For Shannon,
     my daughter, my helper, my friend.












             ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, a special thank you to Owen Laster,
Beverley Slopen, and Larry Mirkin, good friends
as well as trusted advisors. Thank you also
to Emily Bestler, the editor of my dreams, and
her assistant Sarah Branham, for their
assistance and good humor in the creation of this
novel. I also count myself very lucky to have the
support of Judith Curr, Louise Burke,
Cathy Gruhn, Stephen Boldt, and all the
other terrific people at Atria and Pocket who
work so hard to make my books a success.
  Writing this novel would have been very difficult
without the help of Donna and Jack Frysinger,
who gave generously of their time and energy
to provide me with all the information I needed to bring
the charming, oceanside city of Delray to life.
I look forward to seeing you there soon.
  My love to Warren, Shannon, Annie,
Renee, Aurora and Rosie, and all my friends
in Toronto and Palm Beach. Thank you for being
patient, loyal, and always interesting (especially
important for a writer). Note to Annie: You
could be a little less interesting for a while.
  And lastly, a special thank you to those
readers who have sent such wonderful messages to me
via my Web site. While there's not enough time
to thank you each in person, please know that your letters
have meant more to me than I can ever adequately
express. Your kind thoughts and good wishes buoy
my spirits and make my day. Thank you.











































         WHISPERS AND LIES



  She said her name was Alison Simms.
  The name tumbled slowly, almost languorously,
from her lips, the way honey slides from the blade
of a knife. Her voice was soft, tentative,
slightly girlish, although her handshake was firm and
she looked me straight in the eye. I liked that.
I liked her, I decided, almost on the spot,
although I'm the first to admit that I'm not always the
best judge of character. Still, my first impression of the
amazingly tall young woman with the shoulder-length,
strawberry-blond curls who stood tightly
clasping my hand in the living room of my small
two-bedroom home was positive. And first
impressions are lasting impressions, as my mother
used to say.
  "This is a real pretty house," Alison
said, her head nodding up and down, as if agreeing
with her own assessment, her eyes darting
appreciatively between the overstuffed sofa and the two
delicate Queen Anne chairs, the cushioned
valances framing the windows and the sculpted area
rug lying across the light hardwood floor. "I
love pink and mauve together. It's my favorite
color combination." Then she smiled, this enormous,
wide, slightly goofy smile that made me
want to smile right back. "I always wanted a
pink and mauve wedding."
  I had to laugh. It seemed such a wonderfully
strange thing to say to someone you'd just met. She
laughed with me, and I motioned toward the sofa for her
to sit down. She immediately sank into the deep,
down-filled cushions, her blue sundress
all but disappearing inside the swirl of pink and
mauve fabric flowers, and crossed one long,
skinny leg over the other, the rest of her body
folding itself artfully around her knees as she leaned
toward me. I perched on the edge of the striped
Queen Anne chair directly across from her,
thinking that she reminded me of a pretty pink
flamingo, a real one, not one of those awful
plastic things you see stabbed into people's front
lawns. "You're very tall," I commented lamely,
thinking she'd probably heard that remark all her
life.
  "Five feet ten inches," she acknowledged
graciously. "I look taller."
  "Yes, you do," I agreed, although at
barely five feet four inches, everyone looks
tall to me. "Do you mind my asking how old you
are?"
  "Twenty-eight." A slight blush suddenly
scraped her cheeks. "I look younger."
  "Yes, you do," I said again. "You're lucky.
I've always looked my age."
  "How old are you? That is, if you don't mind
..."
  "Take a guess."
  The sudden intensity of her gaze caught me
off-guard. She scrutinized me as if I were an
exotic specimen in a lab, trapped between two
tiny pieces of glass, under an invisible
microscope. Her clear green eyes burrowed
into my tired brown ones, then moved across my
face, examining each telltale line, weighing the
evidence of my years. I have few illusions. I
saw myself exactly the way I knew she must: a
reasonably attractive woman with good
cheekbones, large breasts, and a bad haircut.
  "I don't know," she said. "Forty?"
  "Exactly." I laughed. "Told you."
  We fell silent, frozen in the warmth of the
afternoon sun that surrounded us like a spotlight,
highlighting small flecks of dust that danced in the
air between us, like hundreds of tiny insects. She
smiled, folded her hands together in her lap, the
fingers of one hand playing carelessly with the fingers of the
other. She wore no rings of any kind, and no
polish, although her nails were long and cared-for. I
could tell she was nervous. She wanted me to like
her.
  "Did you have any trouble finding the house?" I
asked.
  "No. Your directions were great: east on
Atlantic, south on Seventh Avenue, past the
white church, between Second and Third Street.
No problem at all. Except for the traffic.
I didn't realize that Delray was such a busy
place."
  "Well, it's November," I reminded her.
"The snowbirds are starting to arrive."
  "Snowbirds?"
  "Tourists," I explained. "You're
obviously new to Florida."
  She looked toward her sandaled feet. "I like
this rug. You're very brave to have a white carpet in
the living room."
  "Not really. I don't do much
entertaining."
  "I guess your job keeps you pretty
busy. I always thought it would be so great to be a
nurse," she offered. "It must be very rewarding."
  I laughed. "Rewarding is not exactly the
word I would use."
  "What word would you use?"
  She seemed genuinely curious, something I
found both refreshing and endearing. It had been so
long since anyone had expressed any real
interest in me that I guess I was flattered. But
there was also something so touchingly naive about the question that
I wanted to cross over to where she sat and hug
her, as a mother hugs her child, and tell her that it was
all right, she didn't have to work so hard, that the tiny
cottage behind my house was hers to occupy, that the
decision had been made the minute she walked through
my front door.
  "What word would I use to describe the nursing
profession?" I repeated, mulling over several
possibilities. "Exhausting," I said finally.
"Exacting. Infuriating."
  "Good words."
  I laughed again, as I seemed to have done often in
the short amount of time she'd been in my home.
It would be nice having someone around who made me
laugh, I remember thinking. "What sort of work
do you do?" I asked.
  Alison stood up, walked to the window, and
stared out at the wide street, lined with several
varieties of shady palms. Bettye
McCoy, third wife of Richard McCoy, and
some thirty years his junior, not an unusual
occurrence in South Florida, was being pulled
along the sidewalk by her two small white
dogs. She was dressed from head to toe in beige
Armani, and in her free hand she carried a
small white plastic bag full of dog poop,
a fashion irony seemingly lost on the third
Mrs. McCoy. "Oh, would you just look at that.
Aren't they just the sweetest things? What are they,
poodles?"
  "Bichons," I said, coming up beside her, the top
of my head in line with the bottom of her chin. "The
bimbos of the canine world."
  It was Alison's turn to laugh. The sound
filled the room, danced between us, like the flecks of
dust in the afternoon sun. "They sure are cute
though. Don't you think?"
  "Cute is not exactly the word I would
use," I told her, consciously echoing my
earlier remark.
  She smiled conspiratorially. "What word would
you use?"
  "Let me see," I said, warming to the game.
"Yappy. Pesky. Destructive."
  "Destructive? How could anything that sweet be
destructive?"
  "One of her dogs got into my garden a few
months back, dug up all my hibiscus.
Trust me, it was neither sweet nor cute." I
backed away from the window, catching sight, as I
did so, of a man's silhouette among the many
outside shadows on the opposite corner of the
street. "Is someone waiting for you?"
  "For me? No. Why?"
  I edged forward to have a better look, but the
man, if he'd existed at all, had taken his
shadow and disappeared. I looked down the street,
but there was no one there.
  "I thought I saw someone standing under that tree
over there." I pointed with my chin.
  "I don't see anyone."
  "Well, I'm sure it was nothing. Would you like
some coffee?"
  "I'd love some." She followed me through the
small dining area that stood perpendicular to the
living room, and into the predominantly white
kitchen at the back of the house. "Oh, would you just
look at these," she exclaimed with obvious
delight, gliding toward the rows of shelves that
lined the wall beside the small breakfast nook, her
arms extended, fingers fluttering eagerly in the
air. "What are these? Where did you get them?"
  My eyes quickly scanned the sixty-five
china heads that gazed at us from five rows of
wooden shelves. "They're called "ladies'
head vases,"" I explained. "My mother used
to collect them. They're from the fifties, mostly
made in Japan. They have holes in the tops of
their heads, for flowers, I guess, although they
don't hold a lot. When they first came out, they
were worth maybe a couple of dollars."
  "And now?"
  "Apparently they're quite valuable.
Collectibles, I believe, is the word they
use."
  "And what word would you use?" She waited
eagerly, a mischievous smile twisting her
full lips this way and that.
  I didn't have to think very hard. "Junk," I
said concisely.
  "I think they're great," she protested. "Just
look at the eyelashes on this one. Oh, and the
earrings on this one. And the tiny string of pearls.
Oh, and look at this one. Don't you just love the
expression on her face?" She lifted one of the
heads gingerly into her hands. The china figurine was
about six inches tall, with arched painted eyebrows
and pursed red lips, her light brown curls
peeking out from under a pink and white turban, a
pink rose at her throat. "She's not as
ornate as some of the others, but she has such a
superior look about her, you know, like some snooty
society matron, looking down her nose at the
rest of us."
  "Actually, she looks like my mother," I said.
  The china head almost slipped through Alison's
fingers. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry." She
quickly returned the head vase to its original
position on the shelf, between two doe-eyed girls
with ribbons in their hair. "I didn't mean
..."
  I laughed. "It's interesting you picked that one.
It was her favorite. What do you take in your
coffee?"
  "Cream, three sugars?" she asked, as if
she weren't sure, her eyes still on the china
heads.
  I poured us each a mug of the coffee I'd
been brewing since she'd phoned from the
hospital, said she'd seen my notice posted
to the bulletin board at one of the nurses' stations,
and could she come over as soon as possible.
  "Does your mother still collect?"
  "She died five years ago."
  "I'm so sorry."
  "Me too. I miss her. It's why I
haven't been able to sell off any of her friends.
How about a piece of cranberry-and-pumpkin
cake?" I asked, changing the subject for fear
of getting maudlin. "I just made it this morning."
  "You can bake? Now I'm really impressed.
I'm absolutely hopeless in the kitchen."
  "Your mother never taught you to cook?"
  "We weren't on the best of terms." Alison
smiled, although unlike her other smiles, this one
seemed more forced than genuine. "Anyway, I'd
love a piece of cake. Cranberries are one
of my very favorite things in the whole
world."
  Again, I laughed. "I don't think I've
ever met anyone who felt so passionately about
cranberries. Could you hand me a knife?" I
motioned toward a group of knives slid into the
artfully arranged slots of a triangular chunk
of wood that sat on the far end of the white tile
countertop. Alison pulled out the top one, a
foot-long monster with a tapered two-inch blade.
"Whoa," I said. "Overkill, don't you
think?"
  She turned the knife over slowly in her hand,
studying her reflection in the well-sharpened
blade, gingerly running her finger along its
side, temporarily lost in thought. Then she
caught me looking at her and quickly replaced the
knife with one of the smaller ones, watching intently
as the knife sliced effortlessly through the large
Bundt cake. Then it was my turn to watch as
she wolfed it down, complimenting me all the while
on its texture, its lightness, its taste. She
finished it quickly, her entire focus on what she
was doing, like a child.
  Maybe I should have been more suspicious, or
at the very least, more wary, especially after the
experience with my last tenant. But likely it was
precisely that experience that made me so
susceptible to Alison's girlish charm. I
wanted, really wanted, to believe she was
exactly as she presented herself: a somewhat
naive, lovely, sweet young woman.
  Sweet, I think now.
  Sweet is not exactly the word I would use.
  How could anything that sweet be
destructive? she'd asked.
  Why wasn't I listening?
  "You've obviously never had a problem with your
weight," I observed as her fingers pressed down
on several errant crumbs scattered across her
plate before lifting them to her mouth.
  "If anything, I have trouble keeping pounds
on," she said. "I was always teased about it. Kids
used to say things like, "Skinny Minny, she
grows like a weed." And I was the last girl in
my class to get boobs, such as they are, so I
took a lot of flak for that. Now suddenly
everybody wants to be thin, only I'm still
catching flak. People accuse me of being anorexic.
You should hear the things they say."
  "People can be very insensitive," I
agreed. "Where'd you go to school?"
  "Nowhere special. I wasn't a very good
student. I dropped out of college in my first
year."
  "To do what?"
  "Let's see. I worked in a bank for a
while, sold men's socks, was a hostess in a
restaurant, a receptionist in a hair salon.
Stuff like that. I never have any trouble finding a
job. Do you think I could have some more coffee?"
  I poured her a second cup, again adding cream
and three heaping teaspoons of sugar. "Would you like
to see the cottage?"
  Instantly, she was on her feet, downing the
coffee in one seamless gulp, wiping her lips with the
back of her hand. "Can't wait. I just know it's
going to be beautiful." She followed me to the
back door, an eager puppy nipping at my
heels. "Your notice said six hundred a
month, right?"
  "Will that be a problem? I require first and last
month's rent up front."
  "No problem. I intend to start looking for a
job as soon as I get settled, and even if
I don't find something right away, my grandmother
left me some money when she died, so I'm
actually in pretty good shape. Financially
speaking," she added softly, strawberry-blond
hair curling softly around the long oval of her
face.
  I had hair like that once, I thought, tucking
several wayward waves of auburn hair behind one
ear. "My last tenant was several months behind in
her rent when she took off, that's why I have to ask
..."
  "Oh, I understand completely."
  We crossed the small patch of lawn that
separated the tiny cottage from the main house. I
fished inside my jean pocket for the key to the
front door, the heat of her gaze on my back
rendering me unusually clumsy, so that the key
fell from my hand and bounced on the grass.
Alison immediately bent to pick it up, her fingers
grazing mine as she returned it to the palm of my
hand. I pushed open the cottage door and stood
back to let her come inside.
  A long sigh escaped her full lips.
"It's even more beautiful than I thought it was going
to be. It's like ... magic." Alison danced
around the tiny room in small, graceful
circles, head arched back, arms outstretched, as
if she could somehow capture the magic, draw it
to her. She doesn't realize she is the
magic, I thought, suddenly aware of how much
I'd wanted her to like it, how much I wanted her
to stay. "I'm so glad you kept the same
colors as the main house," she was saying,
briefly alighting, like a butterfly, on the
small love seat, the large chair, the bentwood
rocker in the corner. She admired the rug--
mauve and white flowers woven into a pale pink
background--and the framed prints on the wall--a
group of Degas dancers preening backstage before
a recital, Monet's cathedral at sunset,
Mary Cassatt's loving portrait of a mother and
her child.
  "The other rooms are back here." I opened the
double set of French doors to reveal a tidy
arrangement of galley kitchen, bathroom, and
bedroom.
