Mave said. "You all know what normal skin looks like when hit repeatedly with radiation. Look at those poor victims at Hiroshima."

Barker told about the work being done, but his words were too technical, his rhetoric too high-flown to connect with the listeners.

Lisa hurried to the back exit where she had parked her car. Gary would be watching television, eyes glazed, bored and angry and sometime tonight she must find time to call Carter, leave a message at least. Standing in the doorway she let the cool breeze bathe her and tried to think what she could do to ease Gary's final months. That Mave’s book had risen on the best-seller lists because of those testimonials bothered her, not that Fennsteins was responsible for the things their authors wrote, but she certainly didn’t want cancer patients leaving medicine to rely on diet and exercise to cure them.

A voice behind her said, "Science always loses out to the drama of miracles."

She jumped, then recognized Barker which didn't do much for the rapid beating of her heart. "You always dash about startling people."

"It wasn't my intention to 'startle' you. I wanted to say you didn’t look as if you supported your prize author’s claims."

"Fennsteins just publishes her; we don’t support her beliefs." She pulled her keys from her purse.

"I 'm not implying you believed what she said. But doesn’t Fennsteins bear some responsibility."

"We still have free speech in this country, Mr. Barker. Goodnight." She hurried toward her car, Barker keeping pace with her. As she unlocked, he held the door and ushered her in.

"Thank you," she said, sliding behind the wheel. A feeling of entrapment engulfed her, spread throughout her. What did he want?

He held on to the door. "I was positive it was you I saw back east. Are you sure we didn't meet in D.C.?"

"Very sure," she said, forcing a smile.

"Well, I’m just as sure my memory is correct. Maybe we passed in an airport. It will come to me eventually. But changing the subject, a bout the Fund-raiser. The Institute turned over to me your preliminary work, and I must say I was impressed." He leaned slightly closer.

"Thanks," she muttered putting the key in the ignition.

He stood firm. "I’ll be in touch."

"Right." She started the motor.

"I’ll also let you know when it comes to me where I saw you--or your double."

A smile – real, forced? - momentarily brightened his face, but as the normally foggy night grew darker, his eyes narrowed again and the fog curled like snakes around her. She rammed the car into reverse and with her foot on the brake glanced at him.

Stepping back, he shut the door.

She hit the lock switch, backed out and sped off, but in the rear view mirror she saw that he was watching all the way to where she made the turn to the highway.

***

For four days she went back and forth with Gary to the Institute, worked on details for the Fund-raiser, and drove herself to see and be seen before she flew back East. In Philadelphia Eon was leading what she termed an in house rebellion. Everything she said, the board fought. Each problem, although minor, she explained to Carter on the phone, would take a few days of her attention. Perhaps he could join her in Philly. She needed his support.

"Lisa, if I weren’t on deadline with my memoirs…." His voice, capturing the honey of his native state, washed over her pleasantly, like fingers on her spine. Yes, she murmured, she missed him, but most of all she missed the way his eyes lit when she appeared, missed the wooly, warm sound of his voice wrapping her in approbation. His compliments were like money in a bank when she was feeling penniless and morally bankrupt. One step, taken so blithely, so easily, had of necessity become another and another, and now she was in too deep to back out. If only Gary wouldn’t linger – but that was too monstrous a thought to even contemplate. Shocked, she dreamed she was naked, walking a pirate's gang plank, facing screaming mobs. Waking, bathed in sweat, she slept little that night.

Work, the panacea that had helped her through other days, helped again. She shored up her relationships by holding one-on-one luncheons with board members. She had Russell Sanderson over to her Society Hill home for coq au van and martinis, and entertained other board members at expensive lunches at Bookbinder’s or Chef Tell’s. But instinctively she knew that neither method would work with Eon Smythe.

Her last day in Philadelphia, she had a table set up in her office. White table cloth, heavy thick china, plain silver, and plain food. Also a view of the street in one direction and Ralph’s portrait in the other. Ralph Gunderson Fennstein, founder. How much she owed to him. Eon surely must wonder, as so many people had. But only she and Ralph really knew what happened during those days so long ago.

The manuscripts, that were stacked on tables and along the tops of low bookshelves, were topped with books that had upped the revenue at Fennsteins, and all the money-makers were books she had personally backed.

Eon ran his hands over them, even lifting one or two. Lisa saw he was at his most congenial. He nodded, his lips almost lifting into a smile.

"Will you have a drink, Eon?" she asked, standing before the bar where Ralph had intimated many deals were handled.

"You got plain tap water? I don’t go for those fancy bottled things."

"Tap water it is." She filled a glass.

He asked about the weather in California, asked whether she had had a good flight home, and complimented her on the cheese steak sandwiches before he said she was hurting Fennsteins’ image when she personally delivered books to bookstores.

"Don’t you mean I was rescuing our image?"

He shook his head. "I realize you’re still young, and youth often proves the mitigating factor in such fiascoes." He shrugged. "I have no doubt you will get away with it and other things the rest of us couldn’t dare do. But in the long run it does nothing to maintain the picture that Ralph and the rest of us built for the company." He stared at Ralph’s picture.

Staid, hidebound, behind the times, Lisa thought and wished she had seated him in the opposite chair. "Perhaps the balance sheet should be the determining factor, Eon," she said, delighting in using his first name and hitting him with the bottom line. Mave’s book had taken off like a race car while the Seduction book had surpassed all Fennstein’s sales records ever, but she had made certain that the figures didn’t show up while she was gone. Always enter a board meeting with pleasant surprises, Ralph had counseled, and if you can’t come up with pleasant, startling will do. "More coffee? And why not add a little cream. We can afford it." She handed him a bound volume she’d had the finance department put together especially, and while he perused it, a frown adding to his copious wrinkles, her secretary entered as Lisa had planned.

"Sorry," Lisa said, to Eon as she read the note the secretary handed her, "I really have to run. But don’t hurry on my account. Have more coffee, some fruit. We really must do this again soon." She moved toward the door where the secretary stood with his hat in her hand.

Eon left.

Carter said she probably shouldn’t have antagonized the old goat, but he certainly understood why she’d done it. She needed to show Eon she had the upper hand. But what he couldn’t understand was how anyone could resist her charm, her beauty, her intellect, and certainly her knowledge?

She darted a glance at him, loving the words but afraid to trust them, the golden surge of wonder layered with so much sweetness she could hardly believe it.

Carter leaned across the breakfast table and captured her hands. The night before had been a small wonder of its own, and she read this in the expression in his eyes and his body language. "Why do you fight compliments?" His voice was low, urgent, and he darted a look toward the kitchen.

"I didn’t realize I was."

"No, I don’t think you do, " he said picking up his paper again.

How could she be so obtuse, she wondered. The next few days she wallowed in his praises, poured lavishly when they were alone, and with dignity when others were present. The days moved forward in a circle of light and dark, each a precious entity of itself but the whole combining in a package that sent shivers of pleasure up her spine. Carter, deep into his memoirs, had little time for socializing, and she, exhausted by the demands of the office and Gary’s illness, rested, reading books, listening to music, and finding a bliss she thought disappeared years ago. Virginia was a watercolor wash, pastel flowers and mint green trees, music thrumming in the background, soft and gentle. Even the calls to Gary, made without difficulty from phone booths, didn’t intrude noticeably into the calm tenor of the days. A weaker Gary, calm acceptance of his condition sounding in his voice and speech, spoke about afterwards. He wanted her to continue with the Institute. Oversee the money he’d leave them. "To do good for future generations, that’s the key," he said.

Cars sped by on the highway, a gentle breeze teased the leaves of the oak trees, and a crew of workmen patched a pothole left from winter. The tension in her eased by the uncomplicated days with Carter, she began to cry.

"Hey," Gary said, concern for her welfare apparent, "I’m counting on you, Lisa." His voice had that you-and-me-as-equals quality he hadn’t used for a long time. "The fund-raiser should be a big success. Barker says you’ve done a good job."

"Thanks," she gulped. Barker again.

"He was asking about you."

"Asking?"

"Wondering whether you’d be here before the party."

"No," she said suddenly. No matter what she wasn’t leaving until the last minute. "He can contact me at the office if there’s anything that needs my attention, but actually Gary it’s out of my hands now. I’ve done my part."

"More than," he said, "and I appreciate it."
. The tears came again. She barely had them under control when she braked her car to a stop in the circle drive back at the plantation, but a wonderful calm invaded her as she stepped out. The wisteria was in bloom, and honeysuckle vines were adding their fragrance to the air. Peace and quiet prevailed, broken only by the hum of insects and the song of birds nesting in the trees. She ran up the steps and into the hall calling "Carter, honey, I’m home."

Bitsy came from the shadows, stocky, sturdy, expensive and dull looking. "Sorry, to disappoint you, but Daddy’s gone into the city. Said to tell you he’d definitely be back for dinner."

"Thank you." Lisa put her purse on the hall table. "What a lovely surprise. I didn’t know you were coming."

"Oh, it was a last minute impulse. I knew Daddy was working on the part of the book that I can help him with, so I just bundled up the kids and here I am."

"Where are…"

Bitsy laughed. "The little monsters? I just put them down for a nap. I thought it would be easier for you and me to have a little chat."

"Of course. Have you eaten? I can get Eula to fix something."

"I already have. She’s taking a tray into the library. Join me?"

"I was on my way up to my room, I…"

"Just for a minute. Anyway, the children are asleep in the room next to yours. So convenient, I was sure you wouldn’t mind." Taking Lisa’s arm, Bitsy pulled her along. "I must say I was pleased to see Daddy looking so well. As you must know I wasn’t overjoyed when he married you, your age, that sort of thing. But it seems to have worked out quite well."

"I think so."

Bitsy sat down next to the window where a tray of sandwiches and milk sat on a cherrywood table. Unfolding a white linen napkin, and then picking up a finger sandwich she said, "Are you sure you won’t have one? They’re watercress and cucumber and just plain delicious." She smiled with warmth and apparently without guile. "This has always been one of my favorite rooms. I spent a lot of time here, playing with toys while Daddy and Mummy worked. My mother did needlepoint. Exquisite work. A portrait of Rembrandt, that sort of thing."

Lisa perched on the edge of a hepplewhite chair. "I’m sure she was very good."
"Oh, do you do needlepoint?"
"No."

"I don’t either. But I’m a demon with the knitting needles. Do you knit?"
"No."

"A pity." Bitsy took a sandwich "I used to have these at parties when I was little. Boys and girls after dancing class. All of us wishing we were somewhere else and consequently loading up on food. My mother – pardon me, I didn’t mean to mention her again."

"It’s all right. I’m glad your father had a happy marriage."

"Oh, it was, up to the end. So tragic."

"An accident?"

Bitsy frowned.

"I wouldn’t have asked, but you did bring it up."

"No, I’m just surprised that you didn’t know. She died of cancer."

"Oh."

"Well, no use dwelling on the past. I am glad Daddy seems to be happy. He’s laughing again, and that’s something."

"We enjoy our life." The words sounded stiff and unreal. Damn, what was there about Bisty that put her off so?

"Yes, at first I didn’t think you, being a career woman, would work in his life, but it’s apparently what he needed." She upended the glass of milk and drained it and with a smile wiped the milk mustache from her lips. "I’m hoping we can be friends."

"That would be nice," Lisa said.

"In fact Daddy gave me your number at the office, but they said you had gone to California. I called you there, but they didn’t recognize the name Cameron. Foolish of me, I should have realized you’d continue using your old name. Or am I mistaken?"

"No, not at all."

"I seldom am." Bitsy rose. "Now I must run, but do finish the sandwiches. They do a marvelous job in the kitchen."

Lisa stared up at her, angry that she hadn’t made the first move. From upstairs she could hear Carter talking to the children and every fiber in her wanted to run to him. But to greet him with them climbing all over him hadn’t been in her plans. She’d wait until he was alone again. Or would he ever be? It was not like it had been with Ralph Fennstein, but then nothing had ever been or would be again.

Chapter 9

The first time Lisa saw Ralph, she had made an appointment for an interview and had taken a bus to Capitol Hill where Fennstein lived. Clouds hid the sun, and the chill of autumn was in the air. The area had a uniform appearance, sheltered and sturdy, but gray and cold. Among a row of big, old houses that made smaller houses lose stature, Fennsteins’ dominated. Of concrete and stone, with big windows and broad porches and surrounded by a large walled yard and trees that shaded the porch, the house intimidated Lisa. Except in the movies, she had never seen anything so grand. The stone lions on either side of the front gate looked as if they would rise and snarl at her any minute.

Before she rang the bell she recited to herself the history she’d invented, spun off from the ID she’d had printed two years before. Parents upstate. Struggling. She had to work her way through the University. No siblings. She touched her finger to the bell and heard the melodic chimes.

An elderly Asian maid let her into the outer hall and said "A moment, please," and left. Floating staircases on either side led Lisa’s eye up to a rotunda, a rounded dome so grand, she had trouble looking away. Cupids, flowers, leaves, birds, and butterflies drifted in a sea of carved and fluted plaster, delicately colored yet vivid. Awed, she stepped closer to observe paintings worthy of a museum, impressionistic, realistic, and moder, all of them reflecting the Northwest. Her footsteps echoed on the marble floor, and quickly she stepped back to the burgundy runner that also climbed the stairs, the deep shade matching the color of the velvet draperies and swags that defined the huge windows facing the street. Everything was so grand, she drew a quick breath and shook her head in amazement. On either side of the hall, wall niches drew attention to huge oil paintings, both scenes of Yosemite, the colors so vivid, the renderings so realistic she breathed deeply in admiration.

Lisa looked up the three stories to the rotunda which surrounded a glass dome. A shaft of sunlight lit frescoes which were lavishly trimmed with was gold leaf. She had seen such things only in photographs before. How could she ever fit in to such a place? Riddled with doubts, hearing footsteps, she pulled her gaze away. Double carved doors led to what she imagined were parlors or a ballroom or something equally fancy, but the maid who reappeared led her through a smaller door to the left of the entrance, and through a series of other doors and corridors to a pleasant room lined with books reaching to the ceiling.

The room was dimly lit, and after the maid left, Lisa eye-balled the book shelves. She’d have to use the stepladder attached to a railing to reach the top shelves. Library tables held books, papers, and magazines, and a desk held a typewriter on a pull-out shelf with a new ream of paper next to it. Would that be where she'd be expected to work?

Cutting into her speculaitons, a man’s voice, low but commanding, rumbled. "Come here." She stepped toward the voice.

A large figure on a stationary bicycle dominated the shadows near a turn in the room that opened into a large ell. He beckoned her forward. Backlighted, his individual features were lost in the whole.

"So you’re Lisa Southwick," he announced.

She recognized her letter in his hand. "Yes."

He tilted his head, but didn’t stop peddling. "You look very young."

"I’m eighteen," she lied, ready to give him her birth date if he asked.

"Nothing personal, everyone looks young to me lately. So you want to work with me."

"Yes."

"Come here where I can see you."

She moved closer to the man she could see was wearing gray sweats and had a scarlet sweat band around his forehead.

"Open that drape behind me so I can see you." He dabbed at his face with the towel draped around his shoulders.

She heard the faint whirring sound of the wheel and as she passed him she noticed that he was much older than she’d first thought. Sweat ran down the relief map of fine lines on his face, so many it was like he had cracked an egg and the cracks just kept forming.

She opened the draperies and light flooded the area, showing a treadmill and weights and beyond them an open door leading to a vast bedroom. Most of all she noticed the great shock of white hair that dipped and swirled over the man’s forehead. He occasionally flipped it back with a toss of the head or a flick of the wrist in a way that showed he had done this many times through the years. The waves rippled back into place.

His gaze swept over her, and she was glad she had put on a skirt and blouse, soft blue and white, classic, simple, that she'd bought for a couple dollars at the Salvation Army store. But her freshly shampooed hair, a riotous burst of burnished copper couldn’t be contained. It curled and kinked and waved becomingly, like his white shock, both of them reflected in the gilt-trimmed mirror on the wall between the windows.

"So what makes you think you can help me?" The words could have been alarming except his pale blue eyes sparkled and his tone soothed like a hand to an aching muscle.

"Because I want to," she said, noticing that his eyebrows were as black as his hair was white. Remnants of a once exceedingly handsome man remained, but his hands, were corded, the veins standing out, the skin wrinkled. She had never seen anyone his age this close before.

"You want to. Well, that’s motivation at least." He nodded as if pleased by the answer and peddled faster. "Can you read the gauge for me. It’s in the wrong spot for me to see easily without climbing down. Defeats the workout."

She glanced at the number and moved back from the bike, knowing instinctively that Ralph Fennstein was no ordinary man, but one who would demand much of her, but probably return much also. She wanted the job very much. Just to be among those great volumes every day would be a pleasure. "It reads five thousand twenty three and five tenths."

He nodded. "Thank you. I seem to have traveled three kilometers without leaving the house. Still, not enough to call it a day. Excuse me a minute."

While he peddled at a breakneck speed that soon tapered off, she examined the books on the table – a thesaurus, a dictionary, and an atlas, also a style manual which she picked up.

He quit peddling and mopped his moist face. "It’s the latest. Tells the current thinking about capitalization, things like that. I take it you know the difference between t-h-e-r-e and t-h-e-i-r? To, too and two? Too many college students today can’t spell, don’t know grammar, and make mincemeat out of perfectly good beef roast."

"I learned the basics of grammar in grammar school."

"Quite properly. Then you have one leg up. Let’s see about the other." He got down from the bike and caught his balance against the handlebars. "What about dangling participles? Can you spot them and eliminate them?"

She nodded.

"Give me an example of faulty parallel construction." He moved with a straight-backed but slightly tottery gait to an overstuffed chair, sank into it and set her letter on the table nearby.

He’s ancient, she thought and blushed when she realized he was watching her, his head held in an attitude of patient waiting. Flustered, her mind went blank.

"Take your time. Actually, I’ve been exceedingly rude. I should have asked you to sit down. Please do." He indicated a chair and then touched her letter. "It says you’re a student."

She took the chair opposite him. "Books, the chair, and papers."

"What?"

"An example of faulty construction."

His smile erased years from his face. "Yes. Very good. I’d almost forgotten I gave you a problem--a recent habit. I’m not usually so scatter-brained." Quietly, and in a firm voice he told her about the book he’d started. It would be different from other memoirs. Have texture and balance. Be filled with his thoughts and philosophy as well as what he had done. "When one lives eighty plus years, there’s time to accumulate a lot of opinions. I plan to foist them on the world." He chuckled.

Thinking how much she wanted the job, she smiled and nodded, while only partially hearing what he’d said and not understanding it at all.

He said she would be expected to work long hours balanced by three days off every ten days or so. "You think you can put half sentences and interjections into proper form? If I have to stop and show you it would defeat the whole purpose of having an assistant."

"I believe so. The students I tutor always succeed."

He waved impatiently. "That’s redundant, you said so in your letter."

"I didn’t say Wuthering Heights was my favorite classic novel." She didn’t say it was the only one she’d read.

"Better than Jane Ayre?"

"Who?"

"Jane Ayre. Written by Emily's sister, Charlotte."

"Oh, yes, I didn't quite hear you."

"Of course." A flash of amusement passed his face, and tenting his hands he regarded her for a few seconds over them. "Tomorrow bring me an essay telling me why Wuthering Heights is your favorite classic novel – as you termed it. Better than Jane Eyre."

She blushed, certain he was on to her. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes, I have more interviews today."

She never hesitated. "I’ll be back tomorrow."

The next day she handed him a paper she had worked on most of the day and night. Although mostly cribbed from encyclopedias, the pages also contained flashes of her understanding of a thwarted love and her ability to write with clarity.

Ralph Fennstein read it twice before he said the job was hers. Could she begin immediately?

Years later she asked him what had prompted him to hire her over the competition. "Because when you entered my room, my teaching days were over, but you were a blank slate waiting to be written upon, and I wanted that chance," he said

She could have felt angry, instead she felt grateful. Working with Ralph Fennstein, Lisa woke each morning with a smile of anticipation moving across her face. The world, which had once offered its treasures, was once more dispensing them in batches. She learned something new and exciting every day. At first she gained knowledge from the facts of his book. A reporter who had gone to Harvard, he was an editor by the time he was twenty-one. During the depression he was one of the myriad talented young people in the WPA Writers’ Project. When the war came he wrote for Stars and Stripes and sent dispatches from place names all over the Pacific. When he came home, his father, who had started with a pushcart full of books on New York’s lower East Side and gone on to found a middling press, had dropped over dead. Ralph inherited Fennstein Publishing. Dealing with the business in a determined fashion, he doubled the profits and married a beautiful woman artist five years his senior. She introduced him to the leading proponents of the latest trends of the day. Publishing books about artists and their art brought his company tremendous profits. Other scholarly journals followed, and soon Fennsteins' was the leading publisher for academia, getting contracts with schools throughout the nation.

Ralph became a professor of literature and taught for twenty-five years while still holding the reins of Fennstein Publications. He was acquainted with employees at every level of his company from the lowliest clerk in the stock room to the girl who handled the slush pile. Still, everyone called him Mr. Fennstein. His erect carriage, his elegant dress, his precise diction didn’t allow anyone to forget he owned the company.

Soon Ralph Gunderson Fennstein had more money than he needed. The only thing he and his wife lacked was an heir. They were looking into adoption when Sarah was killed in a tragic accident. Devastated, Ralph never remarried and his social life became limited. He played chess with a colleague every Tuesday night. On Fridays, being a cultural, not a religious Jew, he went to the theater with a widower from the University. A clever speaker, fulfilling speaking obligations brought him satisfaction and took up some of his time. Once a year he hosted a cocktail party at his house. But most of the time he spent alone.

Lisa had no idea that she was filling a void. In the beginning she feared she might not stack up and then she feared that he wouldn't. Would he be like Leonard who had been the first to urge her to read? Ralph frightened her with his precise speech and cornucopia of knowledge, his expensive casual clothes, his elegant bearing, his manicured fingernails.

One day as rain fell lazily against the windows and leaden clouds lined the sky, a sense of ongoing grayness filled the room. The carpet lost its color, the far corners of the room became obscure. The memory of her Wuthering Heights/Bronte remarks still troubled her. She had not yet come to see Ralph as the father she had never had.

For three, non-stop hours, he had been dictating or giving her papers to copy and going over them when she finished, pointing out discrepancies in her spelling, her punctuation, her wording.

"Let’s take a break." He folded his hands and leaned back in his chair.

When his feet went up to the chair’s footrest, she half rose, needing to get away, move around, but he said, "I’ve been intrigued with the idea that Wuthering Heights is your favorite novel. So many young women say that." Half a beat went by before he added, "Attracted by Heathcliff, no doubt. But the Brontes are every bit as interesting as their fictional characters. What-- if any--influence do you think the Reverend Patrick Bronte had on his daughters’ writing? It’s a point I don’t think has been adequately addressed."

Lisa sank back to her chair. So the Brontes’ father was Patrick and a minister, too. "I never thought of it."

"Of course." His voice went flat.

Blushing, she tried not to stare at him, but as her gaze took in the slick street outside the gate, the trees falling away down the hill, the thought came, it was perfect Bronte weather. Then a further thought ripped through her, recently she had seen no one but this old man.

He gestured toward the stacks, and his voice stayed firm. "Should be something about the Brontes and their books over there."

She didn’t stir, held in place by the sadness of the past hitting her unexpectedly and hard.

"Aren’t you going to look?" He sounded disappointed and a little sad himself.

His great intellect and energy of ideas usually held his fragility at bay. His hand looked ever so old, the wrinkled skin, the stiff knuckles, the thin wrists, and sympathy of a sorts rose within her. She went toward the shelves.

He sent his chair to a reclining position and muttered, "Wake me in a half hour." He slept with an afghan over his legs and the thermostat to eighty. All week she had felt stifled and trapped and yet wanting desperately to succeed.

She rushed to the stacks and gathered a dozen books which she took back to her chair. Leafing through one, almost immediately the facts took hold of her, entered her mind and sent it swirling. Thirty minutes later she forgot to wake Ralph.

Forty minutes later, he sat up and said softly, "So you’re learning,"

Her pique gone, she nodded, excitement bringing zest to her voice, "Learning enough to know I can’t answer your question."

"Good." He pushed the afghan away. "Have any guesses?"

She plunged in, eager to share. "I’m sure their father influenced their thinking, perhaps in a way he wouldn’t have liked. Some authorities call Wuthering Heights mystical." She regurgitated the information she had read.

"Would you call it mystical?"

"A little perhaps. Maybe more like a voyage of discovery." The words hung in her mind. A voyage of discovery was what she was on. "Don’t we all do that?"

"It’s what makes life interesting. What new concept will today bring? Discovery, that’s what it’s all about."

"And talking about it to someone else," Lisa said, wanting, no needing, to expand on the thoughts ripping through her. Slowly, she shared with him the ideas that trembled in her mind, half-formed, burdened down with sentiment and feeling, not clear but reaching for clarity.

Not correcting her, he nodded

The moisture dampened air that had seemed oppressive now became clean and precious, and mornings she jumped from bed, excited by the prospect of seeing him, listening to him talk, and learning from him. With him a sense of security and safety prevailed, but outside the rain made everything slick, and the world of today encroached. With Ralph and his book she dwelled in the past where street people and Leonard had no place.

When it came time for his annual party, Ralph gave her the carefully kept notes from previous years. "I know it goes beyond your job description," he said, shrugging slightly.

She shook her head hastily. This was the world she didn’t know; the world that Ralph’s memoirs hinted at, a world of the intellectually elite, of silken glove and soft voices where she could escape forever the Leonard’s and the Brandy’s of her life.

"Very well, but if you find it too much, I’ll get someone else to handle it."

The light funneling through the windows gave him a halo, and she wanted to reach out and touch him, and then sit with her head against his knees and feel his hand on her hair.

"I want to do it." Following his notes, she had little trouble, even adding touches of her own, using ideas she read about in books. The lox, bagels and cream cheese were supplemented with star fruit and vegetables flown in from the tropics and shrimp caught in the cool waters of the north. She ordered finger sandwiches and blintzes served with homegrown blackberries, she hired a man to take coats and greet people at the door, and a trio of musicians to play in the entrance hall and in the vast double parlors later.

Ralph said his little social had become an event she certainly had to attend.

In a specialty store in the University District, she bought her first long dress, a simple emerald sheath with a slit that showed her legs when she walked.

The night of the party she stood out like a flower opening among a field of faded and wilted blooms.

Ralph introduced her as his assistant.

After everyone had gone, she stood with him in the splendor of the entrance hall, the festivities still lingering in her mind.

He said she was the most apt pupil he had ever had.

She could hardly sleep that night. Ralph Fennstein’s compliments did not come often. The next day she set the alarm so she wouldn't be late to work. They usually ate breakfast together off trays in the library, but this morning he was late arriving.

"I guess I can’t take these late nights," he said jokingly, but the frog in his voice didn’t go away as he told her it was time for her to learn the publishing business. One of these days she’d have to visit Fennstein’s headquarters in Philadelphia. But first she should become familiar with the local office at inventory time, oversee procedures, get used to being around. "What do you think of that?"

Astounded,--it sounded like a promotion and more--she stammered,. "I like it very much."

"Good. Also, a worker should be paid commensurate with his or her duties." He named a figure so large it surprised her.

She wanted to fall at his feet with gratitude. The company had been remote from her thinking, shiny as a house on a hill, constantly bathed in light.

He ran through the names listed on the company's masthead, tossing out minor information about each, pausing when he came to Eon Smythe. "He’s always been a thorn in my side. If I say right, he says left." Ralph paused to look at her, as if he might never have truly seen her before. It was as if he were drinking in the details of her appearance and linking them in his mind with her capabilities. "Don’t ever make up your mind about anything just because I say so."

She blushed, already hating Eon Smythe.

"But…" and his brilliant smile came, "don’t ignore my pronouncements either. Sometimes there’s a bit of gold among the dross."

The next year she went to Philadelphia with him and sat at his side during a board meeting, handed him files, ran errands, and pointed at her watch whenever he became verbose. Ralph’s failing eyesight made it impossible for him to see anyone at the other end of the conference table. For him she noted which men looked bored, which angry, and which attentive. Ten or fifteen years Ralph’s junior, Eon Smythe scowled often and always gave a twist to Ralph’s pronouncements and opinions that differed sharply with what Ralph had said. The second time Smythe shook his head in denial as Ralph spoke, she touched her toe to Ralph’s ankle.

Ralph hesitated briefly and then proceeded delicately, bringing the other board members over to his view before Smythe realized what was happening. Afterward Ralph said he was glad Lisa had kicked him "black and blue."

"Hardly black and blue. I resent such hyperbole, sir." She had never spoken with such out-and-out familiarity before.

His instant smile warmed her.

The next year he sent her to Philadelphia by herself. "They will hardly listen to me," she suggested, a flutter of apprehension beating in her chest.

"I’ve thought it through, and you’ll do fine. I don't want this cold to turn into pneumonia, and it would in Philly in the winter. I can't go."

Although she had no official capacity on the Fennstein board, she had Ralph’s authorization to pass out memos and papers he’d prepared, sit in at all meetings and to take notes. He’d paved the way for her. In Philadelphia she was met with polite interest from the board and eagerness by employees to explain the workings of Fennstein Publications. The only sour note came from Eon Smythe who ignored her completely.

For three days, she attended meetings and then caught the plane back to Seattle.

She found Ralph stretched out in his chair, the hand he gave her hot and dry, his eyes almost feverish as he sorted through photographs. For a long time she studied the snapshots and the studio portraits of a younger man. His smile flashed from pictures with people long dead, pretty women, important looking men he identified as a mayor, a governor, and a president.

"Did I tell you about my wife?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Beautiful, accomplished woman." He handed her several snapshots.

The woman gazing at Lisa from another era seemed remote as her own ancestors. "She was very pretty."

"Yes. I never found anyone to equal her." For a long moment he looked off into the shadows, his contemplation broken only by a hacking cough he smothered in a handkerchief.

Six months later, Lisa once more journeyed to Philadelphia. This time Ralph told her to take time to sight see, too. After the board meeting, she saw the Liberty Bell, walked down Elfreth’s Alley, and went to Constitution Hall. Then with a key Ralph had given her, she went to his town house.

Summer hummed around her, heat simmering and sending people into the streets. "The City of Brotherly Love sizzles," she said to Ralph on the phone. Around her, in the grand house, air conditioning purred.

"The temperature doesn’t change much after the sun goes down," he said. "How do you like my house there?"

"Society Hill is something," she said glad she had rubbernecked, knowing he would question her discretely later. "The streets are cleaner; the bricks shinier, the residents all upscale. Some people would be content with one such house," Lisa murmured, overcome by a scale of luxurious living she had not contemplated before

"I'm glad you like it." Ralph's voice was soft, gentle, smooth.

Back in Seattle, she sensed rather than saw a change in his attitude toward her His smile had a strange quality, as if he were focusing on thoughts that involved her. She could feel it in the stillness. As if something was happening to their relationship, and to him, he stepped lightly, his smile bemused and tender, nodding affirmation when she commented upon something, not quizzing her as he had in the past. With his actions something new entered the easy father/daughter/employee relationship she had forged. She felt askew, off kilter, unsure. She wanted nothing to change. In the past with him she had felt safe and wanted, gaining both approbation and guidance.

After giving him a report of the board meeting, she waited for him to comment. All she heard was the rattle of his breath. Turning aside he pulled a small bottle of cough syrup from his pocket and drank from it before saying she'd done fine.

No questions. Nothing.

The day she was twenty-one he proposed marriage. They sat, after hours of working, in facing chairs, she with a stack of papers, he with prescription medicine at hand. Shocked, she stared at him, sat bolt upright and tightened her grip on the upholstered arms. Hard, driving rain pummeled the house, audible within the thick walls, "What?" she cried, certain he could hear her heart’s sudden thudding.

He held up a hand, the gnarled fingers extended as fully as possible. "Let me finish, please."

She forced herself to settle back, erase the frown that had started. Her security blanket had been snatched away, and cold wind was whipping by. Where could she go, what could she do?

"I realize there’s quite a discrepancy in our ages, you’re just twenty-three, while I am galloping into real senility, but we have worked together for five years now, and if I must say so successfully and well."

She forced herself to listen.

" I like and respect you, and I think you like and respect me." He paused, and she nodded. "You enjoy the work we do together." Again he paused, and again she nodded. "I believe you’ve learned a lot." Another pause, another nod.

"As you know, I have no family. No children, no siblings, no long-lost cousins. I have no one but myself." The gentleness in his expression became weighed down with solemnity. "I don’t want – and have never wanted – strangers running Fennstein Publishing. Along with my teaching it has given shape to my life. My father wanted me to follow him and my son – or daughter – to follow me. That was my vision, too. Now, it’s too late for fatherhood."

She blushed, the thought of what she’d shared with Benny happening with this man, this grandfather figure appalling her. A bitter taste filled her mouth. What was he trying to say?

"I don’t think in those romantic, boy/girl terms anymore. I expect I am as close to asexual as one can be."

"Asexual?" The word slipped out. She had never read or heard the term.

"Sex," he said, adding a shrug. "I have no such desires."

"Oh." She had never attributed sexual thoughts to him. If anything she had assumed he was too old for it to be a problem., but apparently this was not so. Only that he had no interest.

His gentle smile bathed her. "I gather that ‘oh’ was said with relief."

Her blush deepened.

"It’s all right that you view me as a father-figure. Or am I wrong?"

She couldn't meet his gaze.

"No need to feel ashamed. That is fine with me. In fact I prefer it to any other relationship. I'm proposing because I want to leave Fennstein Publishing in good hands."

Her mouth fell open.

He smiled. "Your surprise pleases me. If I’m not mistaken you have no young man waiting in the wings to slip a ring on your finger."

Without hesitation, she shook her head. "No." She had dated infrequently, Benny’s memory still intact.

"I see no real impediment to our marriage. We would continue as we have, but I could die knowing the business was in good hands. I have watched you take hold, run things, and enjoy doing it. I have no doubt that you will only improve, learn, grow, and in time pass on your expertise to your own son or daughter."

"Die," she repeated. "You said die."

"This cold that hangs on." He shook his head. "It’s more than a cold I’ve been diagnosed with AIDS."

"What!" She’d heard the stories, read the articles in the papers.

"It seems a blood transfusion when they did the bypass was the culprit. They fixed a few valves and unknowingly gave me an immune deficiency problem along with the blood I needed. They’re more careful with blood nowadays, but then they didn’t know. "

"Oh, my god." The thought of Ralph dying stabbed her in the gut hard. Each day he led her into some new path of learning, kept her mind jumping, her ambition growing. "I don’t want to lose you," she cried, her voice as ragged sounding as his had become.

His smiled was tender, and he reached for her hand.

She fell to her knees beside him. Hugging his legs to her chest, she wailed, "I don’t want to lose you." He was the father she’d never had, the father she had expected to guide her forever.

Carefully, he disengaged himself. "We all have to die sometime, and I’ve lived longer than many already. I’m not afraid."

She fought back her tears and the little-girl emotions she usually hid in front of him. "How long?" she asked lifting her head.

"A year, two, three. Depends upon my constitution, and I’ve been fairly strong. The doctor says except for that I’m in pretty good shape."

She stood up and taking his hand said solemnly, "Yes, I will marry you." Nothing was clear but that she wanted to please him. They were married two days later.

The following months when he became bedridden. with a nurse to tend to his needs, and pills to stave off the pain, he conducted classes each morning, she his student. Using his tray table as a lectern, she gave talks he critiqued, chaired a meeting he purposefully disrupted, and listened to his philosophy of business. At other times he offered social advise – on tipping and every conceivable problem she might encounter.

She spent all her time with him, and each night she departed to her room in the West Wing. As he grew frailer, the lines in his face more pronounced, the doctors said it wouldn’t be long. She spent hours in the chair next to his canopied bed. Sometimes she read to him – poetry and philosophy – words that took on a life of their own.

"Read that again," he’d whisper, and when she finished he’d point out the real meaning of the words and the beauty inherent in the phrases and the juxtaposition of thoughts as well as order of words.

Her heart swelled with love for him.

But sometimes he was in a different place, a place where he was young and vital and life moved rapidly. Two weeks before he died, he called her Sarah. For him she was Sarah.

The night before he died, she woke from a doze and realized he was awake and watching her. "Who am I?" she whispered.

"Sarah, my love, you know I don’t believe in ghosts. So you must be a figment of my imagination." His hand moved across the counterpane.

She put her own over it.

"You seem so real." He turned his head partially away. "If only you really could be here again, if I could see you as you were so long ago."

"It's me, Lisa," she whispered.

He didn't hear. "Oh, Sarah, my dear. You are so fantastically beautiful." A tear slipped down his leathery, gaunt, old face.

She reached out and wiped it away, not able to say anything else.

In the morning he was dead.

The attorney who read the will said she was a rich woman.

No one tried to dispute her claim to the estate.

She cried so much at the funeral no one doubted her sincerity, but no one knew she cried for herself as much as for him. She had lost the only friend she had and he had hardly known her.

Chapter 10

From the beginning Eon hadn't liked her running Ralph's publishing company. Now he hadn't been flattered by the meeting in her office, the table with its linen, its china, its tempting food, and she'd wanted to wither him with words, but she hadn't.

A few days later the Virginia countryside had a serene, untroubled appearance, but as she entered the house, the peace she sought escaped her. Once again Bitsy appeared from the distant reaches of the house. "Sorry, to disappoint you again, but Daddy’s deep into his writing. I know he wouldn't want to be disturbed."

Lisa glanced toward the stairs. "I doubt that he'd consider it that way." She took a step toward his office. "He didn't say you were coming."

"Really? I'm surprised. He and Mama shared everything."

"How nice," Lisa muttered. She took another step down the hall. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Bitsy moved reluctantly.

From the office she heard Carter's voice. "Bitsy, where's that first speech I made to Congress?"

Smiling triumphantly at Lisa, Bitsy wheeled and hurried down the hall. Every fiber in Lisa wanted to rush after her, shove her out of the way and get to Carter before Bitsy made did. But would he, knee deep in papers, force her to wait, his mind in the past, he and Bitsy more in tune than he with her? Would she stand there waiting like a grammar school student in front of the principal before he gave her his attention? She wasn't sure. Quietly, she went up the back stairs to their room.

***

Five weeks later Lisa walked beside Gary’s motorized wheelchair, through the back halls and rooms to the ballroom where the fund-raiser was exploding into action. Microphones had been set up on a platform at one end of the room, and a head table faced the stage. Throughout the hall tables for ten were filling with guests, each of whom had paid for the privilege of giving away more money. Backstage the stars who would entertain, the head of the Institute, and the dressers and gofers were congregating. Bars, set up at each side of the hall were doing a brisk business, waitresses and bus boys were bustling around made sure that each table had ice water and the prerequisite number of glasses. A sprinkling of dignitaries had arrived and were moving slowly and regally into the room, their own antenna up to see who else was there. Lisa saw all this in a glance and begun to take satisfaction in the job that had been foisted off onto her. Somewhere between making those first lists and taking that last phone call she had pulled it all together, and she knew it would be good. The Institute would make a lot of money for cancer research, reader’s of society pages would oh and ah over the attendees, and Gary would live on false hope.

He stopped abruptly.

"You okay?" she asked. Lately he’d become a silent observer, seldom saying anything, not even contacting his office. But tonight something wild and savage like a leashed dog straining to be let loose was pushing at him. All the way over in the special van that accommodated his chair, he had talked, hardly pausing for her to answer. If he could just hang on, a cure was forthcoming. He knew it. Cancer would gasp its last, and he and the Institute could take the credit.

Now he nodded and gritting his teeth started to get up. "I’m not riding this damn thing all evening," he muttered. Squaring his shoulders, he levered himself to his feet and walked slowly but upright into the hall.

For a minute she watched him, his back so straight, his head so high. In formal attire, stiff shirt and diamond stick pin, his wasted body didn’t show, and his eyes, sparkling with fever, gave him a look of well-being. Hurrying to catch up, she almost missed seeing Barker at the next table where the lesser contingent from the Institute would be sitting. The administrator, Frontenac and Dr. Sontag, the head physician would sit at the head table with her and Gary, his Honor the Mayor, two members of the Board of Supervisors, plus representatives from two of California’s largest HMO’s.

Before she sat down next to Gary, she shook hands with Frontenac and Sontag who were standing by the table but letting Gary carry the conversation He had gulped pain pills minutes before leaving home, and others were in his breast pocket. Taking their places at his left, the administrator and the physician said how good he was looking, and let him monopolize the conversation. It wasn’t hard; he was talking easily, like he used to do, making himself the center of attention.

She glanced around the room, pleased that the committee had done a good job of decorating. The potted palms, ferns, and bird of paradise were plentiful and in strategic locations, screening exits and creating bowers. She brought her gaze back to the front and suppressed a visible reaction. Ed Barker sat at the next table. Shifting her gaze she berated herself for not relegating the lesser researchers from the Institute to the rear of the room. Already Barker was rising and pretending to just notice him, she said, "Glad you could join us."

"I wouldn’t have missed it for anything." Getting up, he came to stand behind Lisa’s chair. "Nice to see Mr. Jacobs looking so well,". Although he smiled, his sharp features barely softened. "Can I get you a drink? The bars are open."

She'd have liked to gulp a martini, swill wine – this aggravating man kept popping up all over the place--but she shook her head. "Nothing for me, but I’m sure Gary would appreciate a 7-Up." Lately, because food didn’t sit well on his stomach, Gary lived on a diet of 7-Up and crackers and the liquid they dripped into his arms. She glanced at him, hoping he would, in his sometimes arrogant fashion, set this little man in his place.

"Thanks," Gary said over his shoulder. "I’ve become a 7-Up addict."

"7-Up it is," Barker said and set off briskly.

Gary grinned, waved at someone across the room, and called out to someone else.

"He’s a marvel," Dr. Sontag said to Lisa.

"Yes, he surely is." Her smile became a fixture.

"But we certainly have you to thank for tonight. This place is a virtual tropical paradise, all those flowers and the banners and balloons. Very effective."

"Thank you."

"And the program. Tremendous. We hadn’t counted on such good media coverage."

She smiled and tried to slow her racing heart. Barker's name hadn’t been on the initial list of attendees from the Institute. "I expect the photographers will only stay long enough to get pictures of the stars and His Honor, and you of course. That was a great interview you gave the Examiner earlier."
"My pleasure."

They smiled at one another. Gary began another monologue, and as the head table filled up, he led the conversation, giving one then another a shot at being center stage. Lisa admitted that he was good, knowing whom to flatter, whom to control, and doing it in such a way they fawned over him.

Barker brought Gary's drink and a plate of Beluga Caviar and toast points., "To hold you until dinner," he said. The large platter also contained smoked salmon, pickled herring, liver pate, melba toast, bagels and cream cheese, artichoke hearts and slices of Kiwi fruit and papaya.

"You want to moonlight as a waiter, I’ll give you a good recommendation." Gary quipped.

Everyone laughed, and belatedly Lisa smiled Forget Barker, she told herself. Throughout the room, the tables were filling, men in formal attire, women in frothy and glittery gowns, and a general hubbub prevailed. Excusing herself, Lisa went back stage. All the artists, who’d be called on to entertain had assured her they’d be on time, but double checking didn’t hurt. She expected some of them to come racing in late. Working with local talent and high-powered stars was always a chancy thing. Rising stars were always the easiest to handle, like mid-list authors. Knowing that more than one pair of eyes followed her progress through the milling crowd, she was glad she had brushed her hair until it shone, a halo touching her bare shoulders and complementing the mint green dress that showed her curves in a lady-like way.

She paused at the entrance to the green room, the back stage chatter rising like applause. Her assistant, a young woman from the Institute, said everyone but the rap group, Boring Details, had arrived and of course, Streisand who wasn’t scheduled to appear until much later.

"Let me know when they show," Lisa said and circulated among the musicians and entertainers, telling everyone again how pleased she was with their participation and reminding them about their place in the lineup. Most everyone smiled back and said equally complimentary things, but an aging rock group griped about their place in the schedule, the leader mumbling, "Sugar, I can’t see why we have to wait so long before we go on." If they could go on earlier…. Remnants of the charm he’d turned on in the sixties shone momentarily when he smiled at her.

All I need is another problem, she thought but smiled sweetly. "I’ll see what I can do."

"You’re a doll," he mouthed as she moved on.

To her assistant, she said, "Move them up one notch." The gentle satirist she had displaced wouldn’t mind and the aging rock star wouldn’t realize until the last minute that he’d only gained ten minutes.

The assistant leafed through a batch of papers, made the notation and added, "Streisand's secretary just called. She just left her hotel and is on her way."

"Then let's begin," Lisa said, moving to the stage's apron. In seconds the house lights dimmed, and a gradual hush backstage extended to the front. As conversations throughout the hall trickled away, Lisa checked her makeup and hair, took a deep breath and walked from the wings into the spotlight, crossing the stage to the microphone.

For a second looking out at that sea of faces, dim in the subdued light, she knew a feeling of fulfillment. She'd brought it about. The frightened little girl who had fled California almost twenty years before had returned triumphant. Apprehension fled and adrenaline flowed. She, Lisa Southwick Fennstein-Jacobs had made it. She had gone on to make something of herself. Not only was she running this show tonight, she was the head of a successful publishing house. Smiling, she launched into her talk, her voice rising and falling appropriately.

"The Big C is still with us," she said quietly, "and we need your assistance." Looking from one side of the hall to the other, she added, "We need your money, your time, and your talents, and believe me, we appreciate everything you’ve already done and everything you’ve pledged to do in the future. You’re the greatest!"

"So are you," someone shouted.

Applause swept the hall. She shook her head. "Save your energy for the cause. I’m just a bookseller." As the audience laughed and someone called out "some bookseller," she held up a hand. The laughter trickled to a stop. "And now I want to introduce an elegant man, a man who manages to get things done, a man whose concern for everyone makes him a natural for this cause that is no respecter of persons. I’m proud to present the mayor of San Francisco!"

He air-kissed her cheek and took her place at the podium. Standing aside, she waited gracefully while he talked, and when he concluded his short welcoming speech, she introduced the administrator of the Institute who took longer, showing slides and movies and throwing out impressive statistics. When he finished, she moved swiftly into place, clapping.

"Thank you, Mr. Frontenac, and all the doctors and research assistants and all the wonderful staff at the Institute. And now…." She leaned toward the audience. "What do you say, we let the entertainment begin?"

"Yes!" a dozen voices called.

To thunderous applause, she floated to her place at the head table. Stage hands rolled out a piano, and a local trio appeared in the spotlight. Soon strains of Deep Purple, Misty, and other equally soothing songs provided background music as the lights came up, and a phalanx of waiters descended on the room with Caesar salads, filet mignon, chicken Kiev or pasta primavara. Stardust wafted from the stage. Girl singers in Tahitian gowns moved down the center aisle, timing their moves so that they didn’t collide with the waiters. Two ice buckets of wine appeared at each table, and when they were emptied, new bottles appeared and new musical groups replaced the trio on stage. In between courses, couples danced in the center of the floor. Fox-trot, cha cha, waltz.

"It’s a damn good party," Gary said. and gave her hand a little pat. "Has Streisand arrived yet?"

"She’s back stage. She comes on after the dessert. I understand she arrived while Milton Berle was recycling his remarks."

"How much money do you think we’ve made?"

"Seven hundred a couple to enter the door, and of course the donations and pledges collected tonight, less expenses."

"Streisand should do it," he said, his confidence showing.

Then Streisand was on stage, her voice low and even but working up in volume and pace, the drama of her singing, and the glamour of her appearance grabbing and holding everyone’s attention.

She sang for three-quarters of an hour, and then she came to the lip of the stage and made a plea for the foundation.

The crowd roared their approval. Pledge cards were collected. More wine was poured. People table-hopped, danced, laughed. The satirist and rap group did their thing. The guests threw hundred dollar bills in the baskets in the middle of each table, baskets cunningly decorated with flowers and ribbons and pictures of a child suffering from leukemia.

Dance music followed--big band, rock, rumba.

Lisa danced with the administrator and someone from Gary’s office.

Then Barker claimed her.

She wanted to say no, but it wasn’t possible.

He danced by the book, no extra frills, and after a while he said. "I still think I saw you in Washington. The image is there, but not quite clear."

"Couldn’t have been me," she said, wondering if she protested too much.

"I have a photographic memory for faces. But," he grinned ruefully, " I can’t always place them. It had to be in an airport, or train depot, or some other spot where people congregate."

"Maybe if you give it a rest, it will eventually come." Anything to stop his incessant questioning.

She hurried back to Gary’s side in time to see him swallow another pain pill. Hang in there, she mouthed, smiling at him. Then she was at the microphone again, looking out at the crowd, thanking them for coming, thanking them for their generosity, asking them to dig deeper, to remember the cause. "And thank you all once again for being part of this historic evening, the beginning of the end for cancer."

As applause swept the hall and people began to rise, some actually to leave, a familiar figure swept down the center aisle, between the far tables, cut across the dance floor and pushed past the front tables directly toward her. People tried to stop him, smiling and calling "Senator!" but he merely waved at them and continued straight to her. Her heart lurching, her head spinning, Lisa watched Carter bear down on her. It couldn't be possible. He was in Virginia bent over his papers. But no, it was him, unmistakably him. She gripped the podium, willed herself not to faint, scream, cry. If only she could get down from the stage, away from the spotlight, away before he reached her. For a crazy moment she contemplated running through the kitchen, grabbing a taxi and leaving. Later she could deny she’d ever been there. Tell Carter it had been someone else, not her. She was home trying to call him, why hadn’t he told her he was coming? But a smiling Carter reached the bottom of the stairs at the same moment she did, and, laughing, exultant, he swept her briefly into his arms, holding her longer than he ever had in public, even kissing her on the lips. Her fear turned to terror. This was not like Carter. She wished for death on the spot.

"My God, but I was proud, seeing you up there. I was going to call you at home or leave a message at the office," he murmured, "but now I won’t have to. Sorry I startled you."