  "It's perfect. It's absolutely
perfect." She bounced up and down on the double
bed, running eager palms across the antique
white bedspread, before catching her reflection in the
mirror above the white wicker dresser and
instantly assuming a more ladylike demeanor.
"I love everything. It's exactly the way I
would have decorated it. Exactly."
  "I used to live here," I told her, not
sure why. I hadn't confided anything of the sort
to my last tenant. "My mother lived in the main
house. I lived back here."
  A little half-smile played nervously with the
corners of Alison's lips. "Does this mean
we have a deal?"
  "You can move in whenever you're ready."
  She jumped to her feet. "I'm ready right
now. All I have to do is go back to the motel and
pack my suitcase. I can be back within the
hour."
  I nodded, only now becoming aware of the speed
at which things had progressed. There was so much I
didn't know about her. There were so many things we had
yet to discuss. "We probably should talk about a
few of the rules ...," I sidestepped.
  "Rules?"
  "No smoking, no loud parties, no
roommates."
  "No problem," she said eagerly. "I don't
smoke, I don't party, I don't know
anyone."
  I dropped the key into her waiting palm,
watched her fingers fold tightly over it.
  "Thank you so much." Still clutching the key, she
reached into her purse and counted out twelve crisp
$100 bills, proudly handing them over.
"Printed them fresh this morning," she said with a
self-conscious smile.
  I tried not to look shocked by the unexpected
display of cash. "Would you like to come over for dinner
after you get settled?" I heard myself ask, the
invitation probably surprising me more than it
did her.
  "I'd like that very much."
  After she was gone, I sat in the living room
of the main house, marveling at my actions. I,
Terry Painter, supposedly mature adult,
who had spent my entire forty years being sensible
and organized and anything but impulsive, had just
rented out the small cottage behind my house to a
virtual stranger, a young woman with no
references beyond an ingratiating manner and a goofy
smile, with no job and a purse full of cash.
What, really, did I know about her? Nothing. Not
where she came from. Not what had brought her
to Delray. Not how long she was planning to stay.
Not even what she'd been doing at the hospital
when she saw my notice. Nothing really except
her name.
  She said her name was Alison Simms.
  At the time, of course, I had no reason
to doubt her.



  She arrived for dinner at exactly seven
o'clock, wearing a pair of black cotton pants
and a sleeveless black sweater, with her hair
pulled dramatically back and twisted into a long
braid, so that she looked like an extended
exclamation point. She was carrying a bouquet of
freshly cut flowers in one hand and a bottle of
red wine in the other. "It's an Italian
Amarone, 1997," Alison announced
proudly, then rolled her eyes. "Not that I know
anything about wine, but the man in the liquor store
assured me it was a very good year." She smiled,
her lightly glossed lips overtaking the entire
bottom half of her face, her mouth opening
to reveal an acre of perfect teeth.
My own lips immediately curled into a heartfelt
smile of their own, although they stopped short of
exposing the gentle overbite that not even years of
expensive orthodontics had been able
to correct completely. My mother had always
claimed the overbite was the result of a stubborn
childhood habit of sucking on the middle and
fourth fingers of my left hand while
simultaneously rubbing my nose with the tattered
remains of a favorite baby blanket. But
since my mother had virtually the same overbite,
I'm inclined to believe this aesthetic deficiency
is more genetic than willful.
  Alison followed me through the living and dining
rooms into the kitchen, where I unwrapped the
flowers and filled a tall crystal vase with
water. "Can I do anything to help?" Eager
eyes ferreted into each corner of the room, as if
memorizing each detail.
  "Just pull up a chair, keep me company."
I quickly deposited the flowers in the vase of
lukewarm water, sniffing at the small pink
roses, the delicate white daisies, the
sprays of purple wildflowers. "They're
beautiful. Thank you so much."
  "My pleasure. Dinner smells wonderful."
  "It's nothing fancy," I quickly demurred.
"Just chicken. You eat chicken, don't you?"
  "I eat everything. Put food in front of
me and it's gone within seconds. I'm the world's
fastest eater."
  I smiled as I recalled the way she'd
demolished the piece of cranberry-and-pumpkin
cake I'd given her that afternoon. Had it only
been a matter of hours ago that we'd met? For
some reason, it seemed as if we'd known each
other all our lives, that despite the difference in
our ages, we'd been friends forever. I had
to remind myself how little I actually knew about her.
"So, tell me more about yourself," I said casually,
searching through the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew.
  "Not much to tell." She sank into one of the
wicker chairs at the round glass kitchen table,
although her posture remained erect, even alert,
as if she were afraid of getting too comfortable.
  "Where are you from?" I wasn't trying to pry.
I was just curious, the way one is usually
curious about a new acquaintance. I sensed a
certain wariness on her part to talk about herself. Or
maybe I didn't sense anything at
all. Maybe the small talk we made in my
kitchen that night before dinner was nothing more than it
appeared to be, two people slowly and cautiously
getting to know one another, asking normal questions, not
overanalyzing the responses, moving from one
topic to the next without any particular plan, no
hidden agendas.
  At least there were no hidden agendas on my
part.
  "Chicago," Alison answered.
  "Really? I love Chicago. Where
exactly?"
  "Suburbs," she said vaguely. "How about
you? Are you a native Floridian?"
  I shook my head. "We moved here from
Baltimore when I was fifteen. My father was in
the waterproofing business. He thought Florida was
the natural place to be, what with all the
hurricanes and everything."
  Alison's green eyes widened in alarm.
  "Don't worry. Hurricane season is
over." I laughed, finally locating the
corkscrew at the back of the cutlery drawer.
"That's the thing about Florida," I mused out
loud. "On the surface, everything is so
beautiful, so perfect. Paradise. But if you
look a little closer, you'll see the deadly
alligator lurking just below the water's smooth
surface, you'll see the poisonous snake
slithering through the emerald green grass, you'll
hear the distant hurricane whispering through the
leaves."
  Alison smiled, the warmth of that smile
filling the room, like steam from a kettle. "I could
listen to you talk all night."
  I waved the compliment aside, using my fingers
as a fan, as if trying to protect myself from the
heat. Knowing me, I probably blushed.
  "Have you actually seen a hurricane?"
Alison leaned forward in her chair.
  "Several." I struggled to open the bottle of
Amarone without breaking the cork in two. It had
been a long time since I'd had to open a
bottle of wine. I rarely entertained, and I'd
never been much of a drinker. All it took was one
glass of wine to start my head spinning.
"Hurricane Andrew was the worst, of course.
That one was something else. Makes you really
respect Mother Nature when you witness something like
that up close."
  "What words would you use to describe it?" she
asked, picking up the thread of our earlier game.
  "Terrifying," I answered quickly.
"Ferocious." I paused, twisting the
corkscrew gently to the right, gradually feeling the
cork surrender, begin its slow slide up the
neck of the dark green bottle. I admit to being
suffused with an almost childish sense of pride and
accomplishment as I lifted the vanquished cork
into the air. "Magnificent."
  "I'll get the glasses." Alison was on
her feet and in the dining room before I had time
to tell her where the glasses were.
  "They're in the cabinet," I called after her
unnecessarily. It was almost as if she already
knew where to look.
  "Found them." She returned with two
long-stemmed crystal goblets, holding out first one,
then the other, as I filled each about a quarter of the
way. "They're beautiful. Everything you have is so
beautiful."
  "Cheers," I said, clicking my glass
gently against hers, marveling at the deep red of the
wine.
  "What are we drinking to?"
  "Good health," the nurse in me responded
immediately.
  "And good friends," she added shyly.
  "To new friends," I amended slightly, lifting
my glass to my mouth, the rich aroma filling my
head before I'd tasted a single drop.
  "New beginnings," Alison whispered, her
face disappearing into the roundness of the glass as she
took a long, slow sip of the wine. "Mmm, this
is yummy. What do you think?"
  I quickly mulled over the adjectives
experts generally employed when describing fine
wine--full-bodied, buttery, fruity,
occasionally even whimsical. Never yummy.
What did they know? I thought, rolling the wine
around in my mouth, the way I'd seen men do in
fancy restaurants, feeling the flavor burst
against my tongue. "Yummy is the perfect
word," I agreed after swallowing. "Perfectly
yummy."
  Again the grin that transformed her face, engulfing
her cheeks and swallowing her nose, so that it
looked as if her eyes themselves were smiling. She
took another long sip, then another. I
followed her lead, and before long, it was time
to refill our glasses. This time, I filled them
almost halfway.
  "So, what brought you from Chicago to Delray?"
I asked.
  "I was looking for a change." She might have
stopped had it not been for the obvious questions on my
face. "I don't know exactly." She stared
absently at the rows of ladies' head vases
on the shelves. "I guess I didn't
particularly feel like going through another Chicago
winter, and I had this friend who'd moved to Delray
a few years back. I thought I could come down
here and look her up."
  "Did you?"
  "Did I what?"
  "Look her up."
  Alison looked confused, as if unsure
exactly what her answer should be.
  That's the problem with lying.
  A good liar is always one step ahead. She's
always anticipating, answering one question with an ear
to the next. She's on constant alert, always ready
with a facile reply.
  Of course, all a bad liar needs is an
easy mark.
  "I tried finding her," Alison said after a
pause that lasted perhaps a beat too long. "That's
what I was doing at the hospital when I saw
your notice." The words flowed easier now.
"She'd written that she was working at this private
hospital called Mission Care in Delray,
so I figured I'd surprise her, maybe
take her to lunch, see if she was looking for a
roommate. But personnel said she left a long
time ago." Alison shrugged. Beautifully
carved shoulders lifted up, then down.
"Luckily I saw your notice."
  "What's your friend's name? If she's a
nurse, maybe I can find out where she went."
  "She's not a nurse," Alison said quickly.
"She was a secretary or something."
  "What's her name?" I repeated. "I can ask
around when I get to work tomorrow, see if anyone knows
where she went."
  "Don't bother." Alison ran a distracted
finger along the rim of her wineglass. The glass
made a slight purring sound, as if responding
to a lover's gentle caress. "We weren't that
close."
  "And yet you left your home and
traveled halfway across the country ..."
  Alison shrugged. "Her name is Rita
Bishop. You know her?"
  "Doesn't sound familiar."
  She took a deep breath. Her shoulders
relaxed. "I never liked the name Rita. Do you
like it?"
  "It's not one of my favorites," I
admitted, allowing myself to be steered gently
off-course.
  "What are your favorites?"
  "I don't think I ever really thought about it."
  "I like Kelly," Alison said. "And
Samantha. I think if I ever have a daughter,
I'll name her one of those. And Joseph if I
have a boy. Or maybe Max."
  "You have it all planned out."
  She stared thoughtfully into her goblet for several
long seconds before taking another sip. "Do you have
any children?" The question echoed against the side of the
glass, barely escaped into the surrounding air.
  "No. I'm afraid I never married."
  "You don't have to get married to have babies."
  "Maybe not today," I agreed. "But when I was
growing up in Baltimore, trust me, it
wasn't done." I opened the oven door, felt
a warm rush of fragrant steam in my face.
"Anyway, I hope you're hungry, because this
chicken is ready to be devoured."
  "Let's eat," Alison said with a wide
smile.

  Alison was right. She was the fastest eater
I'd ever seen. Within minutes, everything on her
plate--roast chicken, mashed potatoes,
pureed carrots, multiple stalks of
asparagus--had disappeared. I'd barely
swallowed my first forkful of chicken and she was already
helping herself to seconds.
  "This is so delicious. You are the best cook
ever," she pronounced, her mouth full.
  "I'm glad you like everything."
  "Too bad I didn't bring another bottle
of wine." Alison gave one of her rare
frowns, glancing past the tapered white candles in
the middle of the dining room table toward the now
empty bottle of Amarone.
  "Good thing you didn't. My shift starts at
six in the morning. I'm supposed to be able to stand
up straight."
  "What made you decide to be a nurse?"
Alison finished off what little wine clung to the
sides of her glass.
  "I lost my father and a favorite aunt to cancer
before either reached fifty," I explained, trying not
to see their ravaged faces in the bottom of my
glass. "I felt so helpless, and I didn't
like that, so I decided to go into medicine. My mother
didn't have the money to send me to medical school,
and I didn't have the grades for a full
scholarship, so being a doctor was out. I settled
for the next best thing. And I love it."
  "Even though it's exhausting, exacting, and
infuriating?" Alison laughed as she gently
tossed my earlier words back at me.
  "Even though," I repeated. "And being a
nurse meant I was able to care for my mother after her
stroke, that I was able to keep her at home, that
she died in her own bed, not in some sterile
hospital room."
  "Is that why you never got married?" Alison
asked. "Because you were busy taking care of your mother?"
  "No, I can't really blame her for that. Although
I guess I can try," I said with a laugh. "I
think I just assumed there was all this time, that
eventually I'd meet someone, fall in love,
get married, have a couple of beautiful babies,
live happily ever after. Standard fantasy
101. It just didn't work out that way."
  "There was never anyone special?"
  "Not special enough, I guess."
  "Well, time's not up yet. You never know
..."
  "I'm forty," I reminded her. "I know.
So, what about you? No special someone in
Chicago, waiting for you to come home?"
  She shook her head. "No, not really." She
volunteered nothing further.
  "How did your parents feel about you moving so
far away?"
  Alison stopped eating, lay her fork neatly
across her plate. "These dishes are really neat.
I like the pattern. It's pretty, but it
doesn't interfere with the food, you know what I
mean?"
  Strangely enough, I did. "Your parents
don't know where you are, do they?" I asked
tentatively, not wanting to trespass beyond
invisible boundaries, but eager to know more.
  "I'll call them after I find a
job," she said, confirming my suspicions.
  "Won't they be worried?"
  "I doubt it." She paused, flipped her
braid from one shoulder to the other. "As you've
probably figured out, we weren't on the best of
terms." She paused, her eyes darting back and
forth, as if reading from an invisible text.
"Unfortunately, I had this older brother who was
absolutely perfect. Star forward of the
basketball team in high school, champion
swimmer in college, graduated summa cum
laude from Brown. And here I was, this tall,
skinny kid who was constantly tripping over her
big, clumsy feet. No way I could ever
measure up, so at some point, I stopped
trying. I turned into this major brat, insisted
on doing my own thing, positive I had all the
answers. You know the type."
  "Typical teenager, by the sound of it."
  Large green eyes radiated gratitude.
"Thank you, but I don't think typical is the
word they would use."
  "And what word would they use?"
  Sad grin widened into a smile as her eyes
scanned the ceiling for proper adjectives.
"Impossible," she said after a brief pause.
"Incorrigible. In trouble all the time," she
continued with a laugh, the words running together as one.
"They were always kicking me out of the house. I left
for good the day I turned eighteen."
  "And did what?"
  "Got married."
  "You got married when you were eighteen?"
  "What can I say?" She shrugged. "Standard
fantasy 101."
  I nodded understanding and reached for the bread basket,
accidentally knocking my fork into my lap, where it
deposited a large gob of gravy on my white
pants before bouncing to the floor. Alison immediately
rescued the fork and ran to the kitchen for some soda
water, while I scrambled to my feet,
instantly feeling the effect of so many glasses of
wine.