"I was just so surprised, still am," she succeeded in saying, forcing the words through her lips. Shock, unmitigated and gray stalked her, pushed her into a frightening world of dark indecision.

"I flew in on a whim to add my support to this fund-raiser, and there you were surprising me by being here." He drew back slightly, "And not only being here, but part of the show. A most welcome part. Thanks. I appreciate it, and Bitsy will certainly approve."

"You’re a part of this?" she asked, struggling to get past the band of steel holding her in check, threatening her every breath. Her vision clouded, clearing only when she blinked her eyes. Throughout the room people were leaving, except for the head tables where Frontenac bent the Mayor’s ear, and Institute underlings lingered, visiting with one another. Perhaps she could steer Carter to the side entrance, promise to meet him later, even leave with him if necessary. Gary had risen from his chair and was turned toward her. If she went in the opposite direction, surely Carter would follow.

"This fund-raiser is the sort of thing Bitsy’s been involved in ever since her mother died. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make it to the party, but I watched the wrap-up from the end of the hall. You were fantastic, of course." Carter hugged her to his side, and turning back toward the room nodded at people who recognizing him, were waving.

"I really should.…" What? Repair her makeup, see to things backstage? Her mind refused to function. "Perhaps we," she began again.

"Just a minute, my dear, here’s Mr. Barker," Carter said, extending his hand. "I recognize you, sir, from the literature. Good job you people at the Institute are doing."

Barker’s smile changed his feral expression to one of mild rapture as he touched his hand to Carter’s. "Thank you." His smile grew. Shaking his head, he looked from Carter to Lisa, and his voice verging on glee, he pointed a finger at her, "Now I remember where I saw you. It was at the National Cathedral!. You and the Senator." He waggled his fingers at Lisa. "After all this time it comes to me!"

"You saw us at the National Cathedral?" Carter asked, clearly entranced. "Obviously it was her you remembered."

Barker’s tone became confidential. "I couldn’t quite remember where I had seen her until now. Then seeing the two of you together…."

"Your memory came back." Carter’s eyes twinkled, and a look of pride touched his face. "So you and my wife are old friends. By now I suppose you know she is a very special person." Carter squeezed Lisa to his side.

"Your wife?" Barker repeated, clearly puzzled.

"I thought you realized that. Of course she has a career of her own, and we haven’t publicized our marriage."

Barker stared at Lisa, his mouth falling open.

Immediately, she felt like a child again with no control over what was happening. Everything was unreal, the light changing from gray to bright white to black, her vision doubling at times, her mind sweeping back to a place where her mother was with her, comforting her, telling her it was all right that no matter that her father was dead, they still had one another.

Barker and Carter were talking, but she heard nothing they said. Her concentration was riveted on Gary who had been standing for some time just beyond the small circle they made, a trio of calamity, growing by his certain addition. The words, Mrs. Carter, and my wife, kept flying from Carter’s mouth, and periodically he touched her arm, smiled at her. What she had done was wrong, oh, so wrong, but only legally. She was Carter's wife, not Gary’s, not for a long time. But grim-faced, Gary was moving closer, anger not taking away from his commanding appearance, the cancer invisible beneath his surface elegance.

His voice cut in, icy, controlled, interrupting Carter mid sentence. "The lady you are claiming, Sir, is my wife. And I beg you to remember that and get your god damned hands off her!" Unsteadily, he stepped closer to Carter.

Carter glanced quickly at Lisa and Barker, shrugged and said in his best Senatorial voice, "It’s obvious you’ve had too much to drink, my friend. Why don’t you go sit down; find your own wife. I’m sure she’s here somewhere."

"Lisa is my wife, god damn it. Mrs. Gary Jacobs."

Carter frowned. "Did I hear you right? Did you say Jacobs?"

"Yes, you prick. Gary Jacobs, and she's Lisa Jacobs except in that Jew business of hers where she goes by Fennstein-Jacobs."

Carter lowered his voice, but the pleasant, although serious expression on his face deepened, showed concern. "Your ex husband?" he asked Lisa, dawning comprehension showing on his face.

She looked down

"Ex shit," Gary muttered, grabbing at Carter’s arm and losing his balance.

Barker, grinning broadly said, "I’m not sure what’s happening, but for the sake of the Institute, and perhaps for your own reputations, I think you all better lower your voices."

"I can explain," Lisa said to Carter. "Gary’s terribly ill. This fund-raiser was his idea." A cold, hard fear was striking, all her good intentions strangled, appearing like headless flowers in a manicured lawn. She tried to say she didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but no words came.

Smiling, and clearly enjoying the drama, Barker said, his voice low, "Perhaps you better straighten this out elsewhere. I don’t want anything to do with it, and I warn you not one drop of scandal better touch the Institute or…. Well, you can imagine" He turned on his heel and left, joining the others in the research group.

Lisa imagined him explaining to them. All of them were turned toward her, staring, whispering. "It’s all just a mistake," she said, not able to stop the trembling in her limbs.

Carter stared at her. "Mistake? What are you talking about?"

"Yes, tell me," Gary said.

Lisa looked from one man to the other, an improbable, impossible void opening between them and her. She thought she would faint. The room spun, and when it came to rest, Gary, his legs buckling, doubled over, clutching his stomach.

"Help me," he muttered, swaying.

Lisa pulled a chair into place, pushed him into it.

Gary slumped, his head bobbing like a cork in a sea of words.

Lisa grabbed Carter's arm. "Help me," she ordered. "Get a glass of water. He needs to take his pain pills." She reached into Gary’s inside coat pocket, pulled out the bottle, spilled three or four into her hand and gave them to him.

Fumbling them toward his mouth, Gary groaned.

Frowning, Carter handed him a glass of water.

Gary gulped the pills, his hands shaking, his face ashen.

"I need to know what's happening," Carter said through stiff lips.

"He needs to get home, that's what," Lisa said taking the empty glass, setting it down. Now that nothing mattered, a calm center surrounded her. "You'll have to help me."

Gary breathing heavily, gasped. "Get my wheel chair." He pointed toward it.

His frown deepening, Carter retrieved it. "This whole thing is highly irregular, and I deserve an explanation, if there is a plausible one."

"Just help me into it," Gary said, closing his eyes.

Carter shrugged almost imperceptibly before commandeering a waiter. With his help he got Gary out to the van and into the passenger seat. As Lisa dug keys out of her purse and went around to the driver's seat, he stopped her. "Did I understand correctly? You're still married to him?"

She nodded, unable to speak.

"I’m staying at the St. Francis." The neutral words cracked like a whip, the end wrapping around her. "When you get him settled, we need to talk."

"Of course. You see how it is. He’s dreadfully sick. The doctor says it's terminal."

"That's neither here nor there, and God help me for saying such a thing about someone with cancer. See what you've driven me to do." His hand went to his forehead, and for a second his eyes closed. Then shaking his head, he started to move away, hesitated and said over his shoulder. "Don’t call if it’s late. We can talk in the morning as well."

"When I get him home, I'll phone," she said, holding on to the contact. If he left, would she ever see him again?

"Don't bother."

The words hit her like cold water in the face. Shocked, she got behind the wheel, started the Bronco and looked for Carter, but he had disappeared back inside the hotel. She was left to drive Gary home.

.

Chapter 11

Gary appeared benign, unthreatening as they bundled him into his wheelchair, assisted him into the van, secured the seatbelt and closed the door. No sarcastic statements about his ability to take care of himself, thank you, no snide remarks about the ineptness of the help snaked from his lips as Carter and the waiter strapped him in. Instead he closed his eyes and sat with his head back. Watching, a wave of sympathy washed over Lisa. She felt torn, conflicted, unsure, and deeply disturbed. Her life was crumbling around her, and nothing, absolutely nothing seemed real. As she maneuvered the van into the street, the radio, which apparently had been left on, blared a rock tune. Strident, in your face music and words filled the space around her, bombarding her ears and her sensibilities. She hit a button and the volume increased. Until tonight she’d never driven the van. Another button started the scanner. "Sorry," she murmured, tears beating the edges of her eyes, a sense of doom extending over the horizon, crawling relentlessly like a snake toward her, poised to strike. "I can't seem to find the right dial."

Gary said, biting out the words, "The left one."

The everyday action was familiar and in its way soothing. Through the years, in the boat, skiing downhill, or scuba diving, Gary had always given minimal instructions and expected her to catch on immediately. She always had, and he’d always smiled smugly as if her abilities reflected favorably upon him. Now no change of expression showed on his face, and silence hovered like a rattler uncoiling. Her stomach roiled.

She checked the traffic before glancing at him again. Was he sleeping? He was absolutely still, and a fog horn sounding in the bay added to a sense of loneliness pressing in on her. I won’t say anything until he does, she decided. She switched on the windshield wipers and headed for the highway.

"What in the hell was that all about?" Gary snapped as she turned on to 101.

She jumped internally, a vile taste coming into her mouth. "What do you mean?" She concentrated on the road. One good thing, the traffic at this time of night was steady but light.

"What do I mean?" he mimicked. "Fucking Senator Carter Cameron. That’s what I fucking mean." He glared at her.

"I don’t know what you mean," she muttered, stalling for time, "and I resent your words and tone." The streets were slick, and she braked carefully for a red light, the color reflecting in the street like blood.

"For Christ sake, he called you his wife."

"It meant nothing," she said, her mind galloping through possibilities, finding one and grabbing on to it. "We met at one of those National Press Club parties, and I took the part of his wife in a skit."

"Bull shit. "

"It’s true. You know those skits. He was spoofing it."

"You’re good, I grant you that. You might just pull it off with someone else. Not me." His hand went to his head and again he closed his eyes.

. Even in the dim light she could see the strain in his face. For two swipes of the windshield wipers hypnotic passes, she waited, then said, "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes," he gasped, "just dandy. They might find a cure if I can hang on long enough. But my wife, my god damn fucking wife, kicks me in the teeth by fucking Senator Cameron."

"Oh, no," she cried, "it was not like that at all."

"So what was it like?" he asked quietly. "And spare me the Press Club shit."

She experimented with the wipers, putting them on lag and then turning them off only to have to turn them on again. The truth was so complicated. It was hard now even to remember the circumstances pressuring her. She hadn’t wanted to lose Carter’s love, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt Gary either. She had needed Carter's approbation and gentle kindness, needed someone closer to her than Gary had ever been. But how to tell him that without hurting him needlessly. She licked her dry lips and quietly, in as calm as voice as possible, she began her confession. Knowing she had to make him understand her concern, her compassion for him, had to make him see she had only been trying to keep from hurting him, she started at the beginning. The interior of the car faded away and scenes rose again as they had been, she and Carter near the riverbank in Philadelphia, Gary confronting her in San Francisco. "After you told me about the cancer, I couldn’t tell you about wanting a divorce. I couldn’t hurt you that way," she whispered when she realized she was rushing, making a miserable botch of things.

"So what do you call this, being kind?"

"No, I did all I could to help you." All these months she had knocked herself out working for the fund-raiser and doing all the little things Gary had wanted done. Automatically, she made the turn into the drive to the home they had called their own. She put her hand on his arm. No matter what had happened, there had been some good times in the beginning. She tossed him a glance and thought, he’d always liked to lead off, have her follow. Now, she had upset the balance miserably.

He glared back, took her hand from his arm and physically placed it on the wheel.

As she zoomed into the garage, she hit the brake and the remote, set the emergency brake and unlocked the van doors.

"Never touch me again," he said as the garage door shut out the night. "I would also appreciate it if you brought my chair around and then went upstairs and packed your clothes and vacated my premises."

Anger washed over her. "Your premises? I am your wife, and this is a community property state."
"Apparently Cameron thinks you’re his wife. A dilemma, isn’t it?" He scowled at her. "Bring the fucking chair around!"

She jumped out, got it from the back and wheeled it to the front of the van near his door. "Do you want a divorce, is that it?"

Breathing hard, he slammed the mechanism into gear that brought the wheel chair up to his level, levered himself in and rode the chair down and into the house, she following.

"Do you want a divorce?" she persisted. It would be the answer to all their problems. If he wanted to die alone, it wouldn't be her fault. She had played mother long enough.

"No, I don't want a divorce," he said taking the newly installed ramp inside. The lights, always on at night, shone from tracks and lamps, casting shadows, making sharp contrasts. He eased over to his favorite chair.

She followed, sitting opposite him. "No? But why, it’s obvious you don’t want me around."

"Why? Because I’m too god damn tired and too damn stubborn to give you what you so obviously want." He levered the chair to a reclining position before staring at her. "You know, Lisa, I’d have preferred it if you’d whored around, slept here, given a blow job there, but you and your small town morality, your fucking little ways of doing, had to make it legal."

She closed her eyes momentarily, reeling deep inside, her chest hurting, knowing that words would come out cramped and hollow-sounding. Opening her eyes and shaking her head, she said, "You hate me don’t you?" Looking for the man she had sought to protect, she searched his face. The quirk to his eyebrows no longer seemed sexy and intriguing but angry and sadistic. If that man she'd favored ever existed, he was gone, this one was staring at her with contempt. Until now he had never looked upon her with hate in his eyes. As for her, she had felt admiration for him, and lately pity and sympathy. And sorrow, of course. But not hate. Now, she wondered how she’d ever been attracted to him in the first place, and with the thought came strength and determination. She wanted to leave him even more than he wanted her gone. She waited for his answer.

"Hate you? Yes. Now and tomorrow and all the days left. All I care about now is myself. Can’t you get the picture, you stupid little mama’s girl who slept her way to the top of Fennstein Publishing."

"Damn you," she cried, anger flooding her. How dare he attempt to make her relationship with Ralph into a dirty memory. "What a disgusting, utterly vile thing to say!" Flinging her arm wide in frustration, she inadvertently swept a candy dish off the table. The gummy bears Gary favored littered the floor.

For a matter of seconds he stared at her, and then deliberately and without hesitation, he picked up a heavy, Austrian crystal vase of cut flowers and hurled them at her.

She ducked, but the cut glass container fell short, the vase thudding to the floor, spewing water, gardenias and baby’s breath over the carpet. "You bastard," she said. If the vase had connected with her she could have been injured or dead.

"Get out," he shouted, his face red, the cords in his neck standing out. "You’re lucky I’m so damned fucking weak."

Edging by him, she took the stairs rapidly, heard him mumbling and then shouting, "Bitch, whore. Bigamist!"

Running into the bedroom, she snatched a bag from the closet and began loading it with underwear, dresses, slacks, shoes – everything tossed in at random. It didn't matter; nothing mattered. Anyway, most of her clothes were in Philadelphia or down the coast. She had to get out fast. No matter how weak, he was not helpless. Once she’d seen him, deliberately and coldly, beat a dog that had disobeyed. When he was through the animal had crawled to him for affection. She’d never do that, and she didn't expect Carter to expect it either. With his horses and his grandchildren he’d used a firm but gentle hand. With her he had been lenient and loving, gentle, as well as respectful. No, unlike that counterfeit thing she’d had with Gary, Carter loved her. Like Benny. Memories flooded in. Those long, companionable mornings in Seattle, similar to the ones in Virginia. Melodious rain beating gently against the windows or summer sun spreading lemon-yellow shafts across the floor. And the nights! Carbon colored sky, with soft purple shadows, and bright, shimmery silver moonlight. In bed, stretching out, snuggling, sleeping. She had felt treasured, wanted.

Tears streaked her face. She wiped them away, zipped the bag shut, made a quick foray into the bathroom and then stopped. Let Gary hire someone to throw away her toothbrush and toiletries. She didn’t need them. She began the long walk down the stairs.

Gary was not in sight but an envelope with her name sat in the middle of the coffee table. She tore it open and read, "My attorney will be in touch." Her belly rumbled, and she felt anger, mostly at herself. If only she had gotten the divorce, done what she wanted no matter that he had moaned, saying that he needed her, she wouldn’t be in this mess now.

Glancing behind her, she went into the garage and backed her car out. Her belly ached and only began to subside when she spotted the phone booth. No matter what Carter had said, she knew he loved her.

She called the St. Francis, dropping coins in the slot as mist curled like smoke around the light pole opposite the booth. It was late, and Carter was probably sleeping, but if he’d just let her in, she knew everything would be all right. She imagined his voice, the reassuring rumble telling her he loved her. But only a busy signal buzzed in her ear. Her stomach knotting again, she dialed her voice mail. In a neutral, dealing- with-strangers tone, Carter said, "Lisa, I have an early morning appointment, but come by the hotel around eleven." She tried to take solace from the "Lisa."

At the Ritz Carlton where luxury and the sense of pampered living had one time overwhelmed her, she rented a room. Now sleep wouldn’t come. She tossed and turned until six when she got up and went to the office.

***

As soon as he arrived in his suite,. Carter called room service and ordered a bottle of Southern Comfort. Pouring it over ice, he set it on the stand next to him and picked up the telephone. It was two fifteen on the coast, five-fifteen in Washington when he woke his secretary, a woman who had been with him twenty-three years. He needed to know, ASAP, everything he could about Gary Jacobs and Lisa Fennstein-Jacobs--when and where their marriage had taken place and more importantly when and where were they divorced, if they were divorced. His secretary’s loyalty made it unnecessary to swear her to secrecy.

Three calls and three hours later, the Senator’s attorney said, "I’ll get in touch with some people out there."

"Handle this whole thing quietly," Carter said.

"Of course."

The Senator poured himself another drink. "You know the people out here?"

"They’re on my payroll."

"No, they’re on mine now. I know it’s not necessary to say this to you, but everything has to be strictly confidential. Without a breath of scandal."

"You can count on it, Senator."

"I know I can." Carter hung up and sat slowly sipping the burbon. After a while he took Lisa’s picture from his wallet, studied it for a while and then slowly and carefully tore it into pieces and blushed them down the toilet.

***

At seven, Lisa sat at her desk in her office. Despite her Channel suit, silk blouse, and megabucks Italian shoes, she felt grubby, her hair not quite right, her skin sallow, her eyes filled with grit. But settling in with printouts of sales figures, she managed not to replay the scenes of the night before more than once. No matter how blameworthy her behavior, Carter loved her. They would work it out. She was too tired to concentrate on much of anything, but the Seduction book was rising to the top. That thought helped. The New York Times had given it a nasty-nice review with several good quotes that could be utilized in advertising. Also Mave Robertson’s book was sweeping through the competition like a strike ball tossed by a ninety pound weakling. Surprising. Yet, who was she to argue? All Fennsteins needed was a great first novel, something with poetic phraseology and maybe spiritual undertones, to put Fennsteins list to the top. She’d staked her reputation on bringing change to the publishing company, and now it was time to produce. She called Russell Sanderson. "Russell, I hope I didn’t get you from a meeting."

"No, but I’d deem it a privilege if you did. Eon’s meetings can be dull."

So he was calling meetings when she was gone. " I need your help. Fennsteins needs a novel, preferably one that sings, written by a newcomer we can publicize. He or she wouldn't have to be good looking, but must be attractive in a bookish way. Know what I mean?"

"A slim, hot, semi-literary book by an unknown librarian."

"You're in the right ball park."

"If you want me to sell peanuts I will."

"Thanks, Russell. Knowing you're on my side always helps." Still, she felt very alone. If Carter loved her, wanted her, trusted her, he would have let her call last night no matter the time. The fear and the loneliness she'd felt when Benny had disappeared, hit her again, like pins under the skin.

"A slim volume?"

"Or medium slim," she babbled. "Actually, size doesn't mean that much. Gone With the Wind didn't do badly and it was a thousand pages if my memory serves me right." In his listening ability, Russell had no peers. "You could get the word out to the agencies. Also check out the slush pile, see if any hopefuls have mailed a manuscript in over the transom."

Repeating herself, she held him on the line until almost ten, holding at bay the thoughts and recriminations that were edging toward her. When she hung up, she disappeared into the half bath that opened off her office. Redoing her makeup gave her another lift, and putting on a fresh blouse and the Honeysuckle scent Carter favored added to her renewed outlook. It would be fine. He had never been cross with her. Always unfailingly polite. Puzzled that time in Philadelphia, but not cross. No, never out of sorts for long.

Taking a cab, she arrived at the St. Francis ten minutes early. Five minutes to find his suite, she rationalized, and certainly he wouldn’t mind that she was five minutes early. But why in heaven’s name think in such a mealy-mouthed, scared rabbit way? He loved her as much as she needed his love, his support, his soothing words, his indulgent smile. Just weeks ago in Virginia, throwing a peignoir on over her chiffon night gown she had looked up to surprise him watching her. He had begun to sing, "A pretty girl," and immediately she had become a fashion model on a runway before he'd taken her into his arms.

Smiling, convinced her doubts were ridiculous, she left the elevator at the top floor and strode purposefully down the hall to his suite. It seemed strange to lift the knocker; in the past they had always been together at hotels. She pictured him crossing a carpeted living room, then striding over the tiled entranceway. A click sounded, her heartbeat increased, the door opened and a stranger faced her.

Her smile leaving, Lisa said, "I must have the wrong room." She glanced behind her into the hall.

"You’re Ms. Fennstein-Jacobs?" the man asked.

"Well, yes." Not Cameron? She glanced around.

"You have the right room. I’m Doug Zimbaro. Come in." He held the door wide and motioned for her to enter. Beyond him the plush, well-equipped but sterile suite showed no sign of Carter.

A stitch ran up her side, expanded, barbs penetrating her skin. "Where’s Carter?"

"He asked me to explain. I’m his attorney."

CHAPTER 12

Zimbaro, Carter's attorney, smiled, a perfunctory, polite bending of the lips. "Please have a chair, Ms. Jacobs."

Her legs buckling, she sat. "What is it? Where’s Carter?"

"I’m handling things for him. The bottom line is, you’ve broken the law, committed bigamy."

The ugly words bounced off the walls with their signed prints and expensive moldings and slammed into her. Dates, times, names fell like lead around her. What had happened to the magnolia and mint julep days? Shattered under the harhness of reality, she saw it in shards around her.

"My client’s interests, his protection, set the parameters, Ms. Jacobs. I’m sure you can appreciate that the Senator has never been of any scandal. His record is pure. He intends to keep it that way Whatever happened between you was an aberration that must be expunged. There was a marriage; consequently, there must be a divorce."

"He intends to purge the record of me?"

"Exactly. The records in Virginia will not reflect your status when you became – unlawfully – Mrs. Carter. There will be no reason for anyone to investigate further."

Zimbaro's words flowed over and around her, sticking like tape to be pried loose later--deliberate misrepresentation, criminal, felony. "No," she squeaked, shaking her head, denying his various interpretations, shutting it out, deliberately not hearing.

The hotel suite lengthened into infinity, nothing to indicate that only hours earlier Carter had come west, not only for a fund-raiser, but to see her. That hours earlier he had loved her. She knew he had. Firming her jaw, she held up a hand. "Please stop. The horse is already dead. There's no need for repetition." She stared at Zimbaro but saw only the blankness of the days ahead. Alone again. A trembling deep inside her threatened to spill over. Once she had predicted an earthquake so minor no one had believed her. With Gary and his pals, she had sat high in one of San Francisco’s skyscrapers, the city spread out beneath them, their world far removed. They hadn’t believed her, but she had felt it, a rumbling deep inside the earth making itself felt through her legs, her spine, and up to her scalp. The next day the papers had advised that the minor tremor had been 2.88 on the Richter Scale. Gary had not liked being wrong.

"Tell me, " she said getting up from the chair where she had noted the firmness of the back cushions and the height of the seat from the floor. The suite was undoubtedly reserved for businessmen, little used on weekends. Smoothing her expensive skirt over her knees, knowing that nothing could alter the ghostlike gleam of her eyes, the hard, hurting slash of her mouth, she continued, "If I have this correctly, the Senator doesn’t want to see me, won’t talk to me." Was he in the bedroom at the other side of the suite, listening? No, she couldn’t believe that he had sunk that low, but yesterday she wouldn’t have believed this either. When was love dependent upon never making an error, never doing anything that needed to be smoothed over, faced together?

Zimbaro nodded matter-of-factly.

"And, if I try to contact him or speak of our marriage?"

"Bigamous marriage."

She flinched.

"We will prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law."

"Meaning?" She needed to hear it, every nasty bit, and if Carter lurked in the other room, she wanted him to hear, too.

Zimbaro cleared his throat and spoke to the far wall. "A prison term. Behind bars, incarcerated for a few years, but of course, we prefer that this wouldn’t happen." He took papers from a briefcase. "These merely state that if you let any of this story get out, we prosecute. I’ve talked to your husband’s attorney, and he assures me that they will not interfere." His gaze came to her. "I’m sorry."
The words, coming from his slash of a mouth, his hard eyes softening, let the tears slide down her cheeks. "It’s not your fault. You were just doing your job. " She got up. Damn it, why did she automatically become the nourisher, comforting every man who might need comfort? Wiping the tears away with fingertips, she noticed Zimbaro watching her, a slight frown marring his face. Was this a momentary blip in his otherwise flawless days? His Armani suit spelled money, his relaxed position underscored his security. "You must enjoy your job," she said clutching her purse and beginning to rise, "You do it so well."

He had the grace to blush.

"So you've talked to Gary's attorney."

"Yes."

"You've all been very busy, haven't you? Whispering, talking, conferring, how nice, how civil."

It was the only point she felt she scored in that humiliating, hurtful encounter.

I will get through this, she told herself as she hurried down the hall, bypassing a cart filled with cleaning supplies and took the elevator to the lobby. She had gotten through worse. She was a survivor, beginning back there when her mother died, when she'd had to run from Leonard. Watching the needle sweep past six, five, four and then approach the lobby, she moved to the front, the door opened, and she was face to face with Carter.

Shocked, she stared.

Meeting her eyes for an instant only, he brushed by her.

No, she thought, it can’t end this way. He owed her more. She was entitled to explanations. Pressing her thumb firmly against the 'close door' button, she said, "If you ever cared in the least for me, we have to talk."

For a moment his mouth trembled, and she almost reached out to touch him, reassure him that they would get through this thing together. Then he was speaking. "Don’t - make - a - scene," he said. "Open - the - door."

Multiple waves of emotion sweeping over her, she stared at him, seeing as if for the first time the high, florid color flooding his face, the mole in the crease of his cheek, the sharp canine teeth, the gold-capped bicuspid. She released the door.

"Get out," he said, as it opened. "And if you ever try to see me again, I swear I’ll see you rot in jail."

Her mouth fell open. She had given him that shirt, remembered well how he had run his fingers over the monogram. She knew intimately the smell of him, the feel of him, the sound of his voice breathing words of love. How could anyone who had been that close speak so despicably now? She shook her head in disbelief, seeing the hard glitter of his eyes, the downward turn of his mouth.

Muttering through his teeth he said, his voice low, "You had me fooled, but not anymore. Now, get out of my sight or I’ll have you arrested."

Outside the elevator, people approached, and he smiled at them and said as if no personal drama had just taken place, "What floor? I’m manning the controls."

Shaking inwardly, Lisa pushed past the people who, having recognized Carter, were fawning over him.

She walked aimlessly through the lobby, out the door, and up and down hills, over a mile to her office, her mind numb. Yesterday she'd been riding high. Today? No, she wouldn't let this get to her. She’d call Philadelphia, get involved again in the daily business of the office.

Her secretary intercepted her. A Philip Mortenson was waiting for her.

Philip Mortenson, Gary’s attorney. She dug her fingernails into her palms. "Give me a minute, and then send him in." She had already dealt with one attorney, why not one more?

Less than an hour later she had signed away all rights to her share in Gary’s estate.

"You understand, my client could have prosecuted you to the full extent of the law," Mortenson said, stuffing papers back into his briefcase.

She didn't care any more. "Why didn’t he?"

"He never said. Perhaps because he’s so ill. Perhaps because of your years of marriage." He shrugged. "Who can tell?"

"Yes, who can tell," she said and rang her secretary, "Show Mr. Mortenson out and book me passage on the next plane for Philadelphia." She had to get away from both men and the ugly scenes that repeated in her mind.

***

For a week she never left her Society Hill home while the enormity of what she had done floated like slime on top of all her thoughts. She had barely escaped prison. Only Carter’s great desire to hide from unwelcome publicity and Gary's illness had saved her. The attorneys had made that clear. In the end Gary had been kinder. Of course the money that should rightfully be hers would go to someone else. Already she had signed papers for a quiet divorce in Virginia. The trail would be clean on Carter's end. The Good Senator.

"I truly loved him," she said to the shrink who took a fistful of dollars for a fifty minute hour.

"Him?" The psychiatrist, sitting behind a large, imposing oak desk, poised a pen above lined paper. He himself was small, the pen long like a stiletto.

"Yes, he was so gentlemanly, so kind, so soft-spoken and considerate. I thought I had discovered the holy grail."

"Consideration means a lot?"
"Yes."

"So that’s it, he was gentlemanly, kind, soft-spoken, and considerate?"

She focused on the blue sky showing through the window. For days it had been gray, Philadelphia gray. "Not entirely."

"He was other things, too?"

"No, I meant something else.

"What else?"
She didn’t answer for some time, hugging the thoughts of the past to her, not wanting to share them with anyone. "He reminded me of Ralph. And someone else, too."

"Do you want to talk about it or them?"

"I truly missed Ralph."

"Because?"

"He was like a father to me."

"And the other person you say Carter reminded you of? Do you want to talk about him?"

"Not now." Not ever. The dreams of Benny that had started again were hers, they didn't belong to some shrink who through his probing put impossible thoughts into her head.

The next day she went back to work. She checked invoices, read and made lists, perused contracts, read every letter and fax and E-mail addressed to her and canceled all appointments with the shrink. Whatever had happened with Carter and Gary, she didn’t have to wallow in the guilt. Despite the success of the Seduction book and Mave’s breakthrough, as she'd told Russell, Fennsteins needed something even more commercial. She wanted fiction that would grab the reading world and put Fennstein Publications on everyone’s lips. For her personal well-being she wanted success so phenomenal it would wipe away all signs of pariah stigmata.

Eon sputtered that this pursuit of new authors was ridiculous, but nevertheless he brought manuscripts of. The Earth’s Axis, An Analysis of the Metric System, or Ancient Hierarchical Structures for her perusal. The other board members were not much better: a professor who wrote an expose of his Midwestern college, a recluse who had known Ezra Pound. John Q. Public could never cut through novels dense as fog, Lisa declared sending them all back with routine rejection forms.

Then one day leaving the building, she took the shortcut route past the twelve by twelve mail room in the basement. Unsolicited manuscripts in brown paper packages were stacked. almost reached the ceiling. Certainly there must be a more efficient way to handle them. The girl who opened them and read a page or two looking for that jewel wasn't in sight, but a small pile of manuscripts sat on the metal desk just inside the door. Several more were strewn over the table in the middle of the room. Where was the girl--Gail--whose job it was to send grabbers up to the editorial staff?

Lisa riffled through a few pages, saw a "was" instead of a "were" and red-penciled it. A line stood out. "She tore him from her heart, eviscerated him from her mind, cast him out with the lingering memories." It was what she had done, was doing. Pulling out a chair, she sank into it and began reading from the first page.

"They had said he was young and healthy appearing and that his countenance would not frighten her, nor his breath fell her with its aroma, nor his touch appall her. Still, she did not look up when the door opened and his step sounded on the marble floor, but kept her eyes downcast so that she saw his feet first, and then his body, bit by bit. He wore nothing but his overwhelming need for her, and it frightened her, for she had never been with a man before."

"Christ!" she uttered. This was just the type of soft porn that was making the bestseller lists lately.

"Oh, I didn’t hear you come in. What can I do for you Ms Fennstein-Jacobs?"

The girl was no more than twenty-two or three, perhaps that was why she was no good at concealing neither the look of guilt upon her face now the pile of manuscript pages in her hands. Lisa had said more than once, "You don’t have time to read the whole damn thing. If it doesn’t take hold of you in a couple pages, we don’t want it." Since the word had gone out that Fennsteins was accepting fiction, the piles had proliferated, everyone with a word processor deciding that they could write a book.

Lisa waved a hand. "Is that the rest of the novel you’re reading here on the desk?"

"Yes."

"You’ve been sitting back there reading it?" She indicated the corner.
"Well, uh…."

Lisa smiled. "It’s okay. You couldn’t put it down, is that what you’re saying?"

"Actually, yes."
"That’s all I want to know. Wrap it up, and give it to me, please."
Hands shaking, Gail secured the bundle with rubber bands. "I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop reading."

Lisa grabbed the pages. "No need to apologize." For the first time since the Fund-raiser she smiled. "If this is as good as you seem to think, Gail, you’re in for a raise." She started out, heard the phone ring, heard Gail answer, "Mail Room." heard her call, "Ms. Fennstein-Jacobs, it’s for you."

"Tell them I’ve gone," she said starting out the door. She had a new purpose in life, and she didn't want to be delayed.

"It's about Mr. Jacobs, Ma'am. It seems he's dead."

That moment when they’d met had been like magic, but the magic had disappeared rapidly. "When is the funeral?" she asked, taking the phone. She’d send a large floral piece and make a sizable donation to the Institute.

The attorney's voice said matter-of-factly, "Mr. Jacobs requested that you not attend the service, Ma’am."

The words sliced into her. Shaking her head as if to shake them off, she said dully, "Then I can't possibly be there, can I?"

"No, I wouldn’t have called, but I had explicit instructions to do so."

So Gary had had his final pound of flesh. "Thanks for the information." She hung up. For too long it had felt as if her mouth had a bitter downward turn, and her eyes radiated nothing but hurt, shock, and anger. Now she knew exactly the panacea for it. She hugged the manuscript to her chest and rushed out the door. A sliver of sun shone through a thin layer of clouds. It would be a good weekend after all, and if she read long enough, she’d be too sleepy to dream, to think of Benny and their time together. He and it were slowly gaining idyllic and mythic proportions.

Chapter 13

Lisa placed the last page of the manuscript on the top of the pile on the night-stand and stretched. Her neck hurt, her shoulders ached, and her eyes felt sandblasted, yet she couldn’t relax. It’s a winner, she thought, no matter that it wasn’t well written and that it broke several writing no-no’s, a nervous energy pervaded the manuscript, the same nervous energy that propelled her from bed. For hours she'd forgotten Carter, Gary, and all that mess, and not once had thoughts of Benny intruded, even when she'd fallen into a long-overdue sleep.

A ribbon of light coming through the slit in last night’s hastily drawn draperies presaged dawn. Lisa looked out toward the Delaware River. Little movement marred the surface of the water. It was as if the world had stood still while she had read. She had plunged in, thinking only to dull her mind to the past, but she had been caught up in the story, lost in it. Now, she padded across the room and took up the coffee-stained and wrinkled title page. Written by Carol Krysnowski. Without hesitation she reached for the phone and dialed the number in Vermont. Maine would have been better – Bar Harbor and old money thrown into the stew, but publicity could do something with Vermont, too.

"This is Lisa Fennstein-Jacobs, of Fennstein Publishing," she said when after several rings a sleepy voice answered. "I just finished reading ‘A Winter Kind of Love." She heard the quick intake of breath on the other end of the line. "It's got distinct possibilities," she murmured. As the woman at the other end muttered something inane, Lisa thought, we'll make it and her a winner. The thought carried her like fine wine, giving only a proper glow and not dulling the senses, into the Fennstein board room a few weeks later.

Nothing is ever as easy as it first seems, Lisa thought as the board approached the agenda item, New Business: A Winter Kind of Love. Carol Krysnowski had not signed a contract that first day or the next. Instead a call had come from Fredrick, the slick, Hollywood-style agent, who Krysnowski had contacted immediately. No matter what Lisa said, Fred and his agency wouldn't budge.

"So that’s the bottom line," she said looking around the conference table at the Fennstein board. "We offer a fairly substantial advance and get a break on the royalties or we lose a cash cow."

Eon snorted. "An unknown, no track record, seems rather foolish. What if the book doesn’t sell?" He tossed the proposal down.

"But it will." Going back as far as Peyton Place, Lisa quoted statistics about similar books. "If we pass up this novel, we’ve lost a great opportunity, a chance to make the company a great deal of money, not to mention ourselves."

Eon tapped his pencil on the table. "Folly. Sheer folly to take a gamble on an unknown." The pencil jumped from his grasp and hands shaking he retrieved it. "I never wanted to go this way in the first place. Fiction!" He wrinkled his nose. "As you yourself pointed out, she's hardly a prose stylist."

Lisa smiled and after a few words about careful editing, she talked about the projected figures calculated on a high first print run.

Russell Sanderson nodded. "Sounds good." He glanced at Ron Fellows, who had been eating lunch with him recently. Fellows, who was a bit older than Sanderson, affected turtle-necks and a jaunty air that said much about his own self image.

"Very good," Fellows said.

The man next to them, who occasionally joined them for Philly steak sandwiches at working lunches, said, "Who can fight such figures?"

The rest of the members looked at Eon who leaned back and closed his eyes.

Glancing up at Ralph's portrait, Lisa willed her jumpy nerves to settle down. If she couldn't pull this off, she might as well quit. For too long the she'd lived in a gray tinged world, and now she wanted primary colors.

In his slow, deliberate way, Russell moved that they accept the book. The man next to him seconded, and pulling herself into the present, Lisa called for the vote.

Eon cast a dissenting vote, but Russell's vote carried it for Lisa. She was sure Ralph was smiling down at her. She broke out the champagne.

The following weeks went swiftly, Carol Krysnowski and her manuscript taking top priority at Fennsteins. The editing went faster than Lisa anticipated, Carol proving amenable to most suggestions and meeting deadlines.

Pictures of Carter began appearing in the press. Former Senator says. Expert testimony by. His name appeared in the Washington Post. He was on CNN and the Lehrer News Hour. Lisa studied his photos, watched his face, looking for anything that would say he was unhappy, saddened by dumping her without a hearing. Nothing gave a clue. He looked as he always had, a good-looking man who had said he loved her. How could she have been so wrong!

She felt very much alone and lonely, sleeping less and less although swallowing non-prescription sleeping aids that left her wide-eyed. Work was her only panacea.

Carol Krysnowski's bio stated she had gone from a home where windows were broken and snow drifted in to a marriage where a man prodded her with sticks when drunk and his penis when sober. She'd plotted ways to kill him. Out of it all had come her novel.

So all she, Lisa, had done was commit legal bigamy. She hadn't hopped from one bed to another. She hadn't pursued married men. Neither had she intentionally hurt anyone. Doldrums hitting her, Lisa hit the streets, walking daily along Chestnut to the Waterfront, back to the Liberty Bell and finally home, chasing the demons with exercise. A design for the book cover had been chosen, the flap copy written and a publicity blitz was about to begin; she had to overcome this sense of personal ruin.

She chastised herself daily until the book hit the stores and Carol glided unto television screens like a creature who had grown up on camera and the stage was her natural environ. "I don’t write, I create," she said, her pretty face, her long nails, her elaborate coiffure detracting from her immense size. Draped in brocade or trailing chiffon she had stature and presence. A Winter Kind of Love shot off the charts and sudden, bright light broke over the horizon bringing Lisa a sense of fulfillment. She slept well for the first time in months.

She went to the next board meeting so full of herself she thought she would burst. Before taking her seat, she tossed greetings around like confetti. Would this be another champagne day? She planned leading with the figures about the Seduction book, which was still doing respectable business, follow it with Mave Robertson’s success and then when she had them properly enthusiastic, throw out the latest statistics about "Winter."

Smiling, she began to distribute copies of the day’s agenda. "I’m sorry, these weren’t ready earlier, but I wanted to include the very latest figures." Usually her secretary put the agenda out along with pitchers of water, pencils and pens, and fresh pads of paper before the members took their places at the table.

"I don’t think this is necessary," Eon said. He kited the paper back in her general direction.

Eon never kited anything. Lisa stared at him, seeing only the usual crepe-paper skinned, hard-eyed man who exuded essence of moth-balls. "What do you mean?"

He took several papers from a folder. "I have another agenda, and enough votes to take over the meeting. These are my proxies." He passed the signed documents down the table to her.

A roaring sound erupting in her ears, she riffled through the papers and stock certificates. This couldn't be happening now. "When was there a stockholders’ meeting?" she snapped. While she had been feeling sorry for herself? While she was trying to get over the debacle with Gary and Carter? Undoubtedly there had been secret meetings, phone calls, luncheons. Eon had covered himself well, sending an announcement when he knew she wouldn’t get it. She glared down the table

"There wasn’t." His smug smile touched her briefly. "But everything’s in order." He gestured toward the papers she held. "Read them, you’ll see."

Feeling like a little girl who hadn’t learned the rules, she glanced through the papers again, forcing herself to follow the legal language. For years Eon and seven board members had controlled forty-seven percent of Fennstein stock. Those figures still remained the same except now five percent had been added to Eon’s holdings.

No one except board members – family, Ralph called them – owned any Fennstein stock. After their wedding she and Gary had traded stocks, five percent of his company for five percent of hers, a symbolic gesture they both had mentioned infrequently as the star in the others portfolio. "You have Gary’s stock," she stated, the words making positive the thoughts striking her like a knife to the chest.

Eon nodded.

"How did you get it?" The need to know loomed greater than any humiliation the explanation would bring.

While his fellow conspirators doggedly kept their glances from her, Eon grinned. "As a matter of fact your late husband’s attorney called me." He sat back in his chair. "I assure you it’s all perfectly legal. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with the meeting."

She stared, her mind whirling, her temples throbbing. Desperately she shot a look at Russell, but she should have known he’d go underground, fiddle with papers, pretend nothing was happening. Under unexpected pressure, he folded. Ron Fellows wasn’t much better, smiling weakly before looking away. She was on her own.

Eon called for approval of his agenda and all eyes shifted to his end of the table as the appropriate motions were called for and taken.

A drone of voices followed, reciting the dreary facts of day-to-day operations as if a drama hadn’t just taken place. She wanted to throw something, do anything to take the complacent looks from their faces. Instead she looked up to Ralph’s picture. What advice would he have given her? But the blinds were open, and sun blurred his outlines, made dim his eyes. Rising, she said, "If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have work to do." She wouldn't let them see her bleed, wouldn't give them the satisfaction. She needed to get away fast.

Eon nodded, his victorious visage muted.

Suddenly she saw. This wasn’t his doing, mercenary though he might be. It was all Gary’s doing, a dead man had played the final card in a game she should never have entered. It took two prescription sleeping pills before sleep came that night.

During the following weeks, Eon and his board swept away all the innovations she had introduced. "No matter how well this ‘Polish woman’s’ book goes," Eon explained, "Fennsteins isn't in the business to publish fiction. We don't need pulchritudinous, licentious, or naked women on our covers; we don't need sex and mayhem and dirty secrets in our pages, we don't need sleaze."

"Winter isn't any of those things," Lisa protested, but no one listened. The vote, starting at seven to five for Eon’s ideas, rapidly became nine and then ten to two, Lisa and Russell the only holdouts. After Winter, which had to be a fluke--the woman certainly couldn't do it again – Fennsteins would no longer publish fiction.

Lisa left with a sense of betrayal and hurt washing over her and solidifying into determination. She would not let them grind her into the dust. A new year was starting, and Lisa would face it head on. In Philadelphia the Mummers were marching, their feathers and furbelows blowing in the wind, symbols of tradition. So what that Eon had bested her, and Gary had stabbed her, and that she missed Carter's soft words and the sham of his love? For too long she had let her personal life interfere with her business life. Now, she wouldn't. A plan was taking place in her mind.

She called Carol Krysnowski.

At the same time, on the west coast the board of Graysons Department Stores met in executive session. Grayson, Sr. and the other five members of the board quietly voted to open a small hardback book section in their department stores. Although none were convinced it was good policy, they all wanted to satisfy the elder Grayson who was mortally ill and who wanted to please his only son, Benjamin Todd Grayson. From a wholesaler they ordered back copies of Grisham, Brown, King, Siddons and Smiley as well as one hundred copies of A Winter Kind of Love.

Chapter 14

She took Carol Krysnowski to her Society Hill row house, wined her and dined her and let Carol admire the art deco interior before she explained about the thoughts that were giving her strength. Sitting in front of the fireplace where gas shot bluish flames above fake logs, a slab of malachite edged with black defining the mantle, she said, "I need you to help me. Eon Smythe and his cronies have decided not to publish any more fiction." She told Carol about the board meeting.

"So I should have had a two book contract, is that what you're telling me?" Carol wheezed, her face reflecting her ire.

"Something like that."

"You mean they're shafting me."
"Sort of. But I have some ideas. Listen to these facts. Eon and his wife had three daughters and two sons," As the music of Rimsky-Korsakoff competed with the rain drumming on the barred windows, she threw out statistics. "Their kids had sixteen more, all married, making something like thirty-eight grand-children and four great-grandchildren, and one great-great-grandchild."

"A fucking dynasty. Excuse the French, but that's what it is. What are you getting at?"

Lisa waved a hand. "Let me finish. Counting the daughters-in-law, and granddaughters-in-law I estimate Eon has at least one hundred women related to him. One hundred women who read the latest best sellers," she repeated.

"Okay, I’ll buy that One hundred is a nice round figure." Carol dipped a non-fat taco chip into salsa and caught the drip with her other hand.

Lisa handed her a napkin.

"So I was born in a shack, lived in a fucking fishing village."

"And I ran away from home once."

"No kidding."

"No kidding. Tell you about it some time."

"Hey, you don't have to bare your soul to me."

Lisa grinned. "I'm not. At least not at this moment. The point is that each of those old men on the board has a raft of women related to him. With your help I plan to take my campaign directly to them." She forced herself to wait and watch while Carol ate two more chips and washed them both down with White Zin before looking up.

"I don't get you," Carol said.

Voice low, Lisa gestured toward the outside. "Did you know that in actual annual inches the rain in Seattle and here in Philadelphia is the same?"

Carol shook her head. "Until Fennsteins sent me on the road, I was never farther west than Albany. What are you getting at?"

"People in Seattle spend a lot of time reading. And, although I don't have any statistics women throughout the country read more than men." And lately Benny's been invading her mind like a one man army, but he was dead and she had to get on with her life. Had to defeat Eon at his games.

"We never talked about anything but the book. But I'm beginning to get what you're hinting at. Your friend Eon has a lot of women in his family." She ran her hands like a comb through her hair. "What do you want me to do?"

"Give a series of parties, expenses on me. Invite Eon's women relatives among others. "

"So I get Mrs. High Brow and her daughter, how will that help?"

"It can’t hurt, especially if you have your fan club on hand."

"You heard about that?" Carol looked pleased.

Lisa nodded. "And we’ll invite others. Celebrities. I want the ladies related to our lovable board members to see famous people lining up for your autograph, and I want them to see what your book is doing for Fennsteins. I also want you to talk about your next book. Whet their appetite so to speak."

"Great. Point the way. As long as I’m riding high, we might as well play out the hand."

"I think you mixed some metaphors."

"Who cares!"

They both laughed.

The laugh came none too soon. The next day at work Lisa found her secretary packing Lisa's personal belongings.

"Excuse me, what are you doing?'

"My Smythe said he would be using this office."

Lisa ran down the hall to the room that had been Eon's as long as she could remember. Stuffy, filled with old photographs and heavy old furniture that had not the cache of antique, it reeked of the past. No one had used antimacassars in sixty years.

Eon looked up from behind his desk and cleared his throat. "To what do I owe this intrusion?"

She came to a stop in front of his desk which sat near a hissing radiator. "Why are you pushing me out of my office?"

His white eyebrows rose. "I object to the word pushing. I have been more than lenient. Take all the time you need."

She shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere. Now, tomorrow or the next day."

"Now, now, Lisa, don't be so emotional. That office has always been the office of the chairman of the board. You know that." He pointed to the occasional chair in front of his desk. "Sit down. I don't like you looming over me like you might hit me. You young people…."

She folded her hands, leaned closer. "You don't need Ralph's office, Eon. You're used to this one."

"But stockholders are used to that one. As you can see this one has a nice view and ample space. You'll be very comfortable here."

"Then you're adamant."

"Decidedly."

She rose. "I expect you'll be moving your furniture. I Certainly don't want it."

He chuckled. "I wasn't planning to let you have it. And if you decide to paint the walls melon-colored or some such thing, I warn you, I'll not tolerate it." He pushed to his feet. "Of course a discreet color…" He smiled nastily.

She started out, but paused in the doorway. "I never favored melon as a color, Eon. I've never favored putting things off either. I'll be ready to move in here tomorrow morning. Make sure your belongings are gone."

Leaving Eon sputtering, she rushed down the hall to her own office. During the next few hours, she, her secretary and two clerks sorted, packed and prepared to move.

In the morning, the office was clean of every scrap belonging to her plus Ralph's picture.

Eon made her put it back, proving that it was part of the company, not her personal belonging.

It was only the beginning. In the new office, which she had painted and refurbished in light colors and woods, she found that any and all decisions she had made within the last year had been countermanded.

"What do you mean, I can't use the company cars?" she asked, a blush staining her cheeks

"New policy, Ms. Jacobs. I gotta call Mr. Smythe for an okay first."

She could imagine Eon snickering with delight. She shook her head. "No, just call me a cab."

It was more important than ever that the parties with Carol would be a huge success. It would only be the first step toward winning the company back. Too many people had slapped her down, and no way was she going to lay there in the gutter for them to tramp on. She called Carol with additional ideas and personally sent hand-lettered invitations to Joan Rivers, Rosie O’Donnel, Barbara Walters and other people whose attendance would electrify everyone. Carol's agent notified the press, Lisa got word to the literary bunch, and both were delighted at how many celebrity women wanted to shake Carol’s hand, get her autograph, and ask about her next book

At the first party, wall to wall glittering and glitzy people mingling with the bookish, bespectacled crowd made it more successful than Lisa had anticipated. A respectable number of women related to Fennstein board members attended and were enthusiastic, wondering why Fennsteins hadn't given such parties in the past. In one way or another, all Eon's kin signaled that they were impressed. The hotel suite was lavish, the catered food scrumptious, and Carol swept through rooms as if she had grown up doing it, her occasional rough speech pardoned by everyone who had read or wanted to read her sexy book. She wowed celebrities and the Fennstein ladies alike with off-hand remarks that she'd spent hours composing.