  Slowly, cautiously, I walked into the living
room, trying to remember the last time a few
glasses of wine had left me so inebriated.
I approached the window and leaned my forehead against
the cool glass.
  That's when I saw him.
  He was standing across the street, as still as the
majestic royal palm he was leaning against, and
even though it was too dark to make out who it was,
I knew from his posture that he was staring at the
house. I squinted into the darkness, tried to gather
the light from the streetlamps into a spotlight and
shine it on his face. But the effect was something
less than I bargained for, and the man almost
disappeared in the resultant blur. "Not a good
idea," I muttered, deciding to confront the man
directly, ask him what he was doing standing there in
the dark, staring at my house.
  I stumbled toward the front door, pulled it
open. "You there," I called out, pointing an
accusing finger at the night.
  There was no one there.
  I craned my neck, peered into the stubborn
darkness, twisted my head from left to right, followed
the road to the corner and back. I strained my
ears for the sound of footsteps in hasty retreat,
heard nothing.
  In the time it had taken for me to get from the window
to the door, the man had vanished. If he'd been
there at all, I thought, recalling the apparition
I thought I'd seen earlier.
  "What are you doing?" Alison asked, coming up
behind me.
  I felt her breath on the back of my neck.
"Just needed some fresh air."
  "Are you okay?"
  "A bit too okay. Did you put something in
my drink?" I joked as Alison closed the
front door, then led me back into the living
room, where she sat me down on one of the Queen
Anne chairs and began dabbing at the gravy stain
on my pant leg with a wet cloth until I
felt the dampness clear to my skin.
  I reached down, stilled her hand. It lingered on
my thigh. "Stain's gone."
  She was instantly on her feet. "Sorry.
There I go again, everything in extremes, that's the
only way I seem to operate. Sorry."
  "Why are you apologizing?" I asked,
genuinely curious. "You didn't do anything
wrong."
  "I didn't? That's a relief." She
laughed, sank down into the other chair, her face
flushed.
  "What happened with your marriage?" I asked
gently, fighting a gnawing unease in my gut,
a sensation that was undoubtedly trying to warn
me that Alison Simms might not be the charmingly
uncomplicated young woman she'd first appeared
to be when I'd handed over the keys to the cottage
at the back of my house.
  "What usually happens when you get married at
eighteen," she said simply, lowering her gaze
to mine, no trace of a smile. "It didn't work
out."
  "I'm sorry."
  "Me too. We tried. We really did.
We split up and got back together a whole
bunch of times, even after our divorce was final."
She impatiently pushed the stray hairs away
from her forehead. "Sometimes it's hard to stay away
from someone, even when you know they're all wrong for
you."
  "And that's why you came to Florida?"
  "Maybe," she acknowledged, then flashed the
glorious smile that obliterated all traces of
sadness or self-doubt. "What's for dessert?"



  "I was fifteen when I lost my virginity,"
Alison was saying, pouring herself a second
small glass of Baileys Irish Cream.
We were sitting on the living room floor, our
backs against the furniture, our legs splayed
out carelessly in front of us, like two abandoned
rag dolls. Alison had insisted on cleaning
up after dinner, washing and drying the dishes by hand before
returning everything to its proper place while I
sat at the kitchen table and watched, marveling at
the deftness of her touch, the speed with which she worked,
the instinctive way she seemed to know where everything
belonged, almost as if she'd been in the house before.
She'd found the Baileys at the back of the dining
room cabinet when she was returning the
wineglasses to their shelf. I'd forgotten I
even had it.
  I don't know why we chose the floor over the
sofa. Probably Alison simply plopped
herself down and I followed suit. The same way
with the Baileys. I'd certainly had no intention
of having any more to drink, but suddenly the
delicately sculpted liqueur glass was in
my hand, and Alison was pouring and I was drinking,
and there you have it. I suppose I could have said no,
but the truth is I was having too good a time. You
have to remember that my days were normally
spent in the company of people who were old, ill, or in
some form of acute distress. Alison was so young,
so vibrant, so alive. She infused me with a
sense of such profound well-being that whatever niggling
doubts or petty reservations I may have had
flew out the window, along with my common sense.
Simply put, I was reluctant to see her
leave, and if drinking a second glass of
Baileys would prolong the evening, then a second
glass of Baileys it would be. I eagerly
proffered my glass for more. She promptly
filled it. "I probably shouldn't have told you
that," she said. "You'll think I'm a slut."
  It took me a minute to realize that she was
referring to her lost virginity. "Of course I
don't think you're a slut," I said
adamantly, as relief washed across Alison's
face, like a paintbrush, almost as if she'd been
waiting for me to exonerate her, to forgive her the
sins of her sometimes errant past. "Besides, I've
got you beat," I offered, trying to make her
feel better, to prove I was hardly one to sit
in judgment.
  "What do you mean?" She leaned forward, lowered
her glass to the carpet. It disappeared inside the
pink petal of a woven flower.
  "I was only fourteen when I lost mine," I
whispered guiltily, as if my mother might still be
listening from the upstairs bedroom.
  "Get out. I don't believe you."
  "It's true." I found myself eager to convince
her, to show her that she wasn't the only one with a
past, with skeletons in her closet, however
small and insubstantial they might be. Maybe
I even wanted to shock her, just a little, to prove
to her--and to myself--that I was more than I appeared at
first glance, that underneath my middle-aged exterior
beat the heart of a wild child.
  Or maybe I was just drunk.
  "His name was Roger Stillman," I continued
without prodding, conjuring up the image of the lanky
young man with light brown hair and large hazel
eyes who'd seduced me with ridiculous ease
back when I was in the ninth grade. "He was two
grades ahead of me at school, so of course
I was monstrously flattered that he even talked
to me. He asked me to the movies, and I lied
to my parents about where I was going, because my mother had
decreed I was too young to date. So I said I
was going to a friend's house to study for a test,
and instead I met Roger at the movie theater.
I remember it was one of the James Bond
movies--don't ask me which one--and I was very
excited because I'd never seen a James Bond
movie before. Not that I saw much of that one either,"
I recalled, remembering Roger's
tobacco-scented breath on my neck as I'd
tried to follow the movie's convoluted plot, his
lips grazing the side of my ear as I'd strained
to make sense of all the double entendres, his hand
sliding down my shoulder to the tops of my breasts
as James coaxed yet another willing female
into his bed. "We left before the movie finished.
Roger had a car." I shrugged, as if that said it
all.
  "Whatever happened to Roger?"
  "He dumped me. No surprises there."
  Alison's face registered her displeasure.
"Were you heartbroken?"
  "Devastated, as only a fourteen-year-old
girl can be. Especially after he bragged about his
conquest to the entire school."
  "He didn't!"
  I laughed at Alison's spontaneous
outburst of indignation. "He did. Roger,
I'm afraid, was a rat of the first order."
  "And whatever happened to the rat?"
  "I have no idea. We moved to Florida the
next year, and I never saw him again." I shook
my head, watched the room spin. "God, I
haven't thought about any of that in so long. That's one
of the amazing things about being young."
  "What is?"
  "You think you'll never get over something, and then,
the next minute, you've forgotten all about it."
  Alison smiled, twisted her head across the
top of her spine, stretching her swanlike neck
until the muscles groaned and released.
  "Everything has such urgency. Everything is so
important. And you think you have so much time," I
said, almost forgetting I was speaking out loud as I
watched her, mesmerized by the motion.
  "Anyone interesting on the horizon?"
Alison rolled her head from side to side.
  "Not really. Well, there's this man," I
confided, although I'd had no intention of doing so
until I heard the words leave my mouth. "Josh
Wylie. His mother is a patient at the
hospital."
  Alison's head returned to the middle
of her shoulders. She said nothing, simply sat and
waited for me to continue.
  "That's it," I said. "He comes up once a
week from Miami to see her. We've only
spoken a few times. But he seems very nice, and
..."
  "And you wouldn't mind getting to know him,"
Alison said, finishing my sentence for me.
  I nodded, deciding that was a mistake when the
room continued bouncing around me like a rubber ball.
Reluctantly, I struggled to my feet. "I
think I'm going to have to call it a night."
  Alison was immediately at my side, her hand
warm on my arm. She seemed steady, as if the
alcohol hadn't affected her at all. "Are you
all right?"
  "Fine," I said, though I wasn't. The
floor kept shifting, and I had to balance against the
side of the sofa to keep from falling over. I made
an exaggerated show of checking my watch, but the
numbers danced randomly across the dial, and I
couldn't tell the small hand from the large. "It's
late," I said anyway, "and I have to be up very
early."
  "I hope I didn't overstay my
welcome."
  "You didn't."
  "You're sure?"
  "Quite sure. I had a really nice evening."
I suddenly had the strange sensation that she was about
to kiss me good-night. "We'll do it again
soon," I said, lowering my head and leading
Alison through the living and dining rooms to the
kitchen, where I promptly walked into the table and
all but fell into her arms.
  "You're sure you're okay?" she asked as I
struggled to recapture my balance, if not my
dignity. "Maybe I should stay and make sure
you get into bed all right."
  "I'm fine. Really. I'm fine," I
repeated before she could ask again.
  Alison was half out the door when she stopped
suddenly, reached into the left pocket of her
black pants, and spun around. The motion left
me reeling. "I just remembered--I found this."
She held out her hand.
  Even with my head spinning and my focus
blurred, I recognized the tiny gold heart
at the center of the slender golden thread in
Alison's open hand. "Where did you get
this?" I reached for it, watching it unravel. The
delicate necklace hung from my fingers like a
forgotten strand of tinsel on a discarded Christmas
tree.
  "I found it under my bed," Alison said,
unconsciously assuming ownership of the contents of the
cottage.
  "Why were you looking under the bed?"
  Surprisingly, Alison blushed bright red.
She shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other, the
first time I'd seen her look truly uncomfortable
in her own skin. When she finally answered me, I
thought I must have misunderstood.
  "What did you say?"
  "Looking for bogeymen," she repeated
sheepishly, lifting her eyes to mine with obvious
reluctance.
  "Bogeymen?"
  "I know it's ridiculous. But I can't help
myself. I've been doing it ever since I was a little
girl and my brother convinced me there was a monster
hiding underneath my bed who was going to eat me as
soon as I fell asleep."
  "You check underneath the bed for bogeymen?" I
repeated, thoroughly, if inexplicably, charmed
by the notion.
  "I check the closets too. Just in case."
  "Do you ever find anyone?"
  "Not so far." She laughed, held out the
necklace for me to take. "Here. Before I forget
and take it home with me."
  "It's not mine." I took a step back,
almost tripping over my own feet, and watching the
room rotate ninety degrees. Sixty-five
ladies' head vases tilted on their shelves.
"It belonged to Erica Hollander, my last
tenant."
  "The one who still owes you several months rent?"
  "The one and only."
  "Then I'd say it belongs to you now." Again
Alison tried to hand over the necklace.
  "You keep it." I wanted nothing more to do with
Erica Hollander.
  "Oh, I couldn't," Alison said, but her
fist was already closing around it.
  "Finders, keepers. Come on, take it.
It's very ... you."
  Alison required no further coaxing. "It
is, isn't it?" She laughed, wrapping the thin
chain around her neck in one fluid
gesture, securing the tiny clasp with ease.
"How does it look?"
  "Like it belongs there."
  Alison patted the heart at her throat,
strained to see her reflection in the darkness of the
kitchen window. "I love it."
  "Wear it in good health."
  "You don't think she'll come back for it, do
you?"
  It was my turn to laugh. "Just let her try.
Anyway, it's late. I have to get some
sleep."
  "Good night." Alison leaned forward, kissed
my cheek. Her hair smelled of strawberries,
her skin of baby powder. Like a newborn baby,
I thought with a smile. "Thanks again," she said.
"For everything."
  "My pleasure." I opened the back door and
took a quick glance around.
  There was no one waiting, no one watching. I
breathed a sigh of relief and waited until
Alison was safely inside the cottage before
closing the kitchen door. My hand brushed against the
spot on my cheek where Alison's lips had
grazed, as I pictured her walking through the
small living area to the bedroom at the back. In
my mind's eye, I watched her kneel to look
under the bed, then check the closet for any stray
monsters who might be lurking. I thought absently
of the man I'd seen standing in front of the house.
Had there been anyone there? And had he been
watching me--or Alison?
  Such a sweet girl, I remember thinking.
So childlike. So innocent.
  Not so innocent, I reminded myself as I
painstakingly made my way up the stairs to my
bedroom. A teenage hellion. Married at
eighteen. Divorced soon after. Not to mention she
could hold her liquor with the best of them.
  I vaguely remember getting undressed and
into my nightgown. Actually, I remember this
only because I put the nightgown on backward the
first time and had to take it off and put it on again.
I don't remember washing my face or brushing
my teeth, although I'm sure I did. I do
remember the way my bare toes sank into the
ivory broadloom as I walked toward my bed,
as if I were wading through thick clumps of mud.
I remember the heaviness in my thighs, as if my
legs had been anchored to the floor. The
queen-size bed that sat in the middle of the room
seemed miles away. It took forever to reach it.
A colossal effort was required for my arms
to pull down the bulky white comforter. I
remember watching it billow around me like a
collapsing parachute as I climbed underneath the
covers. I remember the pillow reaching up
to catch my head before it fell.
  I expected to fall asleep immediately. That's
the way it always is in the movies. People drink too
much, they get dizzy and disoriented, they pass out.
Sometimes they get sick first. But I didn't
get sick and I didn't pass out. I just lay
there, my head spinning in the darkness, knowing I had
to get up in a matter of hours, desperate for a
sleep that stubbornly refused to come. I flipped
from my left side to my right, tried lying on my
back, and even my stomach, before I gave up and
returned to my original position. I brought my
knees to my chest, threw one leg atop the other,
twisted my body into shapes that would have made a
contortionist proud. Nothing worked. I thought of
taking a sleeping pill and was almost half out of bed
before I remembered it was a mistake to mix
pills and alcohol. In any event, it was too
late for sedatives. By the time they took effect,
my alarm clock would be shaking me awake, and
I'd spend most of the next day in a dreary
fog, like the worst kind of rainy day.
  I thought of reading, but I'd been struggling with the
book on my night table for weeks and still hadn't
made it past the fourth chapter. Besides, my brain
was as tired as my eyes, and trying to digest
anything at this hour would be an exercise in
frustration and futility. No, I decided, I
had no choice but to lie there in bed and wait
patiently for sleep to come.
  It didn't.
  Half an hour later, I was still waiting. I
took several long, deep breaths and improvised
a half dozen yoga exercises I'd seen
illustrated in a magazine, although I had no
idea if I was doing them correctly. The
hospital offered yoga classes, but I'd never
quite gotten around to signing up. Just as I'd never quite
gotten around to trying Pilates or
transcendental meditation, or sending away for the
AB-DOER I saw regularly advertised on
TV. I made a silent vow to do all those things
first thing in the morning, if only I could
fall asleep right now.