The next day bitchy and flattering articles about Carol appeared in the papers and magazines. Hollywood made an overture, the New York Times mentioned her and her book, and the Wall Street Journal quoted the number of books she’d sold.

The other five parties were equally successful, and Eon's relatives attended them all.

After the fiasco of the company cars, and further humiliation in the executive dining room, Lisa seldom went to the office. Still, she talked to Fellows on the phone, saw Russell occasionally and generally kept up with what was happening, her secretary as well as some of the other employees keeping her informed.

Six months later when Eon scheduled a board meeting for nine on a Monday morning, Lisa returned. Quietly, slipped into an empty chair. Her photograph, which had faced Ralph’s, no longer graced the wall. Eon, sitting at the head of the table, never glanced her way but began the session with his usual sour asides. The ancient steam heat radiators, hidden behind wood paneling, blasted hot air. The windows steamed over.

Lisa glanced around, forcing Russell’s gaze to touch hers before he turned his attention to Eon, demanding the others to acknowledge her. No one except Ron Fellows even looked her way.

The business of the company droned on and on. Dull, repetitious, boring.

When they arrived at New Business, Lisa raised her hand. Again, she'd had trouble sleeping all night, this time the future, not the past keeping her awake. Still, she felt energetic and ready and she knew she looked well, her hair radiant, her clothes stylish not staid. Russell, when he wasn't surrounded by Eon and his cronies, said she brought class to the board.

For a few seconds Eon said nothing, his gaze making a quick trip around the table before he recognized her.

She smiled cordially. "Gentlemen, I’m sure you’re all aware of the phenomenal success of Ms. Krysnowski’s novel, "A Winter Kind of Love. It’s done exceedingly well, not only in the northeast, but nationwide."

A few men admitted their wives had read the book.

Lisa took the latest statistics from her briefcase and passed them around "These figures, just off the wire, are staggering. But as good as 'A Winter Kind of Love' was, I believe her next book may be even more successful." She pulled manuscript pages from her briefcase and passed copies around. "'With Body and Mind' loses no time getting started. I knew you’d want to see it."

As she quoted reviewers of Winter, several board members flipped through the pages, commenting to one another in quick asides. She heard murmurs about the parties, talk about the book. Adam Schulman, apparently caught up in the current manuscript skimmed rapidly, never looking up.

Eon cleared his throat. "Gentlemen."

Sheepishly, half the members gave him their attention, the rest continued thumbing through the typed pages.

Lisa directed her gaze toward Eon. "I won’t take much more time. Inasmuch as the board decided not to do any more novels, I hardly think anyone would object if I publish this second book, and whatever else Carol writes, under my own imprint, Lisa Fennstein Presents. My money, my time, nothing to do with Fennstein Publishing." She sent around papers attesting to the legality of her proposal.

Eon gestured impatiently. "If you use the Fennstein name, you’re in a peck of trouble."

Heads bobbed in unison.

She managed to look surprised. "I’ll use Jacobs. I can’t see how anyone can object to that." She permitted a small smile. "I know it’s a little premature, but here are the projected figures for the second and third book." She passed around more papers.

Adam Schulman, flipped over the last page of Carol’s chapter and looked straight at Lisa. "Do you have the option for the third novel, too?"

"Sorry, I don’t, but I understand it has more going for it and it can’t help being a bigger seller than either of the others."

"I’m not an expert on stuff like this, but I’d read it." He looked ready to fight any one who challenged him.

Ron Fellows shuffled his pages together and looking at Schulman said, "I see no reason why we can’t back Lisa on this."

Russell Sanderson said, "I think we should rethink our position." In a loud voice he said, "I move that Fennsteins take on the Krysnowski novels."

Within ten minutes a vote was taken, eleven members agreeing that Fennsteins’ would publish all of Carol Krysnowskis books and in addition seriously consider other fiction.

Twenty minutes later the meeting was adjourned.

Lisa called the good news to Carol.

"Congratulations, I guess. If I were you I would have stayed with Lisa Jacobs Presents. No more Eon, no more board, no more troubles."

"But there’s more involved," Lisa said talking about Ralph, about the company, about her own involvement and not making any of it clear. Something deep inside was driving her, and she knew where she had to go. Wrapping up the conversation quickly, she called Russell who agreed to meet her for dinner.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" he asked in his usual, slow, deliberate way when they were seated in the newest small classy restaurant in Haddonfield in the New Jersey suburbs.

"My appreciation," she said, perusing the wine list, "and my desire to get out of the city. Your motion today came at the right time." She smiled at him. "What do you say I order champagne and an appetizer before dinner?"

"We don’t have to." An ala carte menu always had him pinching his pennies.

"Then that settles it, we will."

They were finishing the pate maison when she mentioned her desire to unseat Eon.

Russell smoothed the white tablecloth and rearranged the silver.

When he said nothing, she said, "I don’t intend you to lead the charge." Rapidly, she ordered sole angelique for them both, artichoke hearts, mushrooms tarragon, and green salad with vinaigrette dressing.

When they had done the meal justice, she added, "They have creme de menthe mousse, chocolate decadence, and bread pudding with caramel sauce."

"Nothing for me, please."

"I have a feeling I should order all three. Actually, I want some of your stock.". As you know, Eon’s forcing me. I need your help."

He stirred sugar into his coffee, concentrating on the task before asking, "What do you intend for me to do?" he asked, one word following the other in an agonizingly slow fashion.

"Sell me enough stock to give me controlling interest."

"I hadn't planned on selling." He stirred sugar into coffee.

"It would have saddened Ralph immeasurably if he knew what Eon has done. The going rate is eighteen; I'll offer you twenty."

Russell said nothing.

She looked past the tiny vase with its one yellow dahlia and trailing greenery to the next table. The couple were young as she but obviously not as affluent. No bucket of champagne graced their table, no appetizers or salads made way for fancy entrees and trendy desserts. They took time twirling their spaghetti--the least expensive item on the menu--liberally sprinkled it with lots of parmesan, and washed it down with water The woman’s short-sleeved wine-red dress, obviously new, and obviously not costly, nevertheless flattered her dark blonde beauty. A dazzling white shirt and discrete tie didn’t do much to improve the man’s suit – off the rack, old, and wrinkled. If Benny had lived would their life together been similar?

Russell sipped his coffee and then looked straight at her. "I won’t take twenty."

She set her napkin on the table. So it would all end here. No way could she work under Eon. "I can't go any higher."

Russell shook his head and fussed with his shirt cuffs. "I would want the going rate only."

She stared at him, his meaning slowly trickling in, astounding her. A smile slowly took over her mouth, her face, her eyes. "I can’t believe this. You won’t take a profit?"

"No." He touched his napkin to his lips. "But I’ll only sell as much as you absolutely need. Not a bit more." He cleared his throat. "As I said, Ralph was my friend, and I've always been very – fond – of you."

"Thank you, Russell." She knew if she gave him a chance, he'd say more, propose marriage, talk engagement. She didn't give him the chance. Rushing him from the restaurant, she talked non-stop all the way back across the bridge into Philadelphia. Russell was speechless by the time he dropped her off at Society Hill.

She could hardly wait for the next board meeting, but when it came it seemed anti-climactic, Eon leaving word that he would be on vacation all month. His wife had always wanted to see Tahiti, and he wasn't getting any younger. Lisa felt let down, but the other board members were gracious, shaking her hand, yesing her, giving discrete suggestions. She knew from then on they'd be on her side.

Before she fell asleep that night she recalled the young couple in the restaurant. Neither one's appearance trumpeted success, but neither apparently cared. They lived in a self-contained world, smiling at one another and communicating in a way that brought Lisa envy and sadness. Would she ever know that sweet, blazing feeling of oneness again?

Chapter 15

A few months after she put down the palace coup, Lisa returned to San Francisco. The city by the bay, which so often hid under a blanket of fog, sparkled in the sunshine. Summer temperatures soared. The Victorian houses, the cable cars, the ferry to Sausalito were the same, but nothing of her old life remained. Thankfully, the West Coast Fennstein offices didn't remind her of Gary or the life she had led with him, but his company’s stock, along with the Dow, kept rising,. The five percent he’d given her had doubled in worth. She used it to redo the house, make it hers, not theirs. No longer did her stomach cramp or her eyes blur remembering how she’d devoted herself to him, taking him for treatments, holding his hand when he was low, being there for him. Then he’d slapped her down. From his viewpoint she might have reacted in much the same way. She hoped not. Although nothing about Gary hurt anymore, elation, anticipation and true happiness escaped her. Touched with shame, she avoided intimacy, telling herself Carter had lived a more enormous lie than she. If he had loved her he would have wanted to talk to her, communicate his hurt and through talk make sense of what had happened. Instead he’d discarded her like a mistress he’d never really wanted. She felt used.

Most of the time work occupied her time and her mind. In a flurry of activity, she visited the bookstores where Fennsteins' volumes filled many shelves. She gave personnel parties, shaking up the structure, moving people like pieces on a chess board as she shamelessly wooed book sellers. Extending her social life, she went to the opera house, and gallery openings, and went down the peninsula to parties in Palo Alto and Menlo Park. She became the latest "catch" for Atherton hostesses, none of whom were aware of the scandal Gary apparently had kept to himself and his attorney. In Philadelphia, except for Carol, Lisa's life had become sterile, bereft of ties, her fight with Eon uppermost. The Society Hill house had been a way station, not a place to call home.

Now her West Coast friends, thinking Gary's death had devastated her, rallied around, and for long periods contentment was hers. Then at odd times the past sneaked in robbing her of sleep, driving her during the day, giving an edginess to the outward equanimity she presented to the world. "I’m building a support system again," she said during infrequent visits to a counselor and gratefully attended every book related event in the area.

At the annual West Coast Book Fair, she forced herself to be as bright and friendly as that long ago article in US News and World Report said she was. Editors, agents, publishers, people she had worked with for years surrounded her booth and the newer people hung on her words. She began to feel rejuvenated, replenished.

The public competed for prizes, bargains, and discounted books, all in a pulsing, loud murmur of voices, music, videos, and computer-generated sound. Most everyone wanted to know about Carol Krysnowski who had turned down all invitations to hole up in her new house in Vermont. Behind Lisa, on orderly shelves the usual staid Fennstein offerings wore dark jackets and somber names and gave an appearance of gentile respectability to the Seduction book and Carol’s novel which blazed brightly. "She apologizes for not being here, but she’s home, busy writing,. Her second book will be coming out this year."

A youngish man, skirting the pyramid of Carol’s books, said "I saw her when she was out here on her book-signing tour." He touched the gold cover featuring red lips pouting beneath the title. "She’s quite a person."

Lisa heard the word "character." at the same moment she saw the man’s press badge and the camera slung around his neck. Smiling, she said, "Careful, you’re talking about Fennsteins’ fair-haired darling. Carol added whipped cream to our chocolate."

Returning her smile, the man held out his hand. "Steve Fong, San Francisco Analyst. I’m the editor." He handed her a card. "I reviewed her first book."

Lisa gave him a stack of materials including Fennsteins’ catalogue. She added a small bound booklet to the pile. "This is the beginning of Carol’s next book". A man young enough to have a camera slung around his neck and wearing a T-shirt that said Love, Nothing Less would appreciate a story with its sexually social overtones. To the pile of handouts she added a glossy about Carol. "This should rate Fennsteins another mention at least."

A pridefull look slid across his face. "We don’t have the kind of circulation the Chronicle does, but we keep current. I reviewed her book because it was a local best seller. Mostly we report on local subjects and people. When Planet Hollywood opened we were there, and also when Nordstroms opened an outlet we covered it" He set his camera on the counter and leafed through the material Lisa had given him. "How about if I interview you? Publisher comes west, that kind of thing."

"I doubt it would be right for your paper."

"Why not? You have a West Coast office, and I have the angle, textbook publisher goes commercial." He blushed slightly and straightened. "I could show how your serious books sell in the Bay Area versus the novel you’re touting."

She grinned and shook her head. "I don’t think touting is the proper word."

"Sorry." He looked through the view finder. "Mind if I snap a couple pictures? Publisher at work. That sort of thing."

His boyish smile had an enchanting quality, so much like Benny’s. Strange that she should be reminded of him now. So many years and they'd just been kids. Laughing, she shook her head, shrugged and said, "Why not?"

He began clicking and questioning, no embarrassment now, nothing but a professionalism that pleased her. How long had she been head of Fennsteins? Was it true that she'd lived in California, been born here?

Facing the camera, she answered "Yes," and, "Yes, again.".

Where had she met Ralph Fennstein?

"He was a friend and mentor I met in Seattle."

He adjusted the lens. "You must have been very young. Did you go to school in Seattle? Get a degree there?" He moved around the counter, clicking pictures from various angles.

People always made so much of her youth. "I took a high school equivalency test and some college courses in Seattle."

He smiled. "And then married Fennstein."

Why hesitate, she’d been through this before. "Right."

"And then he died."

She nodded. "And I inherited the company." Why wasn’t he taking notes?

"But you call yourself Fennstein-Jacobs." He pocketed a spool of spent film.

Her heart did a skip and jump. "Jacobs for my second husband. Look, you either have a darn good memory, or you’re taping."

He brushed the hair from his forehead. "I guess I should have warned you. I keep forgetting that."

"Turn if off now and consider the interview done, over." She turned aside and began stacking books that didn’t need stacking.

"Sorry, I got carried away."

"You can say that again."

"Will it help if I tell you I loved A Winter Kind of Love?"

He looked so engaging, that she had to smile.

"Tell you what, I’ll review this first chapter of Krysnowski’s new book for the Analyst. I mean the private bookstores read my stuff and take it to heart."

"Well…."

"It can’t hurt

"Just don’t say anything about me that’s not true."

"I can’t; I was taping, remember?" He winked and began gathering his equipment together.

"So," she muttered as he walked away. She should have said no from the beginning. If a reporter started snooping, would Carter have covered their tracks that well?

The next day she found a back copy of the San Francisco Analyst in the library. Turning past the advertisements and the personal column, she found the article about Carol’s first book and read it with admiration. The guy was good. No use calling out the bird dogs. Deliberately she put the semi interview behind her.

***
Four days later a woman from Northwest Heritage Press zigzagged down the aisle between the booths, barely managing to avoid the meandering public and calling out to Lisa when she neared Fennsteins' display, "Telephone."

Unpacking a box of promotional materials she’d had sent out from Philadelphia, Lisa looked up. "What?"

"There’s a wall phone next to our booth."

Whoever would call her there? "Keep an eye on things," she said to the young woman helping her and wended her way to the wall phone.

Disregarding the graffiti on the wall and the steady stream of people going toward the rest rooms in the corner, she picked up the receiver. People, books, and the paraphernalia of bookdom was everywhere. It wasn’t the best place for a conversation. "Hello."

"Ms. Fennstein?"

She could barely hear. From a nearby booth a video dramatizing Northwest Heritage Press blared the advantages of regional advertising. Across the way a poet spit out words to the rhythm of a drum. "What?"

"Is this Lisa Fennstein?"

She pressed the phone to her left ear and put her hand over her right. "Fennstein-Jacobs."

"Right. I know this may sound strange, but were you Lisa Southwick? I used to know a girl called Lisa Southwick. I wondered if it might be you."

"Well, yes, my maiden name was Southwick."

"Lisa Southwick, after all these years."

"It’s been a long time since anyone called me that. Who are you."

"Benjamin Todd Grayson."

A sudden weakness hit her legs, ran like electricity up her spine. "I don’t know anyone with that name." It couldn’t be Benny; he was dead.

"You used to call me Benny. You know, Benny from Seattle."

She leaned against the wall, unsure that her legs would support her. Was she hallucinating, dreaming? Everything seemed normal. Publishers, chain bookstore representatives, independent owners, authors, agents and the reading public streamed by, congregated around and in booths, laughed, talked, shouted, and shoved. The public competed for prizes, bargains, and discounted books, all in a pulsing, loud murmur of voices, music, videos, and computer-generated sound. It broke over her, thumping louder than the thrum of her heart in her ears. "Benny’s dead," she murmured, the horror of that stripped hospital bed and empty closet slamming into her again. "I talked to hospital personnel. Just who are you, and why are you doing this to me?"

"Lisa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, but it’s Benny, and I’m very much alive."

She fidgeted with the telephone cord, her rapidly beating heart refusing to calm down. The voice sounded vaguely like the one she remembered, but deeper, the timber unfamiliar.
"Lisa, are you there?" the voice asked, solicitous, kind. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Was it possible? If only she could recall that day without trauma. If he really was Benny, why did they tell her he was dead? Or did they? Or did she just assume…? "If you're Benny, what happened? Where did you go, what did you do?" Her voice rose, cracked, began to shatter. A trembling began in her legs, swept throughout her body. If this was a joke, it was a bad one. Could Eon? No, he had bowed out, hardly coming to the office any more. Maybe she was being paranoid. As people looked over at her, a question in their eyes, she put a smile on her face, waved to indicate all was well.

The voice came again, low, concerned. "I’m sorry. This must be a shock. My parents traced me to Seattle and when I got hurt, they intervened. Please believe me."

She took a breath and let it out in a rush. ""I want to, but…" She took another breath and said firmly, "Benny would have gotten a message to me."

"Lisa, believe me, I tried, but they told me you were gone. Lisa, I tried more than once to find you, but you had disappeared. What happened to you?"

Whoever it was, the voice rang with sincerity. If this was really Benny, he was alive and on the other end of the line. The thought, with all its ramifications set her head to throbbing. With fingertips she massaged her forehead as the book fair and the people – everything--retreated. "I couldn’t stay in that building alone," she whispered. "I had to leave." She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight to hold back tears. Oh, please let it really be him, sweet and kind, the Benny I remember.

The woman from the Northwest Heritage booth called, "Are you all right?"

Opening her eyes, Lisa nodded and whispered into the phone, cradling it now as he used to cradle her. "Benny, it is you, isn't it?"

"It's really me."

"Where are you? How did you find me?"

"I saw your picture in the paper. I’m on Market and unless I’m mistaken the Book Fair is at the Mosconi Center, between Mission and Folsom and Third and Fourth."

"Yes.."

"I can come over if it’s all right with you."

"I, ah…."

"Lisa, I have to see you."

She looked around, put herself back in the present. What would it mean, this dip into the past? "I want to see you, too."

"I could be there in ten, fifteen minutes."

No, this was too soon. She needed time to assimilate it. "Later would be better."

"Whatever you say."

Her voice echoed her excitement. "Like in a half hour." How could she wait any longer than that?

He chuckled. "I’ll be there."

She caught the lilt in his voice and her own lightened while the weight on her shoulders let up. "Look for me at the Fennstein booth."

"Lisa?"

"Yes?"

She heard the deep, quick intake of breath, remembered the sweetness of his kiss.

"Nothing. I…. See you soon. Okay?"

"Okay."

And then he was gone.

Slowly, in a daze, she started back to the Fennstein booth. The business of the Book Fair continued, and she maneuvered through it in a fog, words like print run, cover art, and mild bookish jokes, washing over her. Images from the past materialized, shimmered momentarily, merged, and disappeared. Benny was alive! The thought was too much to absorb.

Back at the Fennstein booth she told the young woman from the San Francisco office, "Take a break, a long one."

"Really?"

"Yes, a long one." She needed to be alone when Benny arrived.

Hands shaking, she inspected herself in a pocket mirror, added color to her cheeks and ran a comb through her hair, its burnished tint disatisfying

and dull to her critical eye. Would he think her vastly changed? Would he be? They had grown, matured. Would the attraction and need that had driven them, taken their youth and sent them to planning a future together, would that survive?

Trembling inside, she waited. Undoubtedly he’d come from the nearest street door and walk down the aisle to the right of her. Making busy work, she readjusted books and displays and looked over her shoulder, down the corridor. The day was unseasonably warm, sunlight occasionally trickling through cloud cover, forming islands of light in San Francisco's gray. People poured into the streets and many of them found their way into the Book Fair.

Two elderly women stopped to browse, commenting on the deplorable shape of things in the present publishing world. With relief she watched them tire of the display and go on. When a serious buyer demanded her attention, she could hardly contain her frustration. The man was leading a workshop about the latest fiction offerings. Could he get a couple dozen copies of Krysnowski’s book at a discount, and could she recommend any non-fiction that would be as easy to read and perchance complimentary, something about the geographical area where the "Winter" characters did their thing?

Barely surviving that long and rambling sentence, Lisa worked rapidly, offering ideas and alternative suggestions, showing him titles, writing down others, hoping to hurry him on his way. She didn’t need the intellectual challenge now. She was handing him the notes she had made when she became aware that a man stood at the far edge of the counter and was watching her and had for some time. In her peripheral vision she made out a blur of beige pants, darker sweater, pale cream shirt.

A warm tide moved up her neck and spread over her face. It had to be Benny. Memory prodded her. Brandy, Boss, the waterfront, the Pike Place Market. Oh, god, she wasn’t ready for this. Not now, not with a customer demanding so much of her.

Turning, she looked into a pair of startlingly blue eyes, and for a moment she was really in the past, and Benny was regarding her that first night, and she was looking back. He was taller than she remembered, not quite as golden, but amazingly handsome, his hair still curly, errant locks still falling over his forehead. As she continued to stare, the mouth, that had twisted up in laughter more than it had turned down in sorrow or pain, smiled at her. He was a man now, with a man’s frame and lines, but he was Benny, gloriously, unmistakably Benny. She sketched a nod, her legs rubbery, her head light.

"Hello, Lisa."

His voice, laced with the timber of adulthood and without the crackling sounds of a poor telephone connection, reached her like a touch of the hand, familiarity in every nuance. She wanted to cry out, run to him, throw herself at him. "I’ll be with you in a minute," she said in her most business like voice before she turned back to the man she’d been helping, not really seeing him nor hearing what he said. When he paused, abruptly, she handed him her card. "If there’s anything else, just call the San Francisco office."

He looked faintly surprised and then pocketing the card said, "Thanks, you’ve been very helpful."

As he walked away, she turned and like a long-distance swimmer, fought the current to the opposite counter. "Hello," she said and felt the tears smart her eyes. "Darn, I promised myself I wasn’t going to do that. Benny, is it really you?"

He nodded, and said, his own voice husky. "You look great, Lisa, and it’s been so long."

Silently, she regarded him. So much to say, where to begin? "I…"

He started speaking at the same time.

She laughed in concert with him, and the years in between began to fade away.

He captured her hands. "You first," he said. It sounded as if he had said he loved her. They had never been niggardly with the word in those long ago days.

His grip was firm, dry and warm. She leaned into the counter, close enough to feel his breath on her face. "What are you doing in San Francisco. Do you live here?"

"I own Grayson’s Department Store, inherited from my father."

"I know the chain, and the slogan, Better Clothes for Better People."

He shrugged. "I wasn’t responsible for that. No, I don’t live here, I live in Seattle. And you?" He released her hands but looked as if he wanted to kiss them.

She said, "I live both here and Philadelphia."

The smile momentarily left his eyes. "Your husband here or in Philadelphia?
"He died last year."

"Oh." He sounded relieved.

"And you?" She looked deep into his eyes again.

"We're getting a divorce."

She smiled, and he smiled back. Again spontaneous laughter came in concert.

Two women picked through the handout materials and one called, "Miss tell me about Krysynowski’s next book. I heard she was doing a sequel."

"Not really," Lisa said, turning away, aware of Benny in every fiber of her being. The women moved on, but were replaced by two younger, more aggressive women, ones who needed instant answers.

"I’m sorry," she said to Benny as she helped the ladies and then was engulfed by a group of giggling teenagers doing a project for their library science class.

"How about meeting tonight when this place closes?" he suggested, as she hurried back and forth.

She nodded. "I’ll meet you outside the door."

"Right."

Next time she looked, he was gone, and the hours until five stretched like taffy, while those few minutes with Benny remained sweet as sugar.

At four thirty, she boxed books, tidied the booth and at five she hurried out. Already the sidewalks were crowded with people leaving or passing by. She spotted him no where. Perhaps if she moved out of the shadows. Not wanting to get caught up in a conversation, she edged by two women from Doubleday. But the ever persistent agent, David Goldstone, waylaid her. Now that Fennsteins was doing Carol’s next books. they should talk about it. What about dinner?

She heard the words without them really registering. "I ‘m sorry."

"Later tonight?"

"No, really."

"Tomorrow?"
"I don’t have my calendar. Call my office, and we’ll set up a meeting." What was he saying?

She watched his eyebrows climb dangerously high. He didn’t like being put off, and she would probably pay for it in later negotiations. She checked her watch. Ten minutes past the hour. Where was Benny? In the past neither he nor she had ever been overly concerned about time, a ten or fifteen minutes leeway meant on time. Perhaps he hadn’t changed. Or maybe her sentimental yearnings were something he didn’t want to deal with now that he’d seen her. Carol had called her hopelessly romantic. "A dynamite businesswoman like you, and you’re all mush inside."

Lisa walked to the corner. If he came, he’d see her from all angles. Still, if he entered the building, expecting to catch her before she left Fennsteins display, he’d never spot her. She hurried back to the door. Why hadn’t she been more explicit?

She glanced at her watch, and a sick feeling invaded her. Twenty-three minutes after the hour. She should have known it was too good to be true. Face it, he wasn’t coming. He was probably very married, and out for a fling and then had reconsidered it. Grimly, she began the walk to the corner where she could catch a cab. Life had a way of throwing dirt on precious memories, muddying them beyond recognition. She had to get on with life and not be caught in pity or blame, but to be so blasted successful nothing would ever hurt again, ever.

"Excuse me," she said and edged by two women. A hand on her arm stopped her and as she whirled around, Benny said in her ear, "I waited at the wrong exit."

She turned, was in his arms, was hugging him; he was hugging her back, and she didn’t care that people turned to watch, to smile, to shake their heads, to comment. Benny picked her up, swung her around, and she was laughing, and they were hugging again, and it was so good. Spring bloomed everywhere, wondrous love beckoned, and all the years in between faded away in the rapture of the moment. Neither one saw the boy who watched them with down-turned mouth and sadder eyes.

They rushed, laughing, down the street, arms encircling waists, hips touching, voices joined.

The boy went back to his hotel room to brood.

Chapter 16

Walking with Benny along the street, lost in the wonder, Lisa said nothing. His arm circled her shoulders, hers found his waist. As they crossed the street, the light changed half-way, cars speeding to make it through, they running. "Hurry," Benny urged, propelling her along, his eyes merry. She laughed, and as they trotted to the curb, he joined in, a joyful sound that reminded her of the past, their laughter erupting spontaneously as it had then.

On the sidewalk, she caught her breath, eyes sparkling, color high and lost herself again in his look, those intense eyes drinking her in while people shoved by. Rush hour, buses filled to the gunwales belching fumes, spewing forth humanity and roaring on, leaving passengers who were too busy to notice her and Benny. Alone in the city.

At the narrow facade of a basement bar and grill, Benny hesitated. Elton John’s music spilled into the street and a darkened interior beckoned as a man pushed through the swinging door. Benny raised his eyebrows questioningly. Lisa, aware of his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, took the two steps down and entered ahead of him, pausing in the entryway. The smell of hops and fried food permeated the room, and a sprinkling of customers lined the bar, mostly men in suits, loosening their ties, unbuttoning their collars. Bowls of popcorn sat on the tables and a small spread of finger food crowded the far end of the bar. The quiet banter of Happy Hour rose above the canned music.

"Over there?" Lisa indicated the empty booths facing the bar. Was this really happening, was she really here, the past coming to life again?

"Fine. I’ll get us a drink. Gin and tonic okay?"

"Fine." Across the bare board floor, she slipped into the middle booth. A beer sign behind the bar turned the bartender’s white shirt blue, and Benny’s hand, as he reached for the glasses, appeared as unreal as seeing him again.

He set the glasses down in front of her and stood quietly, regarding her patiently, and belatedly she scooted over, realizing he meant to sit next to her, not opposite. His hip and the full length of his leg brushed against her as he settled into place, a man full grown. What did she really know of him?

"How many years has it been?" he asked, sober-faced, handing her a napkin, placing one under his own glass.

The new lines, etched lightly in his brow and radiating like sunbursts from the corners of his eyes, couldn’t hide the Benny she remembered. "Too long."

His gaze flew to meet hers, startling her with its intensity. Those days had assumed the aura of a midsummer night’s dream, but is a dream reality? She looked away. "We were just kids, really. And we spent a very short time together."

"But," he said, waiting until she turned his way again, catching her gaze and holding it. "That short time came at a very crucial period in our lives. You can't deny its impact."

Her eyelashes fluttered in concert with her heart, and looking down she caught sight of the gin and tonic which had never been her drink. Willing her hand not to shake, she picked up the glass and sipped. The past lay like a jewel at the bottom of a swirling sea, and so much water had beaten against the shore since then that she had to tread lightly. She set the glass down lifted a hand in mute appeal, needing to share that devastating moment in the hospital and needing to say the words she had never uttered to anyone. Shaking her head as if to ward off the memory, she whispered, "I thought you were dead, and I wanted to die."

He put his hand over hers. "I never meant to hurt you." Again that look, those eyes she remembered so well, glittering with the blue of dawn, the azure of the sea. This time he looked away first.

She toyed with her glass. "What happened to you?"

"Where to begin?" He glanced at her, his eyes full of emotion, frothy as a mountain stream. "I missed you so damn much at first. You were my friend, my companion, my…." The stream bubbled, foamed. "lover."

She slipped her hand into his. The wonder of their young love was weaving a magic spell, she remembering the boy, seeing flickering images of him in the man who laced his fingers with hers. She looked at him much as she used to do, teasingly, the look provocative in its innocence, but now she realized what she was doing.

He smiled, his eyes once more doing an inventory of her face. "You’re very beautiful." The words rumbled pleasantly.

"You're not so bad yourself."

He squeezed her hand but moved slightly away, as if needing to distance himself from the present. Was he, too, asking himself the hard questions?

Retrieving her hand, she pressed her back to the corner of the booth and looked out to the shadowy room where extra light leaked in only when someone left or entered. A place of dim light and dark shadow seemed wildly appropriate, the people on the periphery, featureless, background.

"My parents found me and took me home. When I was well enough to know what happened, I was back in Connecticut, enrolled in school. A few months later, I hocked my sports gear, bought a plane ticket and flew to Seattle. But no one knew what had happened to you. Brandy said she'd seen you at the Seattle Center. After that the trail went dead. I was hanging around 'our building' when a detective hired by my parents found me. The same day I was hauled back to Connecticut again."

"Your parents were rich?"

"I suppose. I went to private schools, camp, that sort of thing. This time when they got me back, they put me under what they called house arrest. No privileges. No friends. A tutor who doubled as a guard. I played it cool, going along with them, but the next summer, when I was supposed to be at a sports camp…" His mouth twisted slightly. "where they were determined to make me into a rugged, true blue, wave the flag man, I gave the counselors the slip and went to Modesto looking for you. This time when they caught up with me, my parents laid down the law. They made it clear, any more pissing off the golden opportunities they were handing me, and I was out." He shrugged.

"So you stayed."

"They made it difficult to do anything else."

"Why did you leave the first time?"

"A series of stupid things. My parents were good people. They just didn't understand me. What happened was my fault as much as theirs. Dad was old school; I wasn't. Mother went along with him. I felt left out, helpless. So I rebelled."

"But eventually?"

"I was tired of fighting and let Dad convince me to get on with my life as he saw it." A small sigh escaped his lips.

Lisa touched his hand, lightly, fleetingly. "Did they know about me?"

Benny smiled ruefully. "Dad shouted, called me names, and without meaning to put a guilt trip on me for scaring Mom."

"And your mother?"

"We never told her. He said it would kill her. Now, I'm not so sure. Not long ago they both died in a plane crash."

"And you inherited a chain of department stores, and got married."

"In reverse order. Both were a big mistake. She was Miss Junior League, Bryn Mawr and all that. She didn’t understand why merchandising bored me. I’ve been thinking of selling them and doing some of the things you and I used to talk about. Before the plane crash, I convinced Dad to put a book section in Grayson's."

"Remember how we were going to read all the books in the library and see the world, too." she murmured.

His smile was broad. "On a tramp steamer."

"Go to the ancient sites, find lost civilizations and write about them."

"And read books any time of the day or night." His expression full of bemused, wonder, he sipped his drink, set it down and faced her again. "Tell me about yourself."

She began slowly, needing him to understand about Ralph, their relationship and her path into knowledge and self-assurance. Making that time as bright and clean as it had been, she explained, the telling spinning out the time so that the dinner hour came and went while she talked. Midway she paused while Benny filled plates with buffalo wings,, shrimp in cocktail sauce, and focaccio bread dripping with butter. Eating and drinking, she continued the story, hearing his murmured comments as accolades while he indicated his understanding and sympathy often. "There was never anything sexual between Ralph and me. It's bothered me that few people really believe or understand that."

"I do."

She wanted to throw herself into his arms in gratitude. "So now I have a publishing company and travel around and do all the things people do."

"Like get married."

"Yes." She hesitated briefly. "Gary was a workaholic, and because I was devoted to Ralph’s company – I really love the profession--I thought marriage to Gary would work. It didn’t." Again, she hesitated, wondering what else to say. "Then he got cancer and died a year ago."

"Sorry. That must have been rough."

Realizing he had misread her hesitation, she blushed. "Sometimes I wonder why we married."

He put his hand over hers again. "You and I didn’t do very well in the marriage sweepstakes, did we? My wife couldn’t understand a damn thing I said, or did. We stuck it out for the sake of Josh, who’s now sixteen, but lately we both realized we’re not doing him one damn bit of good."

"Does that mean you're getting a divorce?"

"Now it does."

So he hadn't been thinking of it before. Or had he? "Is she in Seattle?"

"We both are, but I moved out some time ago. Josh moves back and forth between us. How about you and Gary?" He rubbed her hand against his cheek.

"We lived in San Francisco."

He kissed the back of her hand. "But now you’re in Philly, I’m in Seattle, and Sheila will move back East I suppose after we straighten things out." He held her hand held tight against his chest. "For me, Seattle is home."

"I have to move back and forth with my work." To cover her suspicions about his relationship with his wife and her own embarrassment about her own secret life, she pulled her hand back and busied herself scooping up the last of the shrimp.

"You've become awfully quiet," Benny said after a while.

"Hungry I guess."

He frowned. "Are you involved with someone else, is that it?"

She wiped her lips with a cocktail napkin. "No."

"There for a minute…." He shrugged and finished his highball. "I think I need another drink. You ready for a refill?"

She nodded.

As he started to get up, she put her hand on his arm. "All this happened so suddenly…."

"I know."

How could she ever tell him about Carter? What had happened had seared deeply, burning still, shaming her. But it was in a past she wanted to forget, Benny wasn’t. She said softly, "As far as being involved I’m very much alone."

"I’m glad." His gaze ate into her, and the words echoed in her mind after he went to the bar. When he returned, he sat quietly, occasionally smiling at her. The music had softened, dipped into the far past, pleasant melodies, prettier words, less blatant than the rock and roll that had preceded it. "I don’t want to lose you again, Lisa, and if I have anything to do with it, I'm not going to."

"I don’t want to lose you either." Awareness shot through her, of him, of the place, of the day that had developed in such scalp-tingling ways. The booths in front and behind had filled and a sprinkling of customers hunched over the tables, more at the bar. All the stools were filled.

Benny told her about the Grayson stores, branches on both coasts, a large one in Dallas, another in Chicago, two or three smaller stores in the heartland. "Sheila likes the money they bring in, and she's tried to steer Josh toward merchandising."

"Is he interested?"
"Too early to tell."

"How will Sheila take it when you talk divorce?"

"Like a bitch."

Silence followed.

Benny motioned to the young woman who was moving now between the bar and the booths, taking and delivering orders.

"Two more?" she asked, tray balanced against her hip.

Benny nodded, and Lisa said quickly, "Make mine a margarita." She glanced at Benny. "I don’t really like gin and tonic."

"Why didn’t you say?"

"It wasn’t important." He was.

The barmaid collected the dirty glasses. "Shall I start a tab, sir?"

"Yes," he muttered and turned back to Lisa.

Again that look. Quite possibly they would get drunk that night, if not from the drinks from the glances shared.

Benny leaned closer. "Come with me to Seattle. I need to walk with you down those streets again, I need…."

The intensity of the words, of the look, shook her. She was falling, coming down from a vast height and he was there to catch her, and all she wanted were his arms around her. She put her hands on his lips. "Shhh." And then slowly, she let her fingers move over his cheeks, down his chin, over the planes she had once known so well. His skin was smooth with only a suggestion of stubble, and as her fingers fluttered to his neck, he captured them, holding them to his lips, his tongue flicking over them.

How could her heart race like that without bursting?

"Let’s get out of here." His voice, low and husky, moved over her, lovingly, knowingly.

Not trusting her own voice, she picked up her purse. Why put obstacles in the way, fight what was happening? She had waited too long

He rose, one fluid movement, a man in charge of himself and his body.

The room swam and slowly righted itself, she lost in the thought of him, his golden body pressed to hers. She slid out of the booth and preceded him to the door. He threw money on the bar, and ushered her out.

The night had stars, a moon she didn't see as he took her arm, held it tight to his side.

"I have a room at the Ritz Carlton," he said, softly.

She nodded.

In the cab, he sat close to her, the flashing lights of the city alternately illuminating them or leaving them shadowed, not quite real. Once his lips hovered over hers, and she lifted her own, let them become compliant, the touch a gentle reminder of the past, memories coming to life intact. Thrusting her nose into the crook of his neck, she sniffed his flesh, pulled his sweater and casual shirt aside and pressed her lips to the skin below the collar’s opening like she had done so many years ago.

His arms tightened around her

When she lifted her lips, his were there. "I used to dream about you," he whispered. "I’d see you in our rooms, and then I’d wake up and feel so damn lonely."

"I used to dream about you, too."

"Lisa, now that I’ve found you again, I’m never going to let you go."

In his hotel room, he turned off the lights and opened the draperies. It was Seattle again, but not Seattle. The lights of San Francisco leaked in, showing the understated but elegant furniture, the flowers in vases, the basket of fruit, the champagne bottle, the fluted glasses.

In the past they had been little more than children, needing the closeness as much as they had needed the sex. Now the past had to be validated, the memories probed and substantiated, made real again.

His smile dazzled and his kisses escalated in passion until she swam on a sea they had only skirted in those long ago days. "You are incredibly beautiful," he said.

"You are, too."

"Men aren’t beautiful, they’re handsome," he whispered.

Recognizing his words from the past, she giggled, and he laughed, and together they rolled over and back and over again as they had done before, too. Through half-closed eyes she saw the boy he had been, the one who had rescued her and protected her, the boy she had loved. She wanted to cry out, "I love you, I love you, I love you." but something – Carter? Benny's wife and son?--kept the words locked inside. And not once did he say them either. Still, Benny was part of her and she was part of him, and it was the past that made the present so unbelievably wild and sweet and utterly satisfying.

Chapter 17

Night swept into day, awareness of one another blotting out the changes. Too excited to sleep, peripherally aware of the city closing down and then coming to life, Lisa dozed at intervals, waking always to find Benny watching her, a smile on his lips and lighting his eyes. Shared laughter followed shared kisses and embraces. Stories of their experiences spun the hours forward. She had taken that literature course at the university that they used to talk about. He had gotten a degree in business, but he longed to go back to school to study the courses he'd really wanted. "And go digging for lost cities."

It had been a shared dream. The dreams had made them impervious to reality, a crutch to help them navigate a grown up world that they both wanted and longed to escape. While they spun dreams, the dreams became reality, something they would accomplish in a bright and distant future. Now the future had arrived.

A layer of pink mounted the sky, and on the street below a worker swept the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Unselfconsciously, Lisa padded to the window and pulled the sheer curtains over the glass. "I want my den secure from invaders.".

He grinned, and she ran back, pulling the covers up to her shoulders.

"Remember our games of hide and seek?" Her eyes teased with him. Throughout the building they had charged, taking turns being "it." The last time it had been her turn to hide, night had descended. Slipping off her shoes in the hall, Lisa had raced up three floors and hunkered down behind an old desk. Occasionally Benny's footsteps sounded or a door opened. Then nothing. Lights blinked on in surrounding buildings. Gazing down at the winking city, she fell asleep. When he discovered her, she screamed and fought her way up from sleep and wrestled with him in a frantic attempt to get away from the shadowy figure. When he finally got the better of her and she realized it was him, she had hugged him so tightly the wrestling had exploded into sex. All that night they had made love.

He chuckled and with a finger traced the line of her jaw. "Bet I could still catch you."

"Bet you couldn’t." Matching his teasing smile, jumping from bed and sprinting half way across the room.

Laughing, he lunged after her, caught her at the door to the bathroom, and carried her--mock struggling--back to the bed where he made love to her, not as the boy, but as the man. Then he said the words that had lingered in the shadows all night. "I love you."

How could she deny it? "Oh, Benny, I love you, too. So much."

"Show me," he whispered, and for a short while he looked exactly like the boy she remembered.

Around them the hotel had come awake, maids pushing carts down the halls, travelers checking out. Benny ordered breakfast, and when it came, elegantly presented under silver servers, they ate sitting on the bed, naked, facing one another, the napkins and good china spread out between them, talk sporadic. He buttered her toast. She poured his coffee. Crumbs fell on the counterpane. Their laughter mingled, hung in the air like heat hovering over New York pavements.

"I want you to come to Seattle with me And Josh."

"Your son is with you?"

"Down the hall."

"I see." She brushed crumbs from the bed, pulled a pillow in front of her nakedness. She didn't see anything.

"Today, I mean. Fly to Seattle today."

As she protested, making lame excuses about work, he consulted airlines schedules. "There’s a flight we can catch in an hour."

"But I’m supposed to be…" How would Josh, this boy she'd never met, feel about her? She'd had no experience with children, had hardly been one herself.

"Whatever it is, cancel it." Benny was smiling, his eyes soft and loving, but adamant as his voice. "I want to show you my city, my son, lay out my life for you."

"But…."

"Lisa, you know we have to do this. You want to as much as I do."

How could she deny that? She called the local Fennstein office as well as Russell and her secretary in Philadelphia, said she'd be gone for a while. "No, you can't contact me, I'll call you." Then laughing, feeling freer than she had in years, she jumped up, spun around and around until the bathroom door was at her back. "I bet you I can shower and dress in ten minutes. No make that twelve." How could she be frightened of a boy almost the age of the Benny she remembered?

"You're on."

As she shut the bathroom door he made a show of looking at his watch. When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, the phone was ringing loud and insistent.

Benny, wearing shorts and slacks, no shirt, answered. "No, you can't come to the room." He frowned, and turning from her, sat down, the phone cradled in his shoulder, his speech so soft she caught only a word or two. "Not as you think. I'll explain later."

Rapidly, she dressed, feeling vaguely soiled to be putting on yesterday's clothes. "Something wrong?" she asked when he hung up.

"Josh," he said looking under the bed, beside it, the frown still etching his face.

"What are you looking for?"

"My shoes."

She handed them to him, her eyebrows asking the question she didn't mouth.

"He saw us come in and now…"

"He doesn't like me being here." The words were crisp, clipped.

"It's not you. He thinks you're a – woman of the night. Which is ridiculous, but…" He grabbed his key. "I won't be long."

"Right." A ripple of uneasiness ran up her spine. When Benny reached the door, she said, quickly, before he could leave, "Maybe we should rethink the trip to Seattle. I mean he's very young, very vulnerable."

"You're forgetting. So were we."

"I didn't think I looked like a 'woman of the night.'" She made herself sound amused.

He shook his head. "What Josh thinks or doesn't think should have no bearing on you and me. He's not exactly your usual teenager. Most of the time he has his head on straight." He started out, then turned again, grinning. "I expect he thought you were a high class 'woman of the night.'"

She had to smile. "I'm sure he's a very nice person."

He came back and kissed her. "Don't worry," he whispered, "He'll love you."

***

They flew to Seattle first, Josh to follow using his existing ticket. He'd meet Lisa there later.

California became a pattern of brown fringed with green that disappeared rapidly as the 747 climbed. Soon they were flying above the clouds. "They look like a feather bed," Lisa noted.

Benny nodded. "When I explained about us knowing one another long ago, Josh was okay. In fact intrigued."

"He's a romantic."

"Like you. like his father." Benny took her hand and called Josh before they landed as arranged. "I told you he was okay," Benny said as the forests of the Northwest popped into view.

Lisa felt only a slight lessening of her anxiety.

In Seattle the I5 corridor from Seatac Airport had bumper to bumper traffic, and in center city the sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Lisa and Benny walked the streets where they had walked before, the past living in her mind, while the present changes intruded everywhere. New, taller, more glitzy buildings cast long shadows, but debris and homeless people clogged the places where runaway kids had once congregated. The acrid smell of urine and unwashed humanity rose from doorways and alleys. In silence Lisa stood with Benny across the street and stared toward the spot where "their" building had been.

"The building came down a few years after we left. The lot stood empty several years before the high rise was built a few years ago." Benny's voice was thick, scratchy sounding.

"It makes it difficult to imagine the past," Lisa said tightening her grip on his hand. A tear escaped her eye. He caught it with a fingertip, kissed her lightly "for old times' sake."

Between fifth and the waterfront they trudged up and down the hills, he solicitous of her, she smiling when an old landmark remained. Near the Pike Place Market they watched a group beat tambourines, strum guitars, and belt out a gospel tune. Behind them the fruit and vegetable stalls stretched, colorful, unchanging. It could have been any year.

"Do you still play the guitar?" she asked Benny softly, handing a five dollar bill to a street musician, a man who played the violin and thanked her in broken English.

"Five dollars, you'll spoil him," Benny said, guiding her past a trio of panhandlers.

"I remember when your music made the difference between going broke or having a couple coins in our pockets. But you didn't answer me."

"I play occasionally now. Josh tells me I'm out of touch. I play the old songs."

"Our songs." A bittersweet taste filled her mouth. Can you really go home again?

In Benny's BMW they wound up the hill, around the sometimes narrow streets. Ralph Fennstein's mansion had always remained grand in Lisa's mind. Now it was merely a large, old house in need of paint. The trees in front had been cut down to accommodate a small traffic circle, the rhododendrons needed pruning, and the grass edging.

"After Ralph died, I sold it. Now, I'm not so sure I should have." She shrugged. "They say you can never go back." There, it was out in the open.

"We did," he said squeezing her hand. "Just not in the way you mean."

She went around the corner, walking carefully on the sidewalk that had cracked, the cement blocks tilted. "That was my room." She pointed at the windows. Torn shades partially covered the glass. The past lived better in her mind.

Down the hill again, Benny parked near a group of upscale shops and pointed out the newest Grayson's Department Store.

Lisa climbed out avoiding the stream of shoppers. The street was closed to all except foot traffic, and Grayson's dominated the block. Looking up at the stone and blue glass building, Lisa shook her head. "The old Benny would have laughed."

"The new one still does. Want me to show you around inside?"
She examined the show windows. Hip-bony mannequins stood in fixedly grotesque stances. "Not unless you want to."

"I don't especially. But I do want you to meet Josh." His face grew animated again. "We're going to join him at his favorite restaurant."

"MacDonalds."

"No, Mexican." He edged the car north, into the I5 traffic, leaving at the Lake City exit. "Want to show you something first." Winding up the hill and then down, he drove along the lakefront. Lake Washington glittered in a sudden burst of sunshine as cloud cover scattered, piled up by a burst of wind that riffled the surface of the water. The house where he had lived with Sheila and Josh, where presumably they'd shared a family life, was screened by cedar trees and rhododendrons. Lisa glimpsed a deck that Benny said gave fantastic views of the lake.

"You a water man?"

"Boating was the best thing about our life there, except for Josh. We used to go through the locks and out for a day of fishing and sun. He got to be quite a fisherman and a crazy water-skier. Showed up his old man."

She said with a finality she hadn't realized earlier, "You really like him, you're not just making father talk."

For a moment surprise sat on Benny's face. He patted her hand with his. "I think you'll like him."

"I hope he likes me," she said looking at him.

He slowed down, the two lane road now hugging the cliff, now the water. "How could he help it?"

She smiled, but was far from convinced. The heaviness of the day wouldn't slide away that easily.

***

They arrived at Beso Del Sol restaurant before Josh. From the low-backed booth Benny pointed out when Josh was approaching. The boy strolled along North 45th, walking with the self-conscious and yet assertive way of youth, and for a moment Lisa knew a stabbing pain in the chest. It was Benny of twenty-one years ago. Slender, spare frame verging on manhood but not quite there, eyes seeing everything at once, meeting hers and then veering away, she had trouble not jumping up and running to meet him. She glanced at Benny. He nodded and smiled as if he realized what she was thinking.

Josh pushed through the door, and strolled toward their booth, and the illusions that gripped Lisa disappeared. Bigger than Benny at that age, he also was darker, less finely structured, his features more pronounced. Yet, his smile, and the cocky and yet courteous way he spoke was his father at the same age. Youthful enthusiasm sparked his eyes and speech. He sat next to Benny and at first said little, Benny leading the talk, Lisa following, Slowly, Josh joined in. Within minutes Lisa was smiling, laughing, liking him, the weight on her shoulders lessening, going away.

"So you two were friends a long time." It was clear that understood that the relationship was deeper, meant something more.

"A long time," Lisa said blushing slightly.

"Shall we order?" Benny asked as the waitress hovered.

Lisa grinned. "Maybe it's time I read the menu" She'd been captivated by Josh.

"You like Mexican food?" he asked, and then shook his head in self mockery, "Of course, I guess you wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Your father says Mexican is one of your favorites."

"If you're a vegie-head, the burritos are pretty good."

"You're a vegetarian?"
"Sort of a part way vegan."
"A couple months ago he was into fiber," Benny said.