  No deal.
  I thought of turning on the television across from
my bed--undoubtedly there was a rerun of Law
and Order on somewhere, but decided against it,
choosing to replay Alison's visit instead.
What on earth had possessed me to tell her the
things I had, information I'd never shared with anyone
before? Roger Stillman, for God's sake! Where
had that come from? I hadn't even thought of him since
I'd left Baltimore.
  And what had she really told me?
  That she'd lost her virginity at fifteen.
  What else?
  Not much, I realized. Alison may have opened
memory's floodgates, but she'd remained
resolutely outside them. No, I was the one
who'd rushed eagerly inside, throwing caution and
good sense to the wind. That was one of the more interesting
things about Alison, I decided, as a low buzz
settled behind my ears. She only seemed to be
confiding in you. What she was really doing was getting
you to confide in her.
  That's what I was thinking when I finally fell
asleep. I don't remember drifting off. I
do remember dreaming. Nothing substantial or
particularly meaningful. Silly little vignettes:
Roger Stillman imitating James Bond in
the backseat of his car; Josh Wylie's mother
smiling at me from her hospital bed, asking me
to put the bouquet of yellow and orange roses
her son had brought with him from Miami into a vase;
my mother warning me I hadn't set my alarm
clock.
  It was this realization that I hadn't, in fact,
remembered to set my alarm that woke me up at
two minutes past four in the morning, sent me
stretching toward the night table at the side of my
bed. My hands reached out in the semidarkness, my
eyes opening only with the greatest reluctance as my
fingers searched for the clock radio.
  It was at that moment that I saw the tall
figure at the foot of my bed.
  At first I thought it must be some sort of
apparition, a trick my wine-saturated brain
was playing on my senses, perhaps a dream that had
failed to disperse upon waking, a haunting mixture
of moonlight and shadows. It was only when the
figure moved that I understood it was real.
  And I screamed.
  The scream sliced through the darkness like a blade
through flesh, scraping at the surrounding air, leaving
it tattered and bleeding. That this insane, inhuman
sound could emanate from my body scared me almost as
much as the figure moving slowly toward me, and I
screamed again.
  "I'm so sorry," a voice was whimpering.
"I'm so sorry."
  I'm not sure exactly when I realized the
stranger in my room was Alison, whether it was the
sound of her voice or the glint of the small gold
heart at her throat. She was holding her head,
as if she'd been struck, and swaying from side
to side, as if she were a tree being buffeted by the
wind. "I'm so sorry," she kept repeating.
"I'm so sorry."
  "What are you doing here?" I finally managed
to get out, swallowing another scream that was rising in
my throat, and stretching toward the lamp at the
side of my bed.
  "No!" she cried. "Please don't turn it
on."
  I froze, not sure what to do next. "What
are you doing here?"
  "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to wake you
up."
  "What are you doing here?" I repeated over the
loud pounding of my heart.
  "My head ..." She started pulling at her
hair as if trying to pull it out by the roots.
"I'm having a migraine."
  I climbed out of bed, took several
tentative steps toward her. "A migraine?"
  "I guess all that red wine must have triggered
something--" She stopped, as if unable to continue.
  I reached her side, put my arm around her,
lowered her to the side of my bed. She was wearing a
long, white cotton nightgown not unlike my
own, and her hair hung loose and free around a
face wet with tears. "How did you get in the
house?" I asked.
  "The door wasn't locked."
  "That's impossible. I always lock it." Although
I'd been pretty woozy, I reminded myself.
It was possible I'd forgotten to lock the door,
just as I'd forgotten to set the alarm clock.
  "It was open. I knocked first. You didn't
answer. That's when I tried the door. I was
hoping I could find something in your medicine cabinet
without waking you up. I'm so sorry."
  I glanced toward the bathroom. "The strongest
thing I have is extra-strength Tylenol."
  Alison nodded, as if to say anything was
better than nothing.
  I left her sitting on the edge of my bed
while I ran into the bathroom and ferreted through the
mostly useless items on the shelves of the
medicine cabinet until I found the small
bottle of pills. I shook four into the palm of
my hand, filled a glass full of water, and
returned with them to my bedroom.
  "Take these," I instructed. "I'll try
to get you something stronger in the morning."
  "I'll be dead by morning," she said, and tried
to laugh. But the laugh detoured into a moan as she
swallowed the pills and buried her head against my
shoulder, trying to block out what little light there was
in the room.
  "That'll teach both of us," I heard myself say
in my mother's voice as I stroked her arm,
rocked her gently back and forth, like a baby.
"You'll sleep here tonight."
  Alison offered no resistance as I led her
around the side of the bed, pulled the covers around
her. "What about you?" she asked, her eyes
closed, the question an obvious afterthought.
  "I'll sleep in the other room," I said.
  But already Alison had pulled the comforter up
over her head, and the only signs I had that she was
there were a few strands of strawberry-blond hair
that curled over the top of my pillow like a question
mark.



  Alison was still sleeping when I left the house
the next morning.
  I thought of waking her up, ushering her back
to her own bed, but she looked so peaceful lying there,
so vulnerable, her soft blush of strawberry-
blond hair in marked contrast to her skin's still
ghostly pallor, that I hated to disturb her. My
experience with migraine sufferers was that, like most
drunks, they needed twenty-four hours to sleep
it off. I did the math, decided there was a good
chance Alison would still be sleeping when I arrived
back home at four o'clock that afternoon. What was the
point in waking her?
  Looking back, this was undoubtedly a
mistake, although not my first mistake where
Alison was concerned, and certainly not my last.
No, it was only one of many errors in judgment
I made about the girl who called herself Alison
Simms. But hindsight is easy. Of course it
was stupid to allow a virtual stranger to stay
unattended in my house. Of course I was asking
for trouble. All I can say in my defense is that
it didn't feel that way at the time. At barely
6 A.m., with maybe a total of four hours
of sleep, leaving Alison alone in the house that
morning felt natural and right. What was there
to worry about after all? That she'd abscond with my
ancient nineteen-inch TV? That she'd commandeer a
wheelbarrow to cart away my mother's collection of
china head vases, perhaps hold a garage sale
on my front lawn? That I'd come back to find
the house and cottage burned to the ground?
  Maybe I should have been more careful, more
circumspect, less trusting.
  But I wasn't.
  Besides, what is it they say about letting
sleeping dogs lie?
  Anyway, I left Alison sleeping in my
bed, like Goldilocks, I remember thinking,
chuckling as I tiptoed down the stairs in my
clunky white nurse's shoes, opening and closing
the front door as silently as possible. My
car, a five-year-old, black Nissan, was
parked in the driveway beside the house. I cast a
desultory glance down the empty street, hearing
the faint hum of traffic several blocks away.
The city was waking up, I thought, wishing I could
trade my polyester white uniform for my white
cotton nightgown and crawl back into bed.
Luckily, I wasn't as tired as I'd feared
I might be. In fact, I was feeling
surprisingly well.
  I backed the car onto the street, opening the
windows to let in the cool morning air.
November is a lovely time of year in South
Florida. The temperature usually stays on
the comfortable side of eighty; the oppressive
humidity of the summer months is pretty much
gone; the threat of extreme weather is over.
Instead, the sky provides a continually shifting
combination of sun and clouds, along with the occasional
burst of welcome rain. And we get more than our
fair share of absolutely flawless afternoons, days
when the sun sits high in a borderless panorama
of shiny Kodacolor blue. Today looked
as if it might be that kind of day. Maybe when I
got home, I'd see if Alison was feeling
well enough to go for a walk on the beach. There's nothing
like the ocean to heal the spirit and calm the troubled soul.
Maybe it could work its magic on a migraine
headache, I thought, glancing up at my bedroom
window.
  For a minute, I thought I saw the curtains
move, and I hit the brake, inched my face
closer to the glass of the car's front window. But
on closer inspection, it appeared I'd been
mistaken, that it was only the outside shadows of
nearby trees that were dancing against my bedroom
window, creating the illusion of movement from inside
the house. I sat watching the window for several
seconds, listening to the whispering of the palm
fronds in the breeze. The curtains at my
bedroom window hung undisturbed.
  My foot transferred from brake to gas
pedal, and I proceeded slowly for several
blocks along Seventh Avenue until I
reached Atlantic, where I turned left. The
normally congested main thoroughfare of Delray is
largely empty at this hour of the morning, one of the
few perks of having to be at work so early, and I
had an unencumbered view of the many smart shops,
galleries, and restaurants that had redefined the
city in recent years. To the surprise of many,
myself included, Delray had become something of a
"hot spot," a destination as opposed to a
drive-through. I loved the unexpected changes,
the aura of excitement, even if I was rarely
part of it. Alison, I knew instinctively,
would love it here.
  I passed the tennis center on the north side
of Atlantic, where every spring they hold the
Citrix Open, past the Old School Square
on the northwest corner of Atlantic and
Swinton, continued on past the South County
Courthouse and the Delray Beach Fire Station
on my left. I took the underpass at
I-95 to Jog Road, then headed south.
Five minutes later I was at the hospital.
  Mission Care is a small, private health
facility housed in a five-story building,
painted bub7um pink, that specializes in
chronic care. The majority of patients are
elderly and in considerable distress, and as a
result, they're often angry and upset. Who can
blame them? They know they aren't going
to get better, that they're never going home, that this
is, in fact, their final resting place. Some have
been here for years, lying in their narrow beds,
blank eyes staring at blank ceilings, waiting
for the nurse to bathe them or adjust their position,
longing for visitors who rarely come, silently
praying for death while stubbornly clinging to life.
  It must be so depressing, people are always saying
to me, to be constantly surrounded by the sick and the
dying. And sometimes, I admit, it is. It's
never easy to watch people suffer, to comfort a young woman
stricken by MS in the prime of her life, to tend
to a comatose child who will never wake up, to try
calming an old man with Alzheimer's as he
shouts obscenities at the son he no longer
remembers.
  And yet, some moments make it all
worthwhile. Moments when the most banal act of
kindness is rewarded by a smile so blinding it
brings tears to your eyes, or by a whispered
thank-you so sincere it makes you go weak at the
knees. This is why I became a nurse, I
understand in moments like these, and if that makes me a
hopeless romantic or a silly sentimentalist,
so be it.
  Probably it is this quality that makes me
such an easy target. I suffer from Anne
Frank's delusion that people are basically good at
heart.
  I parked my car in the staff parking lot at the
front of the hospital and made my way through the
lobby, past the gift shop and pharmacy that wouldn't
be open for another few hours, to the coffee shop that
was already busy. I waited in line for a cup of
tasteless black coffee and a fat-free,
cranberry-studded muffin. I thought of Alison,
how much she loved cranberries. I had a
recipe at the back of one of my drawers for
banana-cranberry muffins. I decided to make
a batch when I got home.
  The administration offices were closed till
nine, and I made a mental note to stop by later
to inquire about Alison's friend, Rita Bishop.
Even though Alison had told me not to bother,
I thought it might be worth a try. Rita might
have left a forwarding address. One of the
secretaries might know where she'd gone.
  I'd already finished my coffee and was halfway
through my muffin when the doors of the excruciatingly
slow-moving elevator finally opened onto
the fourth floor. The nurses' station was already
buzzing. "What's up?" I asked Margot
King, a heavyset woman with copper-orange
hair and blue contact lenses. Margot had been
a nurse at Mission Care for more than ten
years, and during that decade the color of her
eyes had changed almost as often as the color of her
hair. The only constant was the color of her
uniform, which was a crisp Alpine white, and the
color of her skin, which was a wondrous ebony
black.
  "Rape victim," Margot said, her voice
a whisper.
  "A rape victim? Why'd they bring her
here?"
  "The rape was three months ago. Guy beat
her with a baseball bat, left her for dead.
She's been in a coma ever since. Doesn't
look like she's going home anytime soon. Her
family decided to bring her here when Delray
Medical Center needed the bed."
  "How old?" I asked, bracing myself.
  "Nineteen."
  I sighed, my shoulders collapsing, as if
someone had jumped on them from a great height.
"Any more pleasant surprises?"
  "Same old, same old. Mrs. Wylie's
been asking for you."
  "Already?"
  "Since five o'clock. "Where's my Terry?
Where's my Terry?"'" Margot repeated in
Myra Wylie's frail voice.
  "I'll look in on her." I started down the
hall, stopped. "Is Caroline here yet?"
  "Not till eleven."
  "She gets migraines, doesn't she?"
  "Oh, yeah. She suffers real bad from those
damn things."
  "When she gets in, will you tell her I need
to see her?"
  "Problems?"
  "A friend," I said, continuing down the peach-
colored hall toward Myra Wylie's room.
  I slowly pushed open the door and peeked my
head through, in case the frail, eighty-seven-
year-old woman fighting both chronic
leukemia and congenital heart disease might have
drifted back to sleep.
  "Terry!" Myra Wylie's voice wafted
up from the center of her hospital bed,
quivering into the air like smoke from a cigarette.
"There's my Terry."
  I approached the bed, patted the bony hand beneath
the sterile white sheets, smiled at the graying
face with the watery blue eyes. "How are you today,
Myra?"
  "Wonderful," she said, the same thing she said every
time I asked, and I laughed. She laughed too,
although the sound was weak and segued quickly into a cough.
  Still, in those few seconds, I saw traces
of the beautiful, vibrant woman Myra Wylie
had been before her body began its slow, insidious
betrayal. I could also make out the face of her
son Josh in the sculpted lines of her
cheekbones, the soft bow of her lips. Josh
Wylie would be a very handsome old man, I couldn't
help but think as I pulled up a chair and sat
down beside his mother. "I understand you've been asking for
me."
  "I was thinking maybe we could do something different
with my hair next time we wash it."
  I smoothed the fine gray hair away from her
face with my fingers. "What style do you think you'd
like?"
  "I don't know. Something more with it."
  "With it?"
  "Maybe a bob."
  "A bob?" I fluffed out the fragile wisps
of hair that framed Myra's face. Her skin was
sinking, the heavy lines around her eyes and mouth
becoming folds, caving in around her. Slowly, the
living tissue was morphing into a death mask. How
much longer did she have? "A bob," I repeated.
"Sure. Why not?"
  Myra smiled. "That cute little nurse with all
the freckles was in last night. The young one,
what's her name?"
  "Sally?"
  "Yes, Sally. She brought me my medicine and
we got to talking, and she asked me how old I
was. You should have seen the look on her face when
I told her I'm seventy-seven."
  I searched Myra's eyes for signs she was
teasing, saw none. "Myra," I told her
gently. "You're not seventy-seven."
  "I'm not?"
  "You're eighty'-seven."
  "Eighty-seven?" There was a long pause as
Myra's trembling hand reached for her heart.
"That's a shock!"
  I laughed, stroked her shoulder.
  "Are you sure?"
  "That's what it says on your chart. But we can
check with your son next time he visits."
  "I think that's a good idea." Myra's eyes
fluttered to a close, her voice growing faint.
"Because I think there has to be some mistake."
  "We'll ask Josh on Friday." I eased
out of my chair and walked to the door. When I
turned back to check on her, she was sound
asleep.
  The rest of the morning was uneventful. I tended
to patients, fed them their breakfast and lunch,
changed soiled sheets, helped those who could still
walk to the bathroom. I looked in on Sheena
O'Connor, the nineteen-year-old rape victim
who'd been transferred from Delray Medical
Center, filling the room with idle chatter as I
surveyed the scars and bruises that made a
mockery of her once innocent face, but if she
heard me, she gave no sign.
  Normally, I eat lunch in the hospital
cafeteria--the food is surprisingly good and you
can't beat the price--but today I was anxious
to check on Alison. I thought of phoning, but I
didn't want to wake her in case she was still
sleeping, and besides, I didn't think she'd
answer my phone. So armed with two Imitrex
tablets I'd bought from Caroline--"I'd give
them to you, but they're so damned expensive!"--and the
names of several doctors in the area I thought
Alison should contact, I used my lunch hour
to drive home and see how she was doing.
  Pulling into my driveway, I saw a young
man with a baseball cap pulled low on his
forehead lurking behind a corner tree, in almost the
same spot where I'd seen the man yesterday, but
by the time I parked my car and came back to look,
he was gone. I looked down the street in time
to see him disappear around the corner and thought
momentarily of going after him. Luckily I was
distracted by the sound of barking dogs, and I turned
back toward my house. Bettye McCoy was
standing beside a neighbor's prized rosebush,
pretending not to notice that one of her dogs was
peeing all over it. I thought of asking her if
she'd noticed any suspicious strangers in the
area, but decided against it. Bettye McCoy
had barely acknowledged my existence ever since
I'd chased one of her precious
Bichons out of my yard with a broomstick.
  I slipped my shoes off at the front
door, silently cursing the slight creaking
noise the door made as I closed it,
determining to oil it when I got home at the end
of my shift. The house was eerily quiet
except for the gentle hum of the air conditioner. A
quick look around told me everything was in its
correct place. Nothing had been disturbed.
  I tiptoed up the stairs to my bedroom,
coughed quietly so as not to scare Alison if she
was awake, then opened the door.
  The curtains were still pulled, so it took me a
few seconds to determine that the room was empty
and the bed neatly made. Goldilocks was no
longer sleeping in my bed. "Alison?" I
called out, checking the bathroom and the second
bedroom before heading back downstairs.
"Alison?" She was gone.
  "Alison?" I called out again at the door
to her cottage, knocking gently. No one
answered. I tried peering in the windows, but I
saw nothing. Nor could I hear anyone moving
around inside. Was it possible Alison had felt
well enough to go out? Or was she lying on her
bathroom floor, her head pressed against the
cold tiles for relief, too sick and weak
to respond to my knock? Despite common sense
telling me I was overreacting, I returned to the
front door and knocked more forcefully.
"Alison," I called loudly. "Alison,
it's Terry. Are you all right?"
  I waited only thirty more seconds before
letting myself in. "Alison?" I called again
once inside.
  I knew the cottage was empty the minute I
crossed the threshold, but still I persisted,
repeatedly calling out Alison's name as I inched
toward the bedroom. The clothes she'd worn last
night lay in a careless diagonal across the
bedroom floor, discarded and abandoned where they
fell. The bed was unmade and redolent with her
scent, a potent mix of strawberries and baby
powder still clinging to the rumpled sheets and crumpled
pillows, but Alison herself was nowhere to be seen.
I'm embarrassed to say I actually checked
underneath the bed. Did I think the dreaded
bogeyman had surfaced, snatched Alison
while she lay sleeping? I don't know what I
thought. Nor do I know what possessed
me to check the small, walk-in closet. Did
I think she was hiding inside? Truth to tell,
I don't know what I was thinking. Probably
I wasn't thinking at all.
  Alison had little in the way of clothes. A
few dresses, including the blue sundress
she'd worn at our first meeting. Several pairs
of jeans. A white blouse. A black leather
jacket. Perhaps half a dozen T-shirts were
stacked in one corner of the long, built-in
shelf, some lacy underwear crammed into the other.
Well-worn, black-and-white sneakers sat beside
a pair of obviously new, silver sling-back
heels. I lifted one shoe into my hand, wondering
how anyone managed to walk in those damn things.
I hadn't worn a heel that high in--well,
I'd never worn a heel that high, I
realized, glancing toward my stockinged feet,
reaching down before I was even aware of what I was
doing and slipping on first one shoe, then the other.
  It was at that moment--standing there in Alison's
sexy shoes--that I heard movement in the next
room and felt the vibration of footsteps as they
drew near. I froze, not sure what to do. It
was one thing to tell Alison that I'd been so
concerned about her health I'd felt entitled
to invade her privacy, but how was I going
to explain being discovered in her closet, teetering
precariously in her new, silver, sling-back,
high-heeled shoes?
  For one insane second, I actually thought of
clicking those heels together and reciting, "There's
no place like home; there's no place like
home," in hopes that, like Dorothy in The
Wizard of Oz, I would be transported
miraculously back to my own living room. Or
Kansas, for that matter. Anywhere but here, I
thought, feeling Alison's presence in the
doorway. "I'm so sorry," I said, waiting
for her to appear. "Please forgive me."
  Except no one was there. There was only me and
my overactive imagination. Not to mention my
guilt for being where I didn't belong. I stood
in the closet, wobbling in those outrageous three-
inch heels, waiting for my heartbeat to return
to normal. Some criminal I'd make, I
thought, kicking off the shoes and returning them to their
place beside the tired-looking sneakers.
  At that point, I should have gotten the hell out of
there. Alison was obviously feeling
better. There was no need to be concerned.
Certainly no reason for me to be standing in the
middle of what was now, after all, her place. And
I was on my way out--I really was--when I
saw it.
  Her journal.
  It was lying open on the top of the white wicker
dresser, as if waiting to be read, almost as if
Alison had left it that way deliberately, as
if she'd been expecting me to drop by. I
tried not to notice it, tried to walk by it without
stopping to look, without stooping to look, I should
probably say, but the damn thing drew me like a
magnet. Almost against my will, I found my eyes
dipping through the dramatic swirls and loops of
Alison's elaborate scrawl, as if on some
wild, visual roller-coaster ride.
  Sunday, November 4: Well, I did
it. I'm actually here.
  I stopped, slammed the journal shut, then
realized it had been open when I found it and quickly
rifled through the pages looking for the last entry.
  Thursday, October 11: Lance says
I'm crazy. He says to remember what
happened last time.
  Friday, October 26: I'm getting
nervous. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after
all.
  Sunday, October 28: Lance keeps
warning me against getting too attached. Maybe
he's right. Maybe this whole plan is just too
crazy.
  Back to the last entry without allowing my eyes
to settle, the words to sink in.
  Sunday, November 4: Well, I did
it. I'm actually here. I'm living in the
cottage behind her house, and she's even invited
me over for dinner. She seems nice, if not
exactly what I was expecting.
  What did that mean?
  What had she been expecting?
  We'd spoken for less than a minute on the
phone, scarcely enough time to form any impressions
at all.
  Lance says I'm crazy. He says
to remember what happened last time.
  were these entries somehow related?
  "I'm doing it again," I said out loud. Letting
my imagination get the better of me. The
snatches I'd read in Alison's
journal could mean anything. Or nothing. The
discomfort I was feeling had more to do with my own
guilt for snooping through Alison's personal
belongings than it did with her innocent scribblings.
I pulled away from the diary as if it were a
hissing snake.
  And I did nothing. Not then, not later, not even
after I returned home at the end of my shift and
stopped by to see how Alison was doing, and she
told me that, aside from a brief walk around the
block, she'd spent pretty much the whole day in
bed.
  I left her with the Imitrex, a list of
doctors in the area, and some homemade chicken
soup, deciding to be pleasant, but to keep my
distance--not allow myself to get too attached, as
the mysterious Lance would undoubtedly advise--and
somehow I managed to convince myself that as long as
Alison paid her rent on time and followed my
rules, everything would be fine.



  By Friday, I had all but forgotten the diary.
One of the other nurses was sick with a nasty flu,
so I'd volunteered to take her shift as well
as my own on both Wednesday and Thursday, and as
a result, I didn't see Alison at
all. I did receive a lovely note from her,
thanking me for dinner and apologizing profusely
for being such a nuisance. She assured me she was
feeling much better and suggested going to a movie
on the weekend, if I had any free time. I
didn't respond, deciding to plead exhaustion
if and when we actually connected. If I turned
down enough such overtures, I reasoned, Alison
would get the message, and our relationship would
revert to what it should have been in the first place,
landlord and tenant. I'd been too hasty in
allowing Alison into my life.
  "What are you thinking about, dear?" the voice beside
me asked with marked concern.
  "Hmm? What? Sorry," I said, returning
to the present, casting unwanted memories
aside, returning my full attention to the withered
old woman connected to life by a series of
tubes that force-fed nutrients into her collapsing
veins.
  Myra Wylie's eyes radiated quiet
curiosity. "You were a million miles
away."
  "Sorry. Did I hurt you?" My hands
dropped from the IV I'd been adjusting.
  "No, dear. You couldn't hurt me if you
tried. Stop apologizing. Is everything all
right?"
  "Everything's fine." I secured the blanket
at her toes. "You're doing remarkably
well."
  "I meant with you. Is everything all right with you?"
  "Everything's fine," I repeated, as if trying
to reassure myself as well.
  "You can talk to me, you know. If you have a
problem."
  I smiled gratefully. "I appreciate
that."
  "I mean it."
  "I know you do."
  "You look like you have very deep thoughts," Myra
Wylie remarked, and I laughed out loud.
"Don't laugh. Josh thinks so too."
  I felt my pulse quicken. "Your son thinks
I have deep thoughts?"
  "That's what he said last time he was here."
  I felt almost ridiculously flattered, like a
teenage girl who's just found out the silly boy
she has a crush on feels the same way about
her. I checked my watch, noted the trembling in
my fingers. "Well, it's almost noon. He should
be here any minute."
  "He thinks you're very nice."
  Was I mistaken, or was there a playful glint
in Myra's watery eyes? "Oh, he does,
does he?"
  "Josh deserves someone nice," Myra was
saying, almost to herself. "He's divorced, you know.
I've told you about that, haven't I?"
  I nodded, eager for more details, but careful
to look only mildly curious.
  "She left him for her aerobics instructor.
Can you imagine? Stupid woman." Myra
Wylie's frail shoulders stiffened with righteous
indignation. "Destroys the family. Breaks my
son's heart. And for what? So she can march off
into the sunset with some muscle-bound bodybuilder
ten years her junior, who dumps her less
than six months later--what did she expect?
--and of course, now she sees the error of her
ways, now she wants him back. But Josh is
too smart for that, thank God. He'll
never let that woman back into his life."
Myra's voice began breaking up, like a bad
radio signal, then dissolved into a worrisome
combination of coughs and wheezes.
  "Take deep breaths," I cautioned, watching
Myra's breathing gradually return to normal.
"That's better. You shouldn't let yourself get so
upset. It's not worth it. It's all over now.
They're divorced."
  "He will never let that woman back into his
life."
  "Never," I repeated.
  "He deserves someone nice."
  "Absolutely."
  "Someone like you," Myra said. Then: "You like
children, don't you?"
  "I love children." I followed her eyes to the
two silver-framed pictures of her smiling
grandchildren that sat on the movable nightstand beside her
bed.
  "Of course they're older now than when these
pictures were taken. Jillian is fifteen, and
Trevor is almost twelve."
  "I know. We've met," I reminded her.
"They're lovely children."
  "They went through hell after Jan left."
  "I'm sure it wasn't easy." It's never
easy to lose your mother, I remember thinking. No
matter how old you are, no matter what the
circumstances. A mother is a mother is a mother, I
thought, and almost laughed. So much for the depth of my
thoughts. "I should get going. Is there anything I
can do for you before your son gets here?"
  "Comb my hair a little, if you don't mind?"
  "It will be my pleasure." I ran a gentle
comb across Myra's scalp, watching the delicate
strands of gray hair immediately fall back
into place, as if untouched. "You were right about the
bob. It's very becoming."
  "You think so?" A smile, eager as a child's,
spread across her face.
  "Now all the nurses are asking me to cut their
hair. They say I missed my calling."
  "I don't think you miss a thing." Myra
reached out to squeeze my hand.
  "I'll be back to say hello to your son,"
I said with a wink.
  "Terry?" she called as I was about to leave the
room. I swiveled around as she brought her fingers
to her lips. "Maybe a little lipstick?"
  I started back toward the bed.
  "No. Not me," she said quickly. "Y."
  I laughed, shaking my head as I returned
to the door. I was still laughing as I stepped into the
hall and saw Alison standing in front of the
nurses' station.
  "Terry!" Alison rushed forward to greet
me, arms extended, face flushed with pride.
She was wearing her blue sundress and her hair
fell in lush tendrils around her shoulders.
Erica Hollander's necklace hung around her
neck, the tiny gold heart resting at her
collarbone, as if it had been there all her
life.
  "Alison! What are you doing here?" I
looked toward Margot and Caroline, both of whom
were busy behind the long, curving desk of the nurses'
station, Margot on the phone, Caroline entering
notes in a patient's chart. They glanced in our
direction, pretending not to be paying attention.
  "I did it! I did it!" Alison was
jumping up and down, like a small child.
  I brought my finger to my lips in a silent
signal for her to settle down and lower her
voice. "Did what?"
  "I got a job," she squealed, unable
to contain herself. "At the Lorelli Gallery.
On Atlantic Avenue. Four days a week,
some Saturdays, some evenings. Shift work," she
said, beaming. "Like you."
  "That's great," I heard myself say, her
enthusiasm catchy despite my effort to remain
detached. "What exactly will you be doing?"
  "Selling mostly. Of course, I don't know
much about art, but Fern said she'd teach me everything
I need to know. Fern's my boss. Fern
Lorelli. She seems very nice. Do you know
her?"
  I started to shake my head, but Alison had
already moved on.
  "I told her I didn't know much about art,
because I figured I should be honest, right? I
didn't want her to give me the job under false
pretenses. I mean, she'd find out soon enough
anyway, right? But she said not to worry, she'd
handle the art, that I should stick mostly to the
jewelry and gift items they sell, although if
I do manage to sell one of the paintings, I'd
get a commission. Five percent. Isn't that
great?"
  "It's great," I agreed.
  "Some of those paintings sell for thousands of
dollars, so that'd be fantastic, if I sold
one of them. But mostly I'll be behind the cash
register. Me and this other girl who works there.
Denise Nickson, I think her name is.
She's Fern's niece. And what else? Oh--
I get twelve dollars an hour, and I start
on Monday. Isn't that great?"
  "It's great," I said again.
  "I couldn't wait to tell you, so I came right
over."
  "Congratulations."