Lisa said, "The salad with red cabbage and jicama sounds marvelous. What are you having Benny?"

Josh grinned. "I never heard anyone call him that before."

"I don't let anyone else," Benny said.

"I mean," Josh said to her, "it's Benjamin Todd Grayson, or I should say Mr. Benjamin Todd Grayson."

"Sounds formidable," Lisa glanced at Benny. He shrugged, whether because he didn't care or whether this was an ongoing discussion in the family, Lisa couldn't tell. She ordered the vegetable burrito and salad, Benny had a combination plate, and Josh duplicated Lisa's order.

Stuffed with rice, green chilies, onions, squash, and eggplant, dolloped with sour cream and salsa, the burritos were better than 'pretty good,' Lisa told Josh. "I declare them magnificent. And the salad is out of this world." She smiled at him. "Your father tells me you're a Trekie."

Josh's glance skittered away. "You watch Star Trek?"
Lisa sipped her iced tea as of she hadn't noticed. "I think Data was a logical progression from Spock."
"You watch?" Josh leaned toward her, his eyes alert with interest.

From then on she had him. She told him about the exhibit she'd seen at the Smithsonian a few years ago, she told him about meeting Gene Rodenberry who had originated the series. "He was thinking about doing a biography."

Josh tipped his head to one side. "You actually met Rodenberry?"

She nodded.

"Cool."

From then on, Lisa tossed out every trekie word and thought she could dredge up. Josh knew every obscure plot line in the television series and the movies, pausing only long enough to plow in another mouthful of food.

Benny watching with pride, signaled the waitress and ordered flan and Mexican chocolate.

"So you two going to get married," Josh said when the woman left, his gaze sober, going from Lisa to his father.

"If she'll have me," Benny said.

Lisa smiled. "I think there's a distinct possibility."
"Cool," Josh said.

"You think that's okay, huh?" Benny asked.

"Yeah, why not? I mean it's not like you and Mom…" He shrugged. "Anyway, it's not what I think, it's what you think." Again his glance flicked back and forth between Lisa and Benny.

"See, what did I tell you?" Benny said, winking at Lisa.

Back in Philadelphia her underlying sense of unease about Josh proved minor compared to her fear of the media. The engagement ring Benny insisted on giving her was too big, too costly for anyone to mistake it for a token of friendship. Everyone commented. Carol, during a meeting in Lisa's office to talk about another book tour, said, "Hot damn, that's some rock." Even Eon appeared impressed. He understood the prospective bridegroom better than her late husband he said in an effort to ingratiate himself with her. She knew it was because Benjamin Todd Grayson had money, power, and clout. Russell Baker said whatever made Lisa happy had his blessing. He spoke in his usual slow manner, but averted eye contact. At Lisa's instigation none of the three notified the press.

A week later, at her Society Hill home Benny turned from the window where he'd been looking out. "Why this emphasis on keeping our engagement secret?"

She poured too much brandy into his glass and clumsily splashed it into hers. "No emphasis, I just don't like the personal becoming public." She handed him a napkin and the filled glass before settling on the couch.

"I don't care who knows I love you."

Her joy was followed by a tearing in the gut. "Well, I don't either. It's just…."

He sat down beside her. "Just what?"

She looked away. "Reporters are so persistent, keeping at you to tell them one thing more." Prying into the past, turning up who knew what. Carter, of course. But anything could be made to look ugly.

"So why not let them take another picture, satisfy them that way?"

"Maybe you're more used to the press than I am," she said, sipping, the fumes rising strong, too strong.

"My father was always getting his picture in the papers, although he made sure my youthful escapades didn't make the news." He grinned at her.

She slipped her hand into his. "That's exactly what I meant. Think what they could do with our time in Seattle."

"But that was long ago. Today, I'm not running away from anything. And maybe, if I talk about it I may be able to help some kids today." He sipped his drink. "In some ways they're more mixed up than we were. Except Josh. Despite the difficulties his mother and I had, he's a darn good kid." He grinned at her. "And surely you don't have anything to hide. Why not give the press what they want, and shut them up?"

"Because I don't trust them. I see no point in telling about why I had to flee my home. All it would do would be to revive a lot of painful memories. My stepfather, that stuff."

"Sorry." He stretched out his legs, leaned toward her. "But I think you exaggerate the problems. No one today is interested in our past."

She grinned and dug a finger in his ribs. "I'm not so sure, Mr. Benjamin Todd Grayson of Grayson's Department fame."

He grinned back, and she changed the subject, but a trickling of fear invaded her thinking and stayed there, growing larger daily. She knew that someday she'd have to tell him about Carter. But how?

She'd have to wait until after Benny's divorce was final.

Then it happened, and the words wouldn't form.

Then they were planning a wedding. Then the wedding day arrived.

Scarlet leaves trembled on maples and oaks, and the crisp feel of fall tinged the air, although summer lingered in the afternoon breezes when they stood in the garden behind Lisa's house and were joined legally. Josh, Carol, Russell, and a few of Benny's close friends were in attendance when they said their vows. A rippling sense of excitement and rightness permeated Lisa's being, and she floated in a bubble of happiness urging the small party to eat more lobster, drink more champagne. The white and silver cake had butter cream frosting, the day was rich, and sweet, and wonderful, and the next day she saw with satisfaction that only a few lines appeared about the wedding in the Philadelphia papers, less in Boston. New York, and Washington, D.C. while the San Francisco papers never even mentioned it.

The knot in her stomach disappeared, and she rationalized that maybe it wouldn't be necessary to say anything, ever. Life took on a pattern of wonder, as she woke each morning with Benny beside her, the wonder extended to Josh, when he was with them. Her life consistently radiated enthusiasm and love. They were three against the world.

Cheered on by Lisa and applauded by Josh, Benny held out against his advisers and attorneys. Graysons would go on the auction block; he himself would be free. Nights he perused college catalogs. If he hit the books hard, he could do five years in three. Archeology, anthropology. He'd get the degrees, they'd buy that sailboat and see the world.

Enrolled in a school in Connecticut, Josh spent holidays and weekends with them. Several times Lisa gave Maria and her husband the weekend off and took over the household cooking herself. As she read recipes aloud, Josh found the ingredients while Benny blended, chopped, and beat until she took over. Throwing nuts, raisins and carrots into bread dough that a machine kneaded, adding capers to chicken picata, and applesauce and coconut to white cake mix, she created what they all came to call "our family goodies."

Once all three got in a flour fight, flinging handsful at one another. To Maria's consternation, they were better at cooking then any of them were at cleaning. But the kitchen was warm with laughter. Once when Benny spun Lisa around in a show of love, Josh smiled spontaneously and said, "Way to go Dad." Another time Josh said to Lisa, "You're good for my dad." She glowed repeating the words to herself.

Pleased with the compliment, but not sure how to take it, she said, "Well, thank you, Josh, but good in what way?"

He kept his gaze on the chopping board. "You two don't argue."

"There's not much to argue about. Mostly, we agree."

"My Mom was always on his case, and he was always telling her to 'Explain that.'"

"So they were different."

"That's not exactly it."

Words came out before she could censor them. "They argued?"

"Yeah. You could call it that."

Seeing his brows shoot together and his hands clench, she said, "It must have been hard on you, loving them both."

He nodded.

She stood, half-turned toward him, wanting to reach out and touch him but afraid to make the move. Release came with the beeping of the microwave oven and the sounding of the oven timer.

She was setting a bowl if broccoli on a trivet when Josh said, "I always dreamed of a family like this." He looked directly at her. "Course I love my mother, and she me. but we had no family life."

Lisa smiled gently.

Josh grinned and gestured broadly. "Now I got it all. My Mom and me, and you and Dad. I believe I'm the luckiest kid alive."

"It must have been pretty rough before the divorce."

"Yeah. My Mom had these boyfriends."
"Oh."

"I used to feel sorry for Dad, but then he didn't love her, either. I heard him say so."

"Maybe we better talk about something else."

"Sorry, but that's why I feel so great now. You and Dad. I never thought something like that would ever happen."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence. Now how about those onions? Are you going to put them in the salad or just chop all day?"

He laughed, and the moment was over, a moment to be cherished in the days to come.

With guidance from some of the big names in the archeological world, Benny began independent study. Lisa loved to come home from the office and find him bent over his books. He'd look up, and immediately that spark would light in his eyes, and she'd run to him, her heart bursting with love.

One weekend they took Josh sight-seeing. He eyeballed the liberty bell, gawked in awe at Constitution Hall, and cried "Cool" when they showed him the house where Thomas Jefferson had holed up to write the Declaration of Independence.

Lisa couldn't have been happier. Eon no longer fought each move she made, the company continued to grow financially, and his followers had now become hers. She tucked her hand in Benny's arm, sorry her sweater wasn't a real bulwark against the cold, but reluctant to say anything. Josh was enjoying himself so much. The trees were nude of leaves, stark branches etched against old brick, while the weakened sun shed little warmth, only promise. But it was all so beautiful. Lisa's scarf floated behind her, her hair, glimpsed in shop windows, had became a cloud of sunburst red. Impulsively, Lisa took Josh's arm, too.

They moved together across the plaza, breasting the sudden breeze. A sprinkling of tourists in patterns, as if orchestrated, passed almost unnoticed. The wind gusting now, skittered brown leaves and a taste of snow hovered, threatening. Lisa shivered. Josh's ears were red, her own tingled. "I think we better get inside for awhile and warm up."

Benny agreed. Still they strolled, the sense of togetherness strong, their breath coming in puffs like cigarette smoke.

Near City Hall, at Wannamaker's Department Store, Benny ducked inside.

"You mean we're not going to Grayson's?" Lisa teased.

Benny's mock glare made Josh laugh out loud.

Lisa unwound her scarf and pushed a lock of hair from her face.

"Now where?" Benny asked. "I don't feel in the mood for My Sin."

Past aisles of perfume and cologne where young ladies with impeccable makeup and professional smiles presided, Lisa led their small parade, floating on the high of their being. "I believe there's a coffee shop where we might grab a cup of hot chocolate" she explained. Single file now, she marched around shoppers, quick-stepped toward the escalators. Surely, there'd be a directory somewhere nearby, but why was that woman on the down escalator staring at her so intently? Well dressed in tweeds, she carried a handbag that could only be real leather, a sight common enough in Philadelphia. Matrons, crushable winter hats framing carefully coifed, casual hairdos, came in on the Main Line to shop and meet their friends for lunch. They carried American Express and Diner's Club cards and seldom came in contact with the lesser citizens of the City of Brotherly Love. What was there about this one that was different?

Lisa began to turn away when shockingly, the heart-shuddering answer surfaced, slammed into her. She hadn't seen Carter's daughter, Bitsy, since those days in Virginia, but now she was advancing rapidly, a haughty, angry look on her face.

Lisa turned quickly. "Let's grab an elevator," she said, appealing to Benny with a hand on his arm, her voice cracking.

"But the up escalator should be just over there." Benny gestured toward it.

"Right." Lisa tried to propel him around the corner, but Bitsy stepped off the escalator and pressed between them, a whiff of lavender rising from her tweeds, her elbows jabbing.

Benny scowled. It was evident he hadn't seen her descending. "Careful, lady, if you'd just said something, I'd have stepped aside."

"You're the one should be careful," Bitsy said stabbing Lisa with a glance. "Well, Lisa, aren't you going to introduce us?"

"Bitsy Cameron, Benjamin Grayson," Lisa muttered

Bitsy, lips curling, nose flaring, shook her head. "You have it wrong, of course. I used to be a Cameron, that was my maiden name, but you don't care about legal distinctions, do you?" She looked at Benny with a calculating gaze but spoke to Lisa. "I see you haven't been exactly quiet since the old days. Another man, Lisa? Was it marriage again?"

"I don't have to listen to this," Lisa cried and turned away.

Bitsy grabbed her arm, held her. "How many marriages does that make, or don't you count anymore? I always thought there was something fishy about you, of course."

"Really, Bitsy, this is too much," Lisa said tugging away. "Come on, you two." She grabbed Benny's hand, nodded at Josh who was staring big-eyed from one person to the other.

Benny frowned. "You know that woman?"

As shoppers pushed by, a hum of voices rising and falling., Bitsy smiled triumphantly. "Of course she does. Ask her."

"Come on," Lisa urged, "we don't have to let her detain us." Her gaze skipped from Benny to Josh. The boy, a frown cutting deeply into his forehead backed off a few steps, his eyes flat, unreadable

Bitsy's voice rang out. "Not so fast. Not until I have my say. You thought you were so smart winding my father around your little finger, well you learned differently didn't you?" She lifted her head victoriously and said to Benny. "Take my advise, get out while the getting is good."

"Please, madam," he said removing her hand from his arm. "You're making a scene."

"Scene? Scene? You don't know what a scene is," she cried, her voice raising. "See that woman you're with. A bigamist that's who she is! Ask my father if you don't believe me." Brushing Benny and Josh aside, she swept away, head high, and was soon lost among the shoppers. An overstuffed woman watching intently from behind a stack of marked down merchandise, her hands moving among the handbags, totes, and wallets, tumbled them in splendid disarray and shook her head, her mouth falling open in shock. "My god!" she cried.

Lisa wanted to echo the words, but couldn't. Stiff upper lip, she essayed a smile as the world began to spin so fast she wondered if she could hold on.

Chapter 18

"What the hell was that all about?" Benny asked, handing Lisa the scarf she had dropped. "Who was she?"

Trembling inwardly, Lisa turned aside, wending her way between aisles of sales merchandise. "You know as much as I do."
"Wait a minute," he called. "It's obvious she knew you and you knew her, too."

"Of course I knew her," Lisa said fighting for time, moving swiftly now, looking for an exit, any exit. All she wanted was to be home, and she couldn't even remember her way out of Wannamaker's. Her voice became remote. "It's just that I'd prefer not to remember her."
"That was abundantly clear. You going to tell us, or do I have to keep asking you?" Benny whispered from behind her, Josh trailing him morosely.

She paused, shook her head. "Sorry. I got sidetracked. Anyway, I thought we were going to have some hot chocolate. Seeing her temporarily upset me." She had trouble meeting his eyes. "I'll explain everything after while."

Five minutes later, hot chocolate cups in their hands, Benny said. "So tell me who was the rude lady?"

A knot forming in her belly, Lisa looked from Benny to Josh, the thought of losing them an ache so deep, she knew she'd never recover from it. "She's one of Eon's friends, and you know how Eon used to feel about me." She handed napkins around, anything to keep busy.

"Used to. Not now." Benny wasn't smiling.

Lisa forced herself to speak lightly. "She bought Fennstein stock. When it didn't do what she expected, she blamed me." She fiddled with her spoon.

Benny pushed his cup away. "That doesn't wash. Fennsteins' stock is doing fine now."

"She sold at a low spot. In a volatile market. I don't know, maybe she was investing on the Internet."

"What are you talking about?"

"What is this, an inquisition?" She smiled. When he didn't, she busied herself unbuttoning her heavy sweater. "I don't know, a few years ago at a share-holders meeting, she took something wrong." She blew on her chocolate, sipped, blew again.

"That doesn't make sense," Benny muttered.

She sipped chocolate. Wiped her mouth with an edge of a napkin. "I don't know what all the fuss is about. She attacked me."

"Yeah," Josh said. "You can say that again."

For a moment, Lisa thought, it's going to be all right. Josh is on my side. She smiled at him, but he didn't smile back.

Shaking his head, he continued. "She was really pissed. Calling you names." His voice thick with emotion, he made a face. "Talking about her father."

"Yes, what in the hell did she mean?" Benny asked.

He was staring at her, a demanding look in his eyes. Cups were clattering on saucers, waitresses were swishing by with orders, and Josh was clicking his spoon against the side of his cup, pushing aside the whipped cream, tapping his foot.

Lisa took a deep breath. "I haven't the slightest idea."

"She spoke as if you knew him."

"I did."

"She hinted that you knew him well." Benny's voice was low, intense.

Lisa shook her head. "Just because her father was important, she always acted as if everything would reflect upon him. In some way she mixed up losing that stock with me, her father, Eon. It's very complicated." So complicated, she couldn't lie any more, couldn't make up anything plausible.

Benny said, "Josh, I think you better go back to the house. We'll join you later."

Without a word Josh got up.

Lisa watched him walk through the room, past shoppers with children in tow, skirting women clutching packages, going by a handful of men, a boy she had come to think of almost as her own.

When he disappeared from view, Benny held her gaze, his eyes blazing. "You dated the Senator?"

A blush stained her cheeks. She'd never seen him be anything but supportive of her. Now… "It was long ago."

"Sure. Of course it was." Pure sarcasm.

"Can we talk about this at home?" With her eyes she begged him to understand.

Back at Society Hill, with snow feathering down, collecting on the windowsill, he pressed her. "So? Tell me. Who was that woman, really? And don't try to shit me any more." He sat on the couch.

Lisa joined him, the middle cushions separating them, a gulf to be covered with words. "Bitsy is Senator Cameron's daughter. I met him on a flight from San Francisco. We got to talking. He called me later." Slowly in words that came with difficulty, she told the story, and when she finished, she listened to the free-form clock strike before she said, "If you hate me, I don't blame you."

He cracked his knuckles. Looked away. Looked back. "I don't hate you, Lisa. I could never hate you. But I don't understand you. Not in the least."

"I know. I committed bigamy." The word tasted like sand in her mouth.
He shook his head again. "It's not just that. I could see how you were pushed into it. How you were ruled by your sense of loyalty, of obligation, of duty, and torn by what you thought you needed. No, it's not that." He got up and began to pace the floor.

"Then what was it?" she whispered.

"It 's that you didn't trust me enough, love me enough to tell me."

Her mouth flew open. "But I love you more than life itself. I'd do anything for you!" she cried, leaning toward him, pleading.

"Except tell me the truth."

Stricken, she stared at him. He was scowling at her, a man in gray flannel pants and a blue sweater that brought out the blue in his eyes, a handsome man, a good man, a man of substance, and a man she might conceivably lose forever.

"I didn't mean to hide it from you.".

"But you did."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too. After all these years when I found you, I was ecstatic. You were the sweet dreams come true. Now you've got a wart I can't ignore. Damn it, Lisa, why did you lie to me?"

He prowled the room that Ralph had trod, that Carter had pontificated in, that she had changed so that it reflected neither man. The furnishings were bright, warm color and stencil decorations obliterating the art deco she'd favored in another life. Now the couch, the chairs, the paintings spelled family, but Benny was looking at her as if he didn't even recognize her.

"I didn't mean to," she said, nothing occurring to her to do or say that would put her life to rights again.

"Perhaps, but I can't take any more lying. I thought Josh's mother was the ultimate liar. She lied about everything. From tiny white lies to the big whoppers. Like sleeping with our friends." He paused, his hand gripping a vase so tightly his knuckles grew white. "But she never went as far as…"

"Bigamy," she finished.

For a time she exchanged glances with him, seeing the deep crease between. His eyes, the hurt within them.

It was dark now, the snow visible only under the street light. She watched it float down, slowly. If she were in it, how long would it take to cover her?

Benny stopped pacing near her. "I can't deal with this now, Lisa. I can't, don't you see?"

She nodded dully.

"I have to go. Be by myself for awhile. Think it through."

She wet her lips. "Are you coming back?"
"I don't know." he said, his gaze fixed beyond her.

"But we love one another," she cried.

"I thought we did. But I don't know what I think now."

She jumped up. "I don't know either, but I do know I didn't do anything on purpose, especially hurt you. And I'm not some sort of monster, either." She shook her head. If he never came back, she would survive. She had to. But how? Sleeping with anyone who reminded her of him? Being a crotchety old woman who hated men? Being so ruthless in business nothing mattered? The staggering possibilities saddened her. Damn it, I love you, she wanted to cry again, throw herself at him, grovel at his feet, but pride held her in check.

He was moving toward the stairs. "I'll get my things."

Anger shot through her. "If you leave, you don't ever have to come back," she cried.

He turned, and for a moment he stared at her. "Maybe I won't want to come back," he cried while her gaze went past him to the hall where Josh stood, a stricken, sick look on his face.

Chapter 19

Blood pouring through her veins so fast she couldn't stand still, thoughts and images keeping pace, Lisa grabbed a coat and hat and hurried out into the dusk. She never walked the neighborhood with night rapidly approaching, but now it didn't seem to matter. Anyone who accosted her would get as good as he gave.

Block after block she plodded, coming down hard on her heels, her pace increasing until she was almost running. Lights gleamed behind shuttered windows, streamed from convenience stores and pooled under street lamps. Dark gray skies gradually became the black of the new moon. As her breath rasped and her heart pounded harder, her anger, hurt, and frustration with Benny and herself dissipated. How could she blame him? What had happened wasn't his fault. She should have told him about Carter, not let fear blind her to what was right. She was to blame, and she'd tell him so if he was still there.

She hurried home, called out, timidly at first and then louder. No answering voice welcomed or berated. Only the lonesome silence of a house recently vacated echoed in her mind. Benny and Josh had probably left together, although sometimes Josh took the train back to school. Or maybe only Benny, angry at her, had slammed out. The scripts were endless.

She ran upstairs, to her suite, the bedroom, sitting room, dressing rooms, walk in closets and two baths with Jacuzzis that had amazed her when she'd first seen them. She peered around corners, called out. Again nothing but silence.

The blank place in the bathroom where he had kept his shaver, the side of the bed where he'd slept sledge hammered into her. The empty closets mocked.

Grabbing up the phone, she left messages everywhere he could be. Was happiness a dream always destined to flee? Frantically, she rushed into the hall and pushed through the door to Josh's room. The blinds were closed, the room dark. "Josh?"

Of course, no answer. She chided herself for even hoping. Across the room his computer screen blinked, the screen saver shooting stars around a changing pattern of planets. She hit the light switch, illuminating the prints on the wall, the empty closet, the overflowing waste basket as if he had cleaned out everything and tossed it into the trash. Her heart plummeted.

Leaning down to shut off the computer, the message printed on the screen slammed into her. "Life sucks."

Oh, Josh.

Trembling, holding to the desk, she eased to the swivel chair and slowly went through the series of movements that darkened the machine, clicking the mouse automatically. Only a person who hurt would leave such a message. Had he wanted it to be seen? If so he'd have printed it out, or put it in bold letters, used a large font. Capitalized. No, he probably had forgotten it.

She glanced at her watch. In the morning she'd call his school, talk to him, explain that what had happened between her and his father was temporary, an aberration. Oh, god, it had to be.

She tossed and turned all night. Toward morning she called Benny's New York apartment. Sounding sleepy but alert, he answered.

"Benny, I have to talk to you."
"I have nothing to say."

"But…."

"Tell it to the Senator."

A click sounded in her ear. Dumbfounded, she stared at the phone.

Had he envisioned Carter in her room? In her anxiety she had forgotten how large he must loom in Benny's mind. She waited, anxiety bringing tears, frustration, and then an icy calm. When day nudged at dark skies, ribbons of sun stringing along the horizon, she placed a call to Josh's school. She'd never called there before.

The secretary in the headmaster's off ice came on after mind-numbing delays dealing with "please hold" and "just a minute. Her detached-sounding voice, was brisk, cool, distant. The boys were at breakfast. From there they'd be going to class. They had no time for telephone calls.

"Then have Josh call me please."

"Mrs. Grayson, you aren't on his calling list."

"But I'm his stepmother. And it is rather important."

"Well, this is rather irregular. The boys have classes all day, and as I've stated, you aren't listed."

"Surely in between classes or after them I could speak to him. I'm sure he'd want to talk to me."

"I can only go with what I have here. Mr. Grayson did not put your name on file. If you were his mother, I might make an exception, however…."

"But, I'm sure will vouch for me." Or would he? If he ran off upset he might not want anything to do with her. She paced the room.

"All I can do is tell the headmaster to call you when he comes in."

She pulled back the draperies and stared outside. Snow was still coming down; wind driving it like pebbles against the windows. She gave the secretary her telephone numbers and hung up.

An hour later, as she was leaving for the office, the phone rang. She dropped her briefcase and snatched up the phone in the entrance hall.

"This is Charles Rivelstoke of the Cranford School." His voice brusque and business-like clipped off the words. "You wished to have young Grayson call you? But you're not on his calling list. Rather strange, I must say. The fact is Josh never checked in last night or I wouldn't have bothered calling you at all. We tried alerting his mother, but she's in Europe. "

"Oh, god," she cried, a chill zipping through her. She hugged herself. "Have you contacted his father?"

"I plan to as soon as I speak to you. I was hoping you could offer some clue as to Josh's whereabouts."

"No, no I can't." At least not a computer message that said 'life sucks.' "But I'll let you know if I hear from him. And I'd prefer to call his father also."

"Of course, Mrs. Grayson."

"Thank you."

"Then I'll leave it to you. But be aware that if I don't hear from Mr. Grayson shortly, I'll call myself."

"Of course." She slipped her shoulder bag off, moved a phone pad closer and dialed Benny. The phone rang and rang, and she tried to picture him moving through the New York apartment, but she couldn't. She'd never seen it; and they'd never talked about it. Instead she saw the room in Seattle, the makeshift bed, the cans of food in the bookshelves, the peeling paint on the walls, the scarred floors. Tears filled her eyes.