  "Can I take you to lunch?"
  "Lunch?"
  "To celebrate. My treat."
  I shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
Technically, I was on my lunch break right now,
and my stomach had been making hungry noises
for the past hour. "I can't. Things are so busy here
today. ..."
  "Dinner, then."
  "I can't. I'm working a double shift."
  "Tomorrow night," she persisted. "That's even
better. It's a Saturday, so you can sleep in
the next morning. You're not busy tomorrow night, are
you?"
  "No," I said, realizing that Alison wouldn't
settle for less than a definite date, even
if she had to go through every day from now till
Christmas. "But really, it isn't necessary for you
to take me out."
  "Of course it is," Alison insisted.
"Besides, I want to. To thank you for all you've
done for me."
  "I haven't done anything."
  "Are you kidding? You gave me the best place
in the whole wide world to live, you cooked me
dinner, you made me feel welcome. You even
took care of me when I got sick. I owe you
big time, Terry Painter."
  "You don't owe me anything but the rent," I
said, struggling to keep my distance, feeling myself
sway reluctantly back into her orbit,
falling under her spell. You gave me the best
place in the whole wide world to live. Who
says things like that? How could you not be charmed?
  Besides, what was I so worried about? What could
I possibly have to fear, especially from someone like
Alison? Even assuming the worst, that
she was some sort of clever con artist, what could
she possibly be after? I had little in the way of
material goods--my small house, its tiny
adjacent cottage, negligible savings, my
mother's silly collection of ladies' head
vases. So what? Small potatoes, all of
it. This was Florida, for heaven's sake. Forty
minutes north were the oceanside mansions of
Palm Beach and Hobe Sound; forty minutes
south were the palatial homes of Miami's
infamous South Beach. Florida was synonymous
with money, with wealthy old men just waiting to be
taken advantage of by beautiful young girls.
Hell, it's what was keeping them alive. It
didn't make sense that Alison would waste her
time with me.
  I realize now that there are times when our brains
will simply not allow us to accept the evidence our
own eyes present, that the desire for
self-delusion outweighs the instinct for
self-preservation, that no matter how old we are
or how wise we think we've become, we are
never really convinced of our own mortality. Besides,
since when do things have to make sense?
  "So, are we on?" Alison's big, loopy
grin widened with expectation.
  "We're on," I heard myself reply.
  "Great." She spun around in a full
circle, the skirt of her sundress swirling
around her knees. "Anywhere in particular you'd like
to go?"
  I shook my head. "Surprise me."
  She rubbed the gold heart at her throat.
"I love surprises."
  As if on cue, the fire alarm sounded. It
turned out to be a false alarm, but in the few
minutes it took to make sure everything was okay,
chaos reigned. When I returned to the nurses'
station after reassuring several panicky patients
that the hospital was not about to become a blazing
inferno, Alison was gone.
  "Everybody okay?" Margot asked.
  "Mr. Austin said, fire or no fire, he
wasn't going anywhere without his teeth." I
laughed, picturing the feisty old man in room
411.
  "Pretty girl you were talking to earlier,"
Margot remarked.
  "My new tenant."
  "Really? Well, I hope you have
better luck this time around."

  The next hour passed in relative calm.
There were no more fire alarms, no unexpected
visitors. After a brief lunch in the
cafeteria, I kept busy checking pulses,
delivering pain medication, helping patients to and from
the bathroom, comforting them as they railed against their
fate. At some point I found myself at the door
to Sheena O'Connor's room. I hesitated
briefly, then pushed the door open and stepped
inside.
  The teenager lay in the middle of her bed, staring
at the ceiling with eyes wide with terror. Was she
seeing the man who'd raped and beaten her senseless,
then left her for dead? I approached the bed,
reached out, and touched her hand, but if she felt my
touch at all, she gave no sign. "It's
okay," I whispered. "You're safe now."
  I pulled up a chair, sat down beside her, the
words to an old Irish lullaby suddenly dancing
inside my head. It took a few seconds for
me to find the tune, and next thing I knew I was
singing--softly, gently, as one sings to a newborn
baby--"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra ...
too-ra-loo-ra-lie ..."
  I don't know what made me think of that
particular song. I couldn't remember my mother ever
singing it to me. Maybe it was the name O'Connor.
Maybe I thought Sheena's mother might have sung it
to her, that the song might stir something deep in the
girl's subconscious, remind her of a time when
she felt secure and protected, a time when no
harm could befall her.
  "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra," I sang,
my voice gaining strength with each repetition of the
simple sounds. "Too-ra-loo-ra-lie ..."
  Sheena remained motionless.
  "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra ... that's an
Irish lullaby."
  "And it's a very lovely one," a man's
voice said from the doorway.
  I recognized the voice without having to turn
around. I swallowed the sounds in my throat and
willed my face not to betray me as I turned
toward the doorway. Josh Wylie, tall and
almost carelessly handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair
and his mother's blue eyes, stood watching me.
"How long have you been standing there?"
  "Long enough to realize you have a beautiful
voice."
  I gripped the railing at Sheena's bedside
to steady myself as I rose to my feet. "Thank
you." I walked across the room, my heart
wobbling, although my feet were surprisingly steady.
Josh Wylie backed into the hallway as I
approached, and I shut the door to Sheena's
room behind me.
  "What's the matter with her?" Josh asked as
we started down the corridor.
  I related the gruesome details of the
assault. "She's in a coma. Her eyes are
open, but she doesn't see anything."
  "Will she be that way forever?"
  "Nobody knows."
  "What a shame." Josh shook his head
sadly. "So, how's my mother doing?" He
smiled, a warm upturn of his lips that underlined the
sparkle in his eyes. "I understand you cut her
hair."
  "Just a few snips here and there. She seems
to like it."
  "She's crazy about it. She's crazy about
you," Josh emphasized. "Thinks you're the
greatest thing since sliced bread."
  "The feeling's mutual."
  "Thinks I should take you out to lunch the next
time I visit."
  "What?"
  "Lunch, next Friday. If you're free.
If you're hungry ..."
  "I'm always hungry," I said, grateful when
he laughed. "Lunch next Friday sounds
great." I thought of Alison. Two surprising
invitations in one day.
  "Okay, then, next Friday it is." We
reached the nurses' station. "Till then, I leave
my mother in your capable and creative hands."
  "Drive carefully," I called as Josh
stepped inside the waiting elevator.
  "And no uniform. This isn't a business
lunch." He waved as the elevator door drew
slowly closed.
  This isn't a business lunch, I repeated
silently, mentally raiding my closet, trying
to decide what to wear, wondering whether to splurge
on a new outfit. It was only then that I
became aware of a slight commotion behind me.
"Problems?" I asked, spinning around on my
heels, seeing Margot and Caroline
making exaggerated sweeps of the desk with their hands
and eyes.
  "Caroline's wallet is missing from her
purse," Margot said.
  I came around to the inside of the nurses' station,
began my own head sweep. "You're sure?
It's not in a pocket somewhere?"
  "I've looked everywhere," Caroline moaned,
brushing chin-length, brown hair away from her long
face, emptying the contents of her purse onto the
floor. At the best of times, Caroline looked
vaguely depressed. Now she looked
positively distraught.
  "Maybe you left it in another purse. I
did that once," I offered gamely, although I'd
never done any such thing.
  "No, I had it with me this morning. I know,
because I bought a cup of coffee and a Danish
downstairs."
  "Maybe you left it on the counter after you paid."
  Caroline shook her head. "I'm sure I
put it back in my purse." She looked up and
down the corridor, tears filling her dejected
brown eyes. "Damn it. I had over a
hundred dollars in there."
  I thought of Alison. She'd been here when the
fire alarm had sounded and the nursing station had been
left temporarily unattended. And she'd been
gone by the time everything had settled down. Was it
possible she'd helped herself to Caroline's
wallet?
  Why would I think that?
  Surely it was much more logical to assume that
Caroline had left her wallet in the
cafeteria. "I think you should call downstairs,"
I advised, opening and closing drawers, checking
each small compartment behind the desk, then peeking
into my own purse to make sure nothing was missing.
  "I'll call the cafeteria," Caroline
agreed grudgingly, "but I know it's not there.
Somebody took it. Somebody took it."



  Saturday night, the phone rang just as I was
stepping out of the shower. I wrapped one large white
towel around my body, threw another one across my
shoulders, and padded across my bedroom floor
toward the phone, wondering if Alison was calling
to cancel our dinner. I lifted the phone
to my ear and pushed my wet hair away from my
cheek. "Hello?"
  "I'd like to speak to Erica Hollander," the
male voice announced without further preamble.
  It took half a second for the name to register
on my brain. "Erica Hollander is no longer
my tenant," I said coolly, my eyes
following several wayward trickles of water as
they ran down my legs to the ivory carpet.
Anxiety simultaneously trickled through my
insides.
  "Do you know where I can reach her?" The voice
carried traces of a soft Southern twang. I
didn't think I'd heard it before.
  "I'm afraid I have no idea where she is."
  "When did she leave?"
  I thought back to the last time I'd seen
Erica. "It was the end of August."
  "She didn't leave a forwarding address?"
  "She didn't leave a thing, and that includes the
two months' rent she owed me. Who's calling?"
  The answer to my question was a resounding click in
my ear.
  I dropped the receiver into its carriage, then
plopped down on my bed, taking a series of
long, deep breaths, trying to push unpleasant
memories of Erica Hollander out of my head.
But she was as stubborn in her absence as she'd been
in her presence, and she refused to be so easily
dismissed.
  Erica Hollander was young, like Alison, and like
Alison, willowy and tall, though not quite as
tall, not quite as willowy. Her hair was a
luxurious dark brown and hung straight to her
shoulders, and she was continually tossing it from side
to side, the way you see them do in those annoying
television commercials that equate a good shampoo
with a good orgasm. But her face, while pretty
enough in a certain light, hovered perilously close
to plain. Only her nose, a nose that was long and
thin and veered suddenly to the left, gave her any
character at all. It was her one distinguishing feature.
Of course, she hated it. "I'm saving up to have
it done," she'd told me on more than one
occasion.
  "Your nose is beautiful," I'd assured
her, ever the mother hen.
  "It's awful. I'm saving up to have it done."
  I'd listened to her whine about her nose; I'd
listened to her brag about her boyfriend--
"Charlie's so handsome, Charlie's so smart"--who
was spending a year working in Tokyo; I'd listened
when she stopped bragging and started whining--"Charlie
didn't call this week, Charlie better watch
his step"--and I'd reserved judgment when she got
involved with some guy she'd met at Elwood's,
a well-known biker hangout on Atlantic
Avenue. I'd even lent her money to buy a
used portable computer. All because I thought we were
friends. It never occurred to me that she'd skip out in
the middle of the night, still owing me for the computer, not
to mention several months in back rent.
  Smart, handsome Charlie in Tokyo couldn't
accept that his girlfriend had dumped him as
unceremoniously as she'd dumped me and had
plagued me with increasingly unpleasant phone
calls from Japan, demanding to know her whereabouts.
He'd even notified the police, who basically
corroborated my story, but even that wasn't enough
to satisfy him. He'd continued harassing me
long-distance until I'd threatened to call his
employer. And then suddenly, the phone calls
stopped.
  Until tonight.
  I shook my head, amazed that though Erica
Hollander had been gone for almost three months,
she was still causing me grief. She'd been my first
tenant and, I'd vowed after she'd taken off, my
last.
  What had happened to change my mind?
  Truth be told, I missed having someone
around. I don't have a lot of friends. There are my
co-workers, women like Margot and Caroline, but we
rarely socialize away from the hospital.
Caroline has a demanding husband, and Margot
has four kids to look after. And I've always
been a little reserved. This shyness, coupled with my
tendency to throw myself into my work, has made it
hard for me to meet new people. Plus, my mother was
sick for so long before she died, and between caring for my
patients at the hospital and caring for her at
home, well, there are only so many hours in a
day.
  Besides, something insidious happens to women in our
society when they turn forty, especially if
they're not married. We get lost in a heavy,
free-floating haze. It becomes difficult
to see us. People know we're there; it's just that we've
become a little fuzzy, so blurred around the edges
we've begun blending into the surrounding
scenery. It's not that we're invisible exactly--
people actually step around us to avoid confronting us--but
the truth is we are no longer seen. And if you
aren't seen, you aren't heard.
  That's what happens to women over forty.
  We lose our voice.
  Maybe that's why we seem so angry.
Maybe it's not hormones after all. Maybe we
just want someone to pay attention.
  Anyway, I started thinking about how nice it
had been when Erica Hollander had first moved in,
how much fun it had been having someone around, even
if we didn't see each other all that much. I
don't know. Somehow, just the fact that someone was sharing
my space had made me feel less alone. So
I decided to try it again. What is it they say
about second marriages? That they're a triumph
of hope over experience?
  At any rate, I was determined not to make the
same mistakes the second time around. That's why
I'd decided against advertising for a tenant in the
newspaper, choosing instead to post a number of
discreet notices around the hospital. I
reasoned that, this way, I was more likely
to attract someone older, more responsible.
Maybe a professional, perhaps even a woman like
myself.
  Instead I got Alison.
  The phone rang, bringing me back to the
present. I became aware of the air conditioner
blowing against the back of my neck, like a lover's
cool breath. I shuddered with the chill.
  "Hi, it's me," Alison chirped as I
lifted the receiver to my ear. "Didn't you hear me
knock?"
  The towel at my breast came loose and fell
to the floor as I rose to my feet. "What?
No. Where are you?"
  "At your kitchen door. I'm on my cell.
Is everything all right?"
  "Fine. I'm just running a little late. Can I
pick you up in ten minutes?"
  "No problem."
  Securing my towel around me, I walked to my
bedroom window and watched from behind the white lace
curtain as Alison ambled back toward the
cottage. She was wearing a slinky, navy
dress I didn't remember seeing in her
closet, and her silver sling-back shoes, which she
had no trouble walking in at all. I
watched as she tucked her cell phone inside the
silver purse dangling from her shoulder, only
to withdraw it again almost immediately, several loose
bills escaping their cramped confines and wafting
toward the ground. Alison immediately scooped up the
money and stuffed it back inside her small
silver bag. I quickly recalled the handful of
$100 bills Alison had given me for first and
last month's rent, then found myself thinking about the
$100 that had gone missing from Caroline's
purse. Was it possible Alison had taken it?
  "That's ridiculous," I said out loud, watching
Alison punch a series of numbers into her
cell phone. Alison had no need to steal money
from strangers. I watched her whisper something into the
receiver, then laugh. Suddenly she spun around,
almost as if she'd known I was watching her. I
flattened myself against the wall and didn't move
again until I heard the cottage door open and
close.
  Fifteen minutes later, I was at her
door, wearing a calf-length, pale yellow,
sleeveless dress with a pronounced
d@ecolletage that I'd bought a year ago, but
had never had the nerve to wear. "Sorry I took
so long. I couldn't get my hair to sit right."
  "You look fabulous." Alison regarded me
with the practiced eye of women who are used
to looking in mirrors. "You just need a little
trim," she announced after a pause. "I could do
it for you. Don't forget I worked for a few months
in a hairdressing salon."
  "You were a receptionist," I reminded her.
  She laughed. "Yeah, but I watched and I
learned, and I'm really pretty good. You want
me to give it a try after dinner?"
  I thought of the improvised bob I'd given
Myra Wylie earlier in the week. Was I as
brave as she was? "Where are you taking me?"
  "It's this new place right across from the
Lorelli Gallery. I already called them and said
we'd be a bit late."
  The restaurant was called Barrington's, and like
many restaurants in South Florida, it was much
bigger on the inside than it appeared from the
street. The main room was decorated like a
French bistro, lots of Tiffany lamps and
leaded-glass windows, along with Toulouse-
Lautrec posters of dancers from the Moulin Rouge
suspended from pale yellow walls that were
an exact--and unfortunate--match with my
dress. were it not for my ample cleavage, I
might have vanished altogether.
  The waiter brought over a basket of bread, the
wine list, and two large menus, before reciting
by heart the list of the night's specials. His
eyes moved back and forth between Alison's face
and my chest. Together, I remember thinking, we could
rule the world.
  "Dolphin!" Alison wailed in horror at
one of the waiter's suggestions.
  "Not Flipper," I explained quickly. "This
dolphin's a fish, not a mammal. It's sometimes
called mahi mahi."
  "I like the sound of that much better."
  "How's the salmon?" I asked.
  "Tasty," the waiter said, looking at
Alison. "But kind of boring," he said, looking
at me.
  "What about the swordfish?" Alison asked.
  "Wonderful," the waiter enthused. "They
grill it in a light Dijon mustard sauce.
And it comes with saut`eed vegetables and little red
potatoes."
  "Sounds great. I'll have that."
  "I'll have the salmon," I offered, risking the
young man's scorn, daring to be dull.
  "Some wine?"
  Alison motioned to me with her hand, as if giving
me the floor. "Some wine?" she repeated.
  "I think I'll skip the wine tonight."
  "You can't skip the wine. This is a
celebration. We have to have wine."
  "Remember what happened last time," I
cautioned.
  She looked confused, as if she'd forgotten
all about her recent migraine. "We'll have
white wine, not red," she pronounced upon
reflection. "That should be all right."
  The waiter pointed out the choice of wines, and
Alison followed his recommendation. Something from
Chile, I believe. It was good, and it was cold,
and it quickly gave me a pleasant buzz.
Service was slow, and I'd already finished my
glass by the time the food arrived. Alison poured
me another, and I didn't object, although I
noticed she'd only taken a few sips of her
own drink. "Ooh, this is yummy delicious,"
she enthused, biting into the swordfish. "How's
yours?"
  "Yummy." I laughed at the sound.
  "So, did you see your friend this week?"
Alison asked suddenly.
  "My friend?"
  "Josh Wylie." Alison stole a look
around the crowded restaurant, as if he might be
there, as if she might recognize him if he
were.
  The salmon stuck in my throat. "How do you
know about Josh Wylie?"
  Alison swallowed one forkful of swordfish,
then another. "You told me about him."
  "I did?"
  "Dinner at your house. I asked if you were
interested in anyone, and you said there was this guy"--she
lowered her voice, her eyes doing another slow
spin around the room--"Josh Wylie, whose mother is
one of your patients. Right?" She popped two
small potatoes into her mouth, speared another
forkful of fish.
  "Right."
  "So, did you see him?"
  "Yes, I did. As a matter of fact,
he's taking me to lunch next Friday."
  Alison's eyes widened with delight. "Way
to go, Terry!"
  I laughed. "It's not a big deal," I
cautioned, as much to myself as to Alison. "He
probably just wants to talk about his mother."
  "If he wanted to talk about his mother, he'd do
it in the waiting room. Trust me, he's
interested."
  I shrugged, hoping she was right. "We'll
see."
  Alison waved my hesitation aside.
"You'll have to tell me all about it." She
clapped her hands together, as if congratulating me
for a job well done, then finished off the last of
her swordfish in three quick swallows. "This is
so exciting. I can't wait till next
Friday."
  I don't remember much else about the meal,
except that Alison insisted on ordering
dessert, and that I ate more than I should have.
  "Come on," I remember her saying as she
pushed the large piece of banana-cream cake
toward me. "You only live once."
  After dinner, Alison was eager to show me the
Lorelli Gallery. She grabbed my hand and
all but pulled me across the busy
street. I heard a car whiz by behind me, felt
its exhaust on my bare calves. "Watch where
you're going, lady," the driver yelled out.
  "Be careful," Alison admonished as if
I'd been crossing the street all by myself.
  On weekends, the gallery stayed open till
ten o'clock, hoping to attract tourists and
passersby. I counted four people inside the
well-lit store, including the spike-haired young
woman behind the counter. The walls were covered with
colorful paintings, mostly by artists I didn't
recognize, although there was a typical Motherwell
painting of a woman with large red lips and a
prominent nipple, and three paintings of pears were
stacked one on top of the other, by an artist whose name
I could never remember no matter how many times
I saw his work. I found my attention drawn to a
small, rectangular painting of a woman, her
face hidden behind a large hat, as she sunned
herself on a pink, sandy beach.
  "That's my favorite," Alison said, then
lowered her voice. "It would go great in your living
room, don't you think? On the wall behind the
sofa?"
  "It's beautiful."
  Alison pulled me toward the center of the
room, almost knocking over a sculpture of a
large fiberglass frog. "Whoops." She
giggled. "Isn't that the most hideous thing you've
ever seen?"
  I agreed it was.
  "Fern says she can't keep the damn things in
the store, they sell so fast. Can you believe it?
Denise, hi," she continued in the same breath.
"This is Terry Painter, my landlady. My
friend," she added with a smile.
  The girl behind the counter looked up from the
fashion magazine she was perusing, extraordinary
violet eyes overwhelming the rest of her small
face. "Nice to meet you," she said, her voice
surprisingly husky, the words emerging slowly from
between small but full lips, as if she weren't quite
sure whether meeting me was nice or not. She was
dressed all in black, which made her look
thinner than she already was, although her breasts were
high and disproportionately large for her narrow
frame.
  "I don't think they're real," Alison would
later say.
  "I'm wondering how much that painting
is," I said, glancing toward the painting of the
girl on the pink, sandy beach, her face hidden
by her wide-brimmed hat.
  Denise raised bored violet eyes to the far
wall. Then she reached under the counter and pulled out
a plastic-covered sheet of paper to scan the
typed list. "That one's fifteen hundred
dollars."
  "The wall behind the sofa in your living room,"
Alison said again. "What do you think?"
  "I think you don't start work till Monday,"
I reminded her.
  Alison's face broke into a wide smile.
"I'm gonna be great at this, aren't I?"
  I laughed, directing my attention to the display
of jewelry in the glass counter that occupied the
middle of the store. I found myself staring at a
pair of long silver earrings in the shape of
cupids.
  "Aren't those great?" Alison knew exactly
what pair I was looking at. "How much are
these?" She poked at the glass above the earrings.
  Denise opened the back of the case, lifted the
earrings out, held them toward me. Deep purple
nails protruded over the ends of long, tapered
fingers. "Two hundred dollars."
  I backed away, lifted my hands in the air.
"Too rich for my blood."
  Alison quickly scooped up the earrings.
"Nonsense. She'll take them."
  "No," I countered. "Two hundred dollars
is way too much."
  "My treat."
  "What? No!"
  "Yes." Alison gently removed the thin
gold loops I was wearing and replaced them with the
long silver cupids. "You gave me a heart,"
she said, patting the tiny gold heart at her
throat. "Now it's my turn."
  "It's hardly the same thing."
  "I won't take no for an answer. Besides,
I get an employee discount. How much with my
discount?" she asked Denise.
  The young woman shrugged. "Take them. They're
yours. Fern'll never miss them."
  "What do you mean?" I asked, immediately
preparing to take them off.
  "She's just kidding," Alison said, already
returning several loose $100 bills to her
purse. She quickly ushered me to the
front of the store. "Fern's her aunt," she
reminded me, as if this should be explanation enough.
  "Does she know her niece is a thief?"
  "Don't worry. I'll settle with Fern
on Monday."
  "You promise?"
  Alison smiled, tucked my hair behind my
ears to better admire my new earrings. "I
promise."



  "Don't you look lovely!" Myra Wylie
lifted her head from the pillow, gnarled fingers, like
turkey claws, beckoning me toward her bed.
  I ran self-conscious hands across the front of
my yellow dress as I approached. Myra had
asked to see what I'd be wearing for lunch with her
son, so I'd used her bathroom to change out of
my nurse's uniform and into my street clothes.
I'd decided on the same dress I'd worn
to dinner with Alison the previous week.
  "Thank you, dear." Myra lowered her head
back to the pillow, although her eyes remained on
me. "It was very sweet of you to show me your dress.
I get a taste of what I missed by not having
had a daughter. That former daughter-in-law of
mine was for the birds. She was no fun at all.
But you ..."
  "Me?" I prompted, eager to hear more.
  "You're very good to me."
  "Why wouldn't I be?"
  "People aren't always kind," Myra said, her eyes
on some distant memory.
  "You make it very easy," I told her
truthfully, pulling up a chair and sitting down
beside her, stealing a glance at my watch. It was
almost twelve-thirty.
  "Don't worry," Myra said with a knowing
smile. "He won't be late."
  I leaned forward, pretended to be tucking in the
blue cotton sheet that served as a bedspread.
  "Those are lovely," Myra said. "Are they
new?"
  Her bony fingers were twisting toward the dangling
cupids at my ears. "Yes, they are. A friend
gave them to me." I wondered if Alison had
settled with her boss, as she'd promised.
  "A boyfriend?" Worry clouded Myra's
eyes, like fresh cataracts.
  "No. Actually, they were a gift from my new
tenant." Again I pictured Alison. She'd
started work on Monday, and except for one quick
call to say she was loving every minute of her new
job, I hadn't spoken to her all week.
"Besides, I'm a little old for boyfriends, don't you
think?"
  "We're never too old for boyfriends."
  "What's this about boyfriends?" the male voice
boomed from the doorway.
  "There he is," Myra said, all girlish
flutter. "How are you, darling?" She held out
her arms. I stepped out of the way and watched Josh
fold inside them.
  "Perfect," he said, looking right at me.
  "Was the traffic bad?"
  "It was miserable."
  "You should take the turnpike."
  "Yes, I should." He straightened up and
smiled at me. "We have this same discussion every
week."
  "You should listen to your mother," I told him.
  "Yes, I should."
  "Doesn't Terry look beautiful?" Myra
asked.
  I looked to the floor to hide the blush I could
feel spreading across my face. Not because I was
embarrassed by the compliment, but because I'd been
thinking exactly the same thing about her son. I
don't think I'd realized before how deep were the
dimples at his cheeks, how pronounced the
muscles that bulged beneath his short-sleeved shirt.
It was all I could do to keep from crossing my
legs and screaming out loud. I hadn't felt this
way in years.
  "She looks very beautiful," Josh dutifully
replied.
  "Do you like her earrings?"
  Josh lifted his fingers to my ear, his hand grazing
the side of my cheek. "I like them very much."
  I felt a rush of heat, as if he'd struck
a match, held it against my flesh. "You're a
troublemaker, you know that?" I told Myra, who
looked inordinately pleased with herself.
  "You ready?" Josh asked.
  I nodded.
  "I expect a full report after lunch,"
Myra called after us.
  "I'll take notes," I called back as
Josh ushered me into the hall.
  "How would you like to have lunch by the ocean?" he
asked.
  "You read my mind."

  We went to Luna Rosa, an upscale
eatery located on South Ocean Boulevard,
directly across from the beach. The restaurant was
one of my favorites, an easy walk from my
house, although Josh had no way of knowing that.
He'd reserved a table outside, and we sat
along the narrow sidewalk, soaking in the ocean
air, and watching the constant parade of people pass
by our chairs.
  "So, tell me, when did all this happen?"
Josh's voice rose easily above the conflicting
sounds of surf and automobiles.
  "When did what happen?" I watched a young
woman in a turquoise thong bikini as she ran
barefoot across the road, then disappeared into a
burst of sunlight.
  Josh waved large, expressive hands into the
air. "Th. The Delray I remember was all
pineapple fields and jungle."
  I laughed. "You don't get out much, do you?"
  "I guess not."
  "Delray's changed a lot in the past ten
years." I felt an unexpected surge of
pride. "We've just been awarded our second
All-American City designation by the National
Civic League, and a few years back we were
named "the best-run town in Florida."" I
smiled. "How do you like them pineapples?"
  He laughed, his eyes on mine. "Looks like
I should visit more often."
  "I'm sure your mother would like that."
  "And you?"
  I grabbed my ice water, took a long
sip. "I'd like that too."
  The waiter approached with our orders. Crab
cakes for Josh, a seafood salad for me.
  "Your mother's quite a character," I said, taking a
mouthful of calamari, seeking safer ground. I'd
never been a good flirt, and I was even worse
when it came to playing games. I tended to blurt
out whatever thought was on the tip of my tongue.
  "Yes, she is. She's filled you in on the
sordid family history, I take it."
  "She told me you're divorced."
  "I'm sure her description was considerably
more colorful than that."
  "Maybe just a little." I took another sip of
ice water. Sensibly, I'd declined Josh's
offer of a glass of wine. It was important
to keep a clear head, to stay in control. Besides,
I had barely an hour before I had to be back
at work. I leaned back in the uncomfortable
folding chair, listened to the sound of the waves
somersaulting toward the shore, echoing the tumult
taking place inside my body. God, what was
the matter with me? I hadn't felt so
overwhelmed, so smitten, so damn girlish,
since I was fourteen years old.
  I wanted to grab Josh Wylie by the collar
of his white linen shirt and yank him across the table.
I haven't had sex in five years, I
wanted to shout. Can we just skip all this verbal
foreplay and get on with the real thing?
  But of course I didn't. I just sat there
smiling at him. My mother would have been proud.
  "She tells me you never married," Josh said,
cutting into his crab cakes, unaware of the more
interesting conversation taking place inside my head.
  "She's right."
  "Hard to believe."
  "Really? Why?"
  "Because you're a beautiful, intelligent
woman, and I would have thought some guy would have
snapped you up long ago."
  "You would have thought," I agreed with a laugh.
  "You have something against marriage?"
  "Not a thing." I wondered why I always seemed
to be explaining my single status. "As I told
Alison, it wasn't any conscious decision on
my part."
  "Who's Alison?"
  "What? Oh, my new tenant."
  "Any regrets?"
  "Regrets? About Alison?"
  Josh smiled. "About life in general."
  I released a long, deep breath. "A few.
You?"
  "A few."
  We finished the rest of our meal, talking
easily, laughing often, as the waves swept our
unspoken regrets back and forth along the
water's edge.