Benny's voice cut into her memories, a mechanical monotone bringing her instantly back to the present. "I'm not available now. At the tone, leave a message."

She took a quick breath. "Benny, please call me. Josh didn't check in at school last night. The headmaster just called me."

She shrugged out of her coat, called the office and said she to cancel all morning appointments. Looking out the windows, walking back and forth, trying to keep out of Maria's way, three more hours passed. She pounced on the phone when it rang, her nerves shot.

"Tell me what you know about Josh." Benny's voice as mechanical sounding as the recorded message shot into her.

She wet her lips. "Just what I told you. Didn't you drive him back last night?"

"I dropped him off at the train station. He said he was meeting a friend."

She nodded as if he could see her. So Josh had lied, too. "I called the school this morning. That's how I learned he wasn't there."

"You called the school! Why?"

"I wanted to talk to Josh. He seemed unhappy last night."

"Is it any wonder? I don't expect he likes what you did any more than I did."

"Benny, please, give me a break."

"I can't believe you're worrying about yourself when Josh is missing!"

"Benny, that's not true; I love Josh."

"Okay, I'll give you that, but I don't have time to argue."

A click sounded in her ear, and when she called back, the answering machine cut in.

Groggily, she climbed the stairs to the second floor and pushed through the door to Josh's room. She'd been so happy seeing him settle in, make it his own. Many times she and Benny had secretly laughed over the posters that skirted the edge of decency, as if Josh had been testing them. Booting up the computer, she watched the screen, not knowing what she was looking for, but watching for a clue. When the Windows 95 logo showed, she clicked on Word and opened My Documents. The file was empty, the hard drive showed nothing important, and Winword showed the same. If he had deleted all his files, how would she find them? She almost shut down the computer when it occurred to her he might have saved on floppy disks. On the A-drive she found Philly Notes with sub-headings that went from jokes, stories, and songs to cartoons and favorite movies. Scrolling down the list, she selected, Places to check out and clicked on HP laser printer. The entry spewed out three pages of single-spaced details that appeared to be a sight-seeing list. Slowly, not knowing what she was looking for, she read through the columns and crossed off the items that referred to places he'd gone with her and Benny. The remaining entries contained alternative book stores, triple x video outlets, comedy clubs, slam and rave dance locations, tobacco and accouterment shops – all places slightly risqué but not off limits. They told her nothing, but they set her mind along different paths. Where would be the last place adults, used to riding in limousines or grabbing taxis, would go? It would be the place to start looking.

***

In her years in Philadelphia Lisa had never used the subway. But she would have bet anyone that the poor, the homeless, the drunken and disturbed camped out in obscure corners and that a kid on the run would gravitate to the cars. Runaway youths, at least temporarily, would seek its shelter. Dressed in a pair of jeans and car coat, with identification and money in her pockets, Lisa went down the stairs. The smell of urine and unwashed bodies and the ozone aroma of electrical sparks reached her before she got to the bottom step.

She paused. In the dim light of the station's platform commuters jockeyed for position, their well-worn clothes contrasting vividly with the designer labeled garments she and her associates wore. A train roared in, people pushed on, others poured off, the latter swarming toward the exits. Lisa backed to the graffiti-covered walls. Where to start looking?

An overcoated, stocking-capped man muttered in her ear. She heard the rasp of his voice, the words incomprehensible, chewed beyond recognition. Reeling as his rancid wine breath bathed her, she wiped his spittle from her cheek and pulled away, looking down the track to where an exit sign gleamed. He grasped her sleeve with a skeletal hand.

She tried to shake him off, but he clung, weaving, staring at her imploringly. "I don't know what you're saying," she said, more sharply than she intended.

Losing his balance, he caught it against her.

A voice cut in, "Hey, that ain't no way to treat a lady."

In the dim gray of the underground, a second man, moved into view, curly blonde beard bobbing below a matted mass of hair. "Let go," he growled, wild eyes staring from beneath bushy eyebrows.

The wino's hand fell from her sleeve. Swaying backward, he caught his balance and burped, covering his mouth with his hand afterward, his gaze apologetic.

"Pardon yourself to the lady," the second man demanded.

"It's all right," Lisa called, moving away. A cop was telling someone who had holed up in a paper carton to move out, clean up the mess. The man said it was a public place and he had a right to be there. A group had gathered to listen.

Heading toward them, she sought safety in numbers, but curly beard kept pace with her. "Sorry about what happened, and I'm glad I was there to give you a hand. Some people can't hold their liquor."

"I'm fine, thank you." she said briskly.

"I can tell you're the kinda person who shows her appreciation," he whispered in her ear, grinning at her, his eyes never shifting.

Hearing the implied threat, she pulled a dollar bill from her coat pocket and handed it to him. Thank god she'd remembered not to carry a purse. The summer in Seattle had taught her that.

His eyes narrowed. "You sure you can afford so much?"

She pushed another dollar at him and pressed into the crowd. Another subway car zoomed in and for a time she was trapped between those getting on and those getting off. Fighting her way out of the mess, she glanced back. Curly beard stared after her mockingly. She hurried down the platform, away from him. Ahead she glimpsed pockets of humanity hunkered in the eternal night. Wisps of fog drifted, rising from the dampness of the underground and the vile odor of the unwashed and their leavings. Here where the police seldom visited, the homeless and destitute had taken over. Barely discernible in the gloom, blankets slung over rope lines strung between tin shacks and plywood shelters providing a bit of privacy. Both disgusted and concerned, she turned back, passing a group of teenage boys who walked with a rolling gait, eyes gleaming like opals in black faces, pretending not to hear the whistles, the cat-calls.

Coming here had been a mistake. It would be a million to one chance to run into Josh, but one she had to take Everything was different now, not as clear as when she had run from a world that had frightened her. Still, he might think and react the same way she had. Or had kids changed that much? She turned toward the stairs, careful not to look overlong at the obvious drug dealers, the pimps, and prostitutes who bumped into her, who jeered when she jumped. A pinprick of light showed high above, leaking in from street level. She'd watch while a few more trains thundered in and if Josh didn't show, then she'd go home, call Benny and keep calling until he answered.

As a train hurtled down the tracks, mixing and stirring the heavy air of the underground, she waited. The car roared by, blowing her hair, tugging at her jacket, plastering her pants to her legs. As the doors opened, she veered from her route, knowing she had to look, but dispirited, not expecting anything but failure. In a burst, the passengers debarked--men with lunch buckets, women with fake leather purses, school kids with books. Loud, bold talk and laughter issued from the youngsters mouths, nothing from the older, grim-faced, stoic men and women, work weary and tired. If she hadn't forced her luck, been determined back there in Seattle, that could have been her. But Ralph had fired her imagination, and her survival instinct had cut in.

The doors closed, the train moved off, and she turned away, glancing at her watch. Loitering on theoff chance of seeing Josh was ridiculous. Turning away, she let her gaze sweep the platform. She still had time to go to the office, pull something from the ashes of the day. When she looked back, down the track, Josh was coming toward her, having undoubtedly been on the next car. A tired look of sorrow and loneliness stamped his face and stopped her in mid step. "Josh," she cried tentatively before running to him.

A startled look on his face, he turned away.

"Wait!" she cried and sprinted after him.

"Why?" he blurted out as she grabbed his arm.

"Because I love you."

"But you don't love my dad." Angry.

"Oh, yes, yes, I do." Adamant.

"Then why?" he said, his voice softening.

"Why?" she echoed

"Why did you do it? Why hurt him?" His head came up defiantly. Why hurt me?" Tears came to his eyes.

She stared at him. Because, she thought, I was afraid of what Benny would think. She'd been afraid of losing him, afraid he'd go away, afraid she'd lose the love she wanted and needed so desperately. Now that fear seemed childish, something to be buried along with the past. "I can try to explain, but all I can say now is I was wrong, and I'm sorry." She took a step forward, and then another. "Let's go somewhere, get something to eat where we can talk. Come on." She motioned him to follow her and started toward the stairs. No matter if he came or not, she would no longer play games with the truth. At the bottom of the stairs she glanced back.

Slowly he walked toward her.

***

In Penn's Place on Chestnut, Josh ate two cheesesteak sandwiches and a large helping of fries while she nibbled at a BLT and told without subterfuge what had made her break the law. Their booth fronted the street, and a steady stream of well-dressed pedestrians passed, very few resembling in any way the people in the subway station.

Relief flooded Josh's face. "So what you did had nothing to do with you and Dad?"

"No, it had to do with me." If she had told Gary the truth it would have worked out. Her misplaced concern for him had added to her own fears.

"But it's in the past, right?" Josh said in the direct way of youth.

"Right." She smiled. "So, what happened? You just ride the cars to the end of the line and back?"

"Yeah. A couple times. I needed to think."

"We all do at times," she said, carefully not staring at him. "Did you get any sleep?"

"A little."

"Darned little I'd say." His clothes were wrinkled, a fine stubble bristled his cheeks, his eyes were bloodshot. Trying to say it as gently as possible, she whispered, "Don't you think you should call your father?"

He looked up at her, his eyebrows rising. "And say what?"

"Say whatever you want." Outside the diner, wind skittered papers down the street. A couple in heavy coats, faces turned toward one another, smiles on their lips, hesitated near the bus stop.

As if reading her thoughts, Josh asked, "You and Dad talking?" His voice was brisk.

"I called him to let him know you weren't in school."

"What did he say?"

"He was worried. So was I. That's why I came looking for you."

"I didn't think you'd do, well, what she said you did."

"I never thought I would either. I know it's a lot to understand."

Josh pushed aside his empty plate and met her reflection in the window. "You love my father?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

He sipped his milk shake. "So what happens next?" He didn't quite look at her.

She kept her gaze on the window. "What do you want to happen?'

"I don't want you two to fight."

"I don't want that either." His baggy jeans, the oversized T-shirt exchanged for skinny pants, a body-hugging shirt, it could almost be Benny sitting there. "You look a bit like your father at your age."

"You two knew one another a long time."

The couple outside were boarding a bus. She brought her gaze back to Josh. "I think we should go find your Dad."

His head bobbing up and down, Josh said, "I think you and he belong together."

She agreed, but would Benny?

Chapter 20

Snow piling up, the wind shrieking, cars skidding, Lisa and Josh taxied to Fennstein Publishing. He had been there once before only, an after-hours tour of the facility. Now employees overran the place, and the hum of a business day proceeded around him as Josh placed telephone calls from her office. Growing up surrounded by the perquisites of old money, it was evident few things impressed him. Outwardly, he always appeared at ease in circumstances and places that would have astounded Lisa at his age. Yet, no matter his background, he was still a youth and easily wounded by interpersonal relationships that didn't go as he expected. A muscle in his cheek quivered as he called various Grayson Stores on the East Coast and he found Benny at none of them. Neither was he at his New York apartment.

Lisa glanced through papers, conferred with her secretary, and when at last she heard Benny say, "Hello, Dad," she picked up a pen and pretended to work while she waited for Josh to finish his call. He spoke in monosyllables and so quietly she heard little that he said. As the minutes ticked by, she glanced at her watch. Five, ten, and then fifteen minutes passed with Josh growing increasingly mute, listening only.

When he hung up the phone, he sat silently for a few seconds.

"That rough?" Lisa asked, unable to picture Benny in the role of heavy-handed father.

"I had it coming," he muttered before he looked toward where she sat under a portrait of Ralph. Apparently in control of himself again, he smiled at Lisa. "Dad's in his office here. Whenever we were in Philadelphia and he had to go to the store, I used to hang out at a model train exhibit in the mall. Dad thought I might have gone there now." He shrugged. "He forgets I'm no longer a kid. Anyway, I told him I'd meet him. Think I can mooch a ride?"

"Of course." She called for her car, grabbed a coat and walked him through the maze of minor offices, past the reception desk to the curb. The wind had abated, but snow covered the sidewalk now, and flakes were coming down steadily, collecting like confetti in her hair. "Have the driver wait for you if you need a ride back." she said opening the door before the driver could get out.

In the act of climbing in, Josh hesitated. "But you're going with me, aren't you?" Entreaty shone from his eyes.

Lisa avoided his gaze. A bus belching fumes pulled up at the corner, picked up passengers and zoomed away. Cars skidded down the street. She shivered. "I don't think I should." She couldn't stand it if Benny turned from her. She looked back at the building. Fennstein's gray facade signified safety.

"I told him I wouldn't be alone."

"But you didn't say I'd be accompanying you?"
"Well, not exactly, but I know he'll be glad to see you." He grinned. "I can say you found me, saved me from a life of crime or something."

Suddenly, he looked very young and very brash. He could be jelly inside. Shaking her head, she followed him into the limo. She could drop him off anyway, hold his hand metaphorically on the way.

As the car eased from the curb, Josh grew expansive. "I've been thinking, maybe I want to go into business after I finish school. Thinking about the trains brought it all back. This idea I had. Computerized cities for kids and collectors. The thing is to get into something you really like. Dad taught me that." He darted a look at her and his face lost its animation. "Did you know he's selling the stores?"

Lisa ran her hand over the plush upholstery. "So I heard." Through the tinted glass, the world appeared muted, benign, the snow making everything pristine, new, like it had been when they'd attempted to outshine one another with grandiose plans.

Josh waxed enthusiastic about the evolution of trains, his voice lively.

If only she could change moods as rapidly. Listening she interjected oh's and ah's and I sees at the right moments until Josh said, "We're almost there. See the lights."

She'd never shopped in this particular mall, but it seemed little different from any in the sprawling suburbs. Grayson's department store rose at one end of the complex, Sears at the other. In between, a number of shops supported a vaulted glass ceiling that held out the rapidly accumulating snow that eddied and swirled, piling up everywhere. Traffic snarled the crossroads.

"I'll go on back, but pick you up later if you need a ride," Lisa said as Josh got out.

He skidded to a stop and leaned in the open door. "I thought you were going with me. I mean Dad might still be pissed about me not going to school. Like I counted on you being there."

He wanted her as a buffer, but what good could she do? It all depended on Benny. She fiddled with the car phone, and as Josh turned soulful eyes upon her, she punched in the numbers for the office, aware that Josh was fidgeting but keeping his gaze upon her. She made the call and let him hurry her out.

"Wait for me," she called over her shoulder to the driver.

The wind had risen enormously and was driving snow before it. Ducking down, she ran, glancing once only toward the far end of the mall where light from Grayson's sign turned the snow a deep blue. Pushing through the revolving entrance door, she paused as soon as the warm air inside fanned her cheeks. She couldn't confront Benny now. "I really need to do some shopping. I rushed off without scarf and gloves" She touched Josh's hand. "See what I mean."

He frowned and stated flatly, "You don't want to come up with me."

"You need to speak to your father alone." She smiled, made the words much lighter than the heavy load she felt bearing down on her.

Looking let down but saving face for both of them, Josh mumbled something about her hands feeling like ice.

"Right. I'll join you later." She looked past him. "But right now we better not stand here holding up traffic." She moved aside to let two women by and marveled again at how perceptive and also blind youth can be. Josh hadn't noticed that she was without a purse and couldn't possibly buy anything.

With a wave of the hand he set off past last minute shoppers. She found a bench, unbuttoned her coat and waited. Snow sticking to people's boots melted, leaving puddles on the tiles. A child dropped a candy sucker in a puddle and leaned down to pick it up. Before it made contact with his mouth, his mother snatched it from him and jerked him on with promises of another treat later.

Would Benny be as distant as he'd been on the phone? If he'd changed, mellowed, he would have called her, come to see her. It wasn't as if they had years of marriage behind them. Falling into one another's arms because of a shared past wasn't a valid basis for marriage. They had glamorized those months in Seattle, made too much of a teenage crush. Just like she'd made too much of Gary's illness, Carter's attentiveness. On the phone Benny had been icily polite, his voice, clipping off words while she was sure he was calling her names in his mind, thinking divorce or separation. To protect herself, she'd have to take the offensive and thus keep her dignity as well as her pride. She wasn't interested in Grayson Stores or Benny's assets, but would he want a slice of Fennstein's? Would he think bigamy – no matter how unintentional--warranted retaliation? If he fought her about Josh, she wanted reasonable visitation rights, she wondered if any judge would side with her.

She checked the time. Thirty minutes had crawled by. She got up, made herself walk in Grayson's general direction, browsed a shoe store half off sale. Summer shoes in large sizes predominated. A card shop had a thanksgiving display with a cardboard turkey and pumpkin shaped napkins. She whiled away fifteen more minutes before she proceeded down the mall to Grayson's and took the escalator past the second floor where upscale clothing draped frozen-faced mannequins, beyond the third where crystal goblets stood sentinel near one-of-a-kind china, to the sixth floor. Her mind spinning, she stumbled off at the top floor, her legs watery.

Dark paneling and neutral carpet led to a desk and a row of chairs where visitors waited. Outside the executive suites a silver-haired woman, remnants of morning's makeup on her face watched Lisa's approach with icy eyes. Heart thrumming crazily, Lisa said, "Would you mind telling Mr. Grayson that Mrs. Grayson is here."

The woman shook her silver/gray head and raised long red nails from the surface of her desk, her hands in classic dismissal mode. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"You're not Mrs. Grayson." She closed her daily planner with a snap of the wrist.

"But I am." Lisa cried. "I can prove it."

The woman looked up as if surprised to find Lisa still there.

She still wore the jeans and car coat she'd worn in the subway, her hair was wet and hanging limply; she wore no makeup, and had no purse. "I've been walking," she said, hand going to her hair.

The secretary leaned forward and in a low urgent voice, stressed, "I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I think you better leave before I call security." Her hand moved toward the phone.

Pushing back her frustration, Lisa forced a smile. " I assure you I am the present Mrs. Grayson. Lisa Grayson. The first Mrs. Grayson is in Europe."

The woman frowned and shrugged slightly, not hiding the edge of disgust that crept into her face. "No one told me there were two Mrs. Grayson's."

"I meant the ex Mrs. Grayson, of course," Lisa said quickly as the secretary took in Lisa's appearance with a barely concealed sneer. Although bordering on counter culture, Lisa's outfit was of good quality. Still the silver-haired secretary's eyes and manner clearly showed her disbelief that the head of Grayson's Stores would be married to such a woman.

Remembering the handful of money and identification she'd grabbed before she set out to find Josh, Lisa rummaged through her pockets. Among the crumpled bills were a Visa and a Discover card, one made out to Lisa Fennstein-Jacobs, the other to Lisa Cameron. Nothing proved that she was Mrs. Benjamin Todd Grayson. She blushed.

Two women in the waiting room, packages at their feet, looked away with amusement when Lisa's gaze touched theirs. Everything was spinning out of control. In an effort to retrieve it, she said in a loud, firm voice, "Call Mr. Grayson's office, please. He'll verify who I am."

The secretary shook her head, her voice barbed, "Really, Madam."

Lisa gripped the edge of the desk and spoke with deadly control. "If you care about your job, you will do as I say."

A wary look in her eyes – does she think I'll personally attack her, Lisa wondered--the woman rang Benny's office.

"There's a woman here who says she's Mrs. Grayson. I had no choice but to ring through, sir." She darted a triumphant glance at Lisa, a glance that disappeared as the doors to the Executive Suites swung open and Josh emerged shaking his head, clearly amused. Her eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth.

Breathing deeply, Lisa forced herself to step around the desk.

The secretary rushed to the door and standing sentinel opened it. "This way Mrs. Grayson."

Lifting her head high, Lisa brushed by and stepped into Benny's office. The room had a seldom used look, papers filed, books on shelves, desk surface clean, a goose lamp on the desk the only illumination. Lisa paused, the adrenaline rush she'd felt in the confrontation with the secretary dwindling. Benny stood with his back to the room, looking out the window at the storm, and a plethora of memories rose. He looking out the upper floors at "their building" in Seattle. Playing his guitar. Waking her with a kiss in the morning.

He turned as the door closed, Josh remaining outside. It was just the two of them, Benny as casually dressed as she was, his eyes as troubled.

Courage bolstering her need for independence and a need to keep her pride intact, she blurted out, "I hope you haven't taken your anger at me out on Josh. He was disappointed, I expect, to find that neither one of us is perfect." She took two steps into the room. "I admit that."

Benny's features were lost in the gray shadowy foretaste of night, the whirling snow losing its luminosity, blending with the background. He shook his head. "No one is perfect, least of all me." His tone was mechanical as the words. He moved toward the desk.

She spoke toward Benny while her eyes did a quick inventory. The room appeared heavy, oppressive, a place that hadn't been updated with the times. Nothing of his showed, no photos, no plaques, no certificates. She gestured. "What I did – I'm talking about Carter now--is not something I did lightly or was proud of. I should have known better, but somehow I felt boxed in, no alternative in sight. Now, I know there's always a way out." She glanced away and then back to him, met his gaze. "I'm deeply ashamed, especially of not telling you."

No flicker of an eyelash betrayed his feelings. Did he hate her? "Whatever troubles we had were my fault." There, she had groveled. Now it was up to him.

He sighed. "Damn you make it difficult." He gestured toward a chair. "Sit down. I get the notion you'll flee any minute."

She sat, the chair upright, high back, padded.

He leaned against the front of the desk. She wanted to stare, to take refuge in the familiar, the known, but in this room he appeared different, more stolid, more settled, less flexible, unknown.

"I came to say that if you want out, I won't fight you. Just so I can see Josh now and again."

"Josh said you might say something like that."

"He did?"

"He said you found him."

"Yes, in the subway station."

"You shouldn't have gone down there, but I'm glad you did."
"I don't think he'd have gone far."

"Perhaps."

The school house clock on the wall ticked. Benny glanced at her. She glanced back. The telephone rang.

He pounced on it, spoke mechanically again, ending with. "Hold all calls, please."

"Maybe it's not all your fault," he said quietly. "I built this vision in my head of you, the no-fault woman and went through life dreaming a dream."

"So we both goofed." He hadn't said he forgave her.

"I certainly goofed when I married the first time. The only good thing about it was Josh."

"He's a wonderful boy."

His eyes began to dance, or was it only a wish on her part? She willed her hands to quit trembling.

"I'm grateful you found him, brought him back."

"Yes." Was it a good sign that he was repeating himself, or only a signal that she should leave?

"Well . . . ."

He doesn't know how to end it. Of course, that was it. It was over done, but he was too kind to just state it bluntly. She said rapidly, before he could dismiss her. "It's a good thing we didn't mix our money. It'll be easier to dissolve the marriage. I'll have my attorney get in touch with yours. There's only that one stipulation about Josh." Would he fight her about it? She had no real claim to a relationship. She looked away, trying to remember the various scenarios she'd gone over earlier.

"Yes, one only," he said.

She glanced back. A tiny smile was forming on his lips. Why? She glanced behind her, sure someone had come in.

"There's no one here but us, Lisa."

Confused, she got up, began to move toward the door. "I guess my attorney contacts yours. Isn't that the way it goes?"

He shook his head.

"Well, do it anyway you want," she said in a hurry now, needing to get out before she broke into tears. Maybe it had been a dream, and maybe they weren't the same people they had been as teenagers, but love could stay the same. She knew it had for her. It would always be there, curling into her mind, taking over her body, and unless she left, she'd make a stupid fool of herself, grovel at his feet, beg. Her eyes on the floor she hurried toward the door.

"Don't turn that knob," he said, his voice full of authority.

Her head jerked around, and she stared at him. His smile was melting all over her, bathing her, warming her. Don't touch that dial, I can't believe I ate the whole thing. All the slogans they'd laughed at in the past played an obligato in her mind as a smile slowly formed on his lips and hers.

"The stipulation you mentioned," he said pushing away from the desk, "is that I promise never to leave you again. That if I break my promise you must hunt me down wherever and whenever. You know that, Lisa, don't you?"

"I don't know what to think," she murmured, trembling now, not with fear but love, unable to take another step. He was walking toward her, speaking softly, looking so determined that her legs went hollow.

He stopped a few feet from her. "You and I have a history, but we're more than that. We're people who make mistakes and then rise above them. You know that. I know that. But for a while I forgot."

He opened his arms. "Forgive me?"

Forgive him? She shook her head. "No."

"No?'

"I need to forgive myself," she cried moving into his arms.

"And we both need to forget," he murmured into her hair.

"Yes," she whispered lifting her lips. "BY MY SINS RECALLED."

His eyes met hers fully, full of wonder and blazing brightly. "I've already forgotten, and I don't blame you. I could never blame you. All the rest, the Bitsy's and whatever, they don't count. There's only you and me and Josh, and I love you too damn much to let false pride get in the way." His lips touched hers, held, clung.

She burrowed closer. A little later she'd tell him about the baby that was growing inside her, a baby she'd have raised alone if necessary. But now a whole new life was opening up for them, and it would be more fabulous than either of them could imagine at the moment. She could see Benny loving every minute of it, devoting as much time to the new son or daughter as he had to Josh. As for her, it would be a long-time dream come true. But why wait. "I have something to tell you," she whispered.

As his eyebrows shot up, she put her fingers to his lips. "No, it's good," she said hastily, anticipating the look of joy on his face when she told him. She did, and it was even better than she'd expected.