  After lunch, Josh removed his socks and shoes
and rolled his black linen trousers up around his
knees, while I slipped off my
sandals, and we walked along the beach. The ocean
repeatedly rushed toward us, only to pull away
upon contact. Like an eager lover tormented
by second thoughts, it charged only to retreat. It
seduced you with its monstrous beauty, then abandoned
you, breathless and alone, on the shore. The eternal
dance, I thought, the water cold as it licked at
my toes.
  "Aren't we just the luckiest people alive?" Josh
said with an appreciative laugh.
  "We are." I pushed my face toward the
sky, squinting into the sun.
  "I remember when I was a kid," he
continued. "My father used to take me to the beach every
Saturday afternoon while my mother was having her hair
done."
  "You're from Florida originally?" I
wasn't sure why I asked that. I already knew
everything there was to know about Josh's background: that
he'd been born in Boynton Beach, weighing a
hefty nine pounds, two ounces; that his parents
had lived at 212 Hibiscus Drive all
their married life; that his mother had continued to live
there after her husband's death a decade ago; that
she'd refused her son's offer to move her down
to Miami so that she could be closer to her grandchildren; that
she'd continued to live in that little house she loved
until she got too sick to look after it
anymore; that she'd personally selected Mission
Care over fancier facilities in Miami,
insisting that she got nosebleeds south of
Delray; that her son drove up at least once
a week to see her; that he was still reeling from his
divorce after seventeen years of marriage to his
college sweetheart; that he was the single father of
two lovely but confused children; that he was lonely; that
he deserved a second chance at happiness; that
I was more than prepared to provide him with that chance.
  That I was completely out of my mind, I thought,
realizing that I hadn't heard a single word he'd
said in the last two minutes. What was the matter
with me? Was I so starved for male companionship that
a pleasant lunch instantly spawned
fantasies of happily ever after? I needed
to slow down, calm down, cool down. Before I
ruined everything.
  Deliberately, I allowed myself to be
distracted by the sight of two boys, maybe five
or six years old, in matching bright red bathing
suits, tumbling over each other as they
rolled, like runaway logs, into the water, before
disappearing underneath a succession of increasingly
large waves. I looked around the crowded beach.
An elderly couple was relaxing under a red-and-
white-striped umbrella; a young man was erecting
a sand castle with his toddler son; two teenagers
carelessly tossed a neon-pink Frisbee back
and forth; a middle-aged woman, her large stomach
protruding over a tiny bikini bottom, swung
her arms with careless abandon as she marched along beside
the ocean; a younger woman was soaking up the sun,
breast implants proudly pointing toward the
cloudless sky. No one was supervising the two
boys, I realized, holding my breath as the
boys' heads appeared above the water, only
to disappear again under the next big wave.
  "Do you see anyone watching those boys?" I
asked Josh, hard pellets of sunshine bouncing
off my eyes as I continued scanning the beach.
  Josh's eyes joined in the search. "I'm
sure there's someone," he said unconvincingly, as
one of the youngsters began waving his arms in the air.
  A fresh wave immediately slapped them down. This
wave was immediately followed by a much larger one. A
small voice rode the wave to shore.
"Help!" the voice cried, wobbling like unsteady
knees on a surfboard.
  "Help!" I echoed loudly, motioning
frantically to the lifeguard farther down the beach,
but he was busy chatting up a teenage girl in a
black-and-white string bikini, the girl's long,
lean legs stretching all the way up to her
baseball cap. I've had nightmares about
drowning all my life, maybe because I never
learned how to swim. I couldn't just stand there waiting
for disaster to strike. I had to do something. "We have
to do something," I shouted as Josh raced toward the
lifeguard.
  "Help! Help!" the small voice pleaded,
now joined by a second voice, more plaintive
than the first. Their cries skipped along the
surface of the water like a stone, only to disappear
beneath yet another rush of deadly white foam.
  "Somebody do something!" I shouted at the people around
me, but although a small crowd was starting to gather,
nobody moved.
  Without further thought, I dropped my purse and
shoes to the sand and jumped into the surf after the boys,
the cold water reaching between my thighs and whipping my
dress around my legs. An
unexpected undertow suddenly anchored my legs
to the sand, and I struggled to maintain my balance,
my hands circling my body like rusty
propellers.
  "Help!" the boys continued crying, their heads
bobbing like apples in a bucket as I
resolutely pushed myself forward, only to feel
my legs collapse beneath me like the folding chair
I'd been sitting on only moments before.
  "I'm coming," I called out, the bitter taste
of salt washing over my tongue as the ocean
spilled into my mouth. "Hang on," I urged as
the ground under my toes suddenly disappeared, as if
I'd stepped off a steep cliff, and I fought
to keep my head above water. My hands reached
blindly for something to grab on to, accidentally
smacking against what felt like a rock, but proved
to be a small head. Hair curled between my
fingers, like seaweed.
  Whether through determination, good fortune, or just
plain, dumb luck, I managed to get my hands
around first one boy, then the other, and somehow
catapulted their kicking frames toward the shore
in time for anxious arms to reach them. I heard a
series of excited, high-pitched exhortations--
"Didn't I tell you to stay put until I
got back? Look at you! You almost drowned!"--
and then the water once again wrapped itself around my
torso, like a hungry boa constrictor, and
carried me back out to sea.
  So this is what it feels like to drown, I
remember thinking as the water covered my head like a
heavy blanket, sneaking into all my private
cavities, an impatient lover who would no
longer be denied. "Terry," the water whispered
seductively. Then louder, more insistent.
"Terry ... Terry."
  "Terry!"
  The voice exploded in my ear as determined
hands reached under my arms to pull me toward the
sky. My head burst through the surface of the water
like a fist through glass.
  "My God, are you all right?" Strong arms
pushed me toward the shore where I collapsed
onto my hands and knees.
  Water clung to my eyes, like shards of
glass, and I struggled to open them. Slivers of
breath escaped my lungs in a series of short,
painful spasms.
  "Are you all right?" Josh's face
formed around the edges of the words.
  I nodded, coughed, sucked furiously at the
air. "The boys ...?"
  "They're fine."
  "Thank God."
  Josh's fingers pushed the hair out of my eyes,
smoothed the water from my cheeks. "You're a
hero, Terry Painter."
  "I'm an idiot," I muttered. "I can't
swim."
  "So I noticed."
  "You're not supposed to go in the water without a
bathing suit," a little girl admonished from somewhere
beside me.
  I looked down at my once seductive
dress, now wrapped around me like a bruised
yellow tent. "Look at me," I wailed.
"I look like an overripe banana."
  Josh laughed. "Good enough to eat," I thought I
heard him say, although in the ensuing commotion I
couldn't be sure. A crowd was gathering.
Unfamiliar voices were exclaiming their
gratitude; strange hands were patting my back.
  "Way to go!" someone enthused in passing.
  "Are you okay?" a young woman asked, long
legs approaching cautiously. I recognized
the black-and-white string bikini and the baseball
cap, knew she was the girl I'd seen earlier,
talking to the lifeguard.
  "I'm fine." I noted the lifeguard was standing
directly behind her, and that he was suitably
tall, blond, and muscular. The expression on
his bland, bronzed face wavered between gratitude
and resentment.
  "I just wanted to thank you," the girl continued.
"Those are my brothers. My mother would have killed
me if anything had happened to them."
  "You should keep a closer eye on them."
  She nodded, glanced up the beach to where the boys
were wrestling in the sand. "Yeah, well, I told
them ..." Her voice disappeared into a passing
breeze. "Anyway, thanks again." She looked
past me at Josh.
  "You interested in a job?" the lifeguard joked
uneasily.
  "Just do yours," I told him, but he was already
backing away, and he dismissed my admonishment
with a wave of his hand, as if swatting at a pesky
insect.
  "My purse!" I said, suddenly
remembering I'd dropped it on the shore. "My
shoes ..."
  "Right here." Josh lifted them into the air, like a
proud fisherman displaying his catch of the day.
  "My God, look at you!" I exclaimed,
realizing he was almost as wet as I was.
  "We're quite a pair," he said, leaning his
face toward mine.
  I held my breath, didn't move. Was he
going to kiss me?
  A clump of hair promptly fell into my
eyes, and I brushed it aside impatiently,
feeling particles of sand attach themselves to my
eyelashes, like globs of errant mascara.
Great, I thought, trying to picture myself through his
eyes. A regular beauty queen, I could almost
hear my mother say.
  "Terry?" a familiar voice asked from
miles above my head.
  I looked up, shielded my eyes. Alison
loomed between me and the sun like a giant eclipse.
  "Terry?" she said again, crouching down beside me.
"My God, I can't believe it's you!"
  "Alison! What are you doing here?"
  "I have the day off. What's going on?
Somebody said you saved two little boys from
drowning."
  "She was magnificent," Josh said proudly.
  "Until I almost drowned myself."
  "My God, are you all right?"
  "She's magnificent," Josh repeated,
extending his hand toward Alison. "I'm Josh
Wylie, by the way."
  Alison took his hand, shook it vigorously.
"Alison Simms."
  "Alison's my new tenant," I
qualified.
  "Pleasure to meet you, Alison."
  "You too." Almost reluctantly, she
relinquished his hand. "So, has Terry invited you
over for Thanksgiving yet?"
  "Alison!"
  "Terry's only the best cook in the whole
wide world. You're not busy, are you?"
  "Well, no, but ..."
  "Good. Then it's settled. Don't worry,
Terry," Alison cautioned, "I'll help."
  I'm not sure exactly what happened after that.
I remember wanting to wring Alison's
lovely, swanlike neck. I also
wanted to throw my arms around her and jump up and
down with joy. At any rate, perhaps sensing my
ambivalence, Alison muttered something about
meeting with me later to discuss all the necessary
details, then made a hasty retreat,
disappearing into a swirl of pink sand. Josh drove
me to my house, waiting in the car while I ran
upstairs, towel-dried my hair, and changed out
of my wet clothes. Then he drove me back
to work. Neither one of us said anything until he
pulled up in front of the hospital. Then we
turned simultaneously toward one another.
  "Josh ..."
  "Terry ..."
  "You don't have to come to dinner on
Thanksgiving."
  "You don't have to invite me."
  "No, I'd love to invite you."
  "Then I'd love to come."
  "Really?"
  "Jan's taking the kids that night, so I have
no particular plans."
  "Well, it wouldn't be anything fancy. ..."
  "I don't need fancy if I have the best
cook in the whole wide world."
  I laughed. "Well, that might be a slight
exaggeration."
  "She's quite a character, isn't she?"
  "Yes, she is."
  "A real whirling dervish. Slightly fey, very
charming."
  Charming, fey, I think now. Not the words I
would use to describe her.
  What words would you use? I hear Alison
whisper slyly in my ear.
  "You'll explain to my mother why I didn't come
back to see her?" Josh asked, indicating his
wet clothes.
  "Can I leave out the part where I almost drowned?"
  Josh laughed. "What time next Thursday?"
  I quickly mulled over everything I had to do
to prepare. It had been years since I'd
cooked anyone Thanksgiving dinner. I couldn't
remember the last time I'd bought a turkey.
It's not something you normally buy when you're cooking
for one. "Seven o'clock?"
  "Seven o'clock," he repeated. "I'm thankful
already."
  I stepped out of the car and skipped up the
hospital's front steps, turning
back as I pulled open the door. My hero,
I thought, watching Josh drive away, my head
pleasantly dizzy with anticipation, the sound of the
surf still ringing in my ears.



  "Okay, so are you ready for your whole new
look?"
  Alison, wearing blue shorts, a white
halter top, and hot-pink nail polish on her
bare toes, stood outside my kitchen door,
her arms loaded with an interesting array of
bottles and tubes. Her hair was pulled back
into a ponytail. She looked about twelve.
  My own hair was freshly washed, as per her
instructions, and wrapped in a white towel that
matched my white terry-cloth robe. "What's
all this?" I stepped back to let her inside.
  "Creams, oils, emulsions." She
deposited the various items on my kitchen table
and arranged them to her satisfaction. "What's an
emulsion anyway?"
  I thought back to my years at nursing school.
"Any colloidal suspension of one liquid in
another liquid," I said, almost by rote, startled
by how easily such long-forgotten nuggets
resurfaced.
  "Colloidal?"
  "A colloid is a gelatinous substance which
when dissolved in a liquid will not diffuse readily
through either vegetable or animal membranes."
  Alison looked at me as if I were some new
form of alien species. "Could you try that again?"
  "It's a liquid preparation that's the color and
consistency of milk," I said plainly.
  She smiled, lifted a medium-sized glass
bottle of white cream into her hands. "That would be
this one."
  "How can you buy products when you don't know
what they are?"
  "Nobody knows what they are. That's why they
cost so much."
  I laughed, thinking she was probably right.
"What else have you got here?"
  "Let's see. There's a pore-purifying
microbead face wash, and an alpha hydroxy
exfoliating peel-off masque--that's masque
spelled with a que, which means it's really
expensive. Then there's a botanical,
gentle facial-buffing cream, another
botanical cream with collagen and woodmallow.
What's that? Never mind," she said in the same
breath. "Then we have a soothing eye-contour mask
--this one spelled with a k, so it's probably not
as good--a milky refiner, not to be confused with the
aforementioned milky emulsion, an oil-free
moisturizing lotion, and a tube of concentrated
apricot oil. Did you happen to catch my
casual use of the word aforementioned?"
  "I did."
  "Were you impressed?"
  "I was."
  "Good." She dug into the right-side pocket of
her blue shorts, pulled out several small
bottles of nail polish. "Very Cherry and
Luscious Lilac. Your choice."
From her left-side pocket emerged cotton
balls, emery boards, and assorted tiny
implements of torture. Then she reached behind her
and extricated a large pair of scissors from
her back pocket, waving them before my eyes like a
magic wand. "For Madame's new do."
  "I'm not so sure about that," I wavered,
pulling the towel off my head.
  "Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything
drastic. Just even it up a bit, maybe take
an inch off the bottom. You said you have
cucumbers?"
  "In the fridge," I told her, trying
to keep up with the conversation.
  "Good. Then what say we get started?"
  What could I do? Alison was so enthusiastic,
so confident, so persuasive, I really didn't
have a choice.
  You want to be gorgeous for Thanksgiving,
don't you? I can still hear her ask.
  And the truth was, I did want to be
gorgeous for Thanksgiving. I wanted to be
drop-dead, knock-'em-down-and-drag-'em-out
gorgeous for Thanksgiving. For Josh.
  Not that you aren't gorgeous already, Alison
had quickly amended.
  All week I'd been walking around in a
stupid haze, singing along with the radio, humming
merrily off-key as I doled out medications, even
waving a pleasant "Hello" to Bettye
McCoy as she hurried those overgrown
furballs past my house. And why? All because
some guy I liked had been nice to me.
  No, more than nice.
  Interested.
  Interested in me.
  He's only using you, I could almost hear
my mother say. He'll break your heart.
  Yes, he probably will, I agreed.
  But I didn't care. It didn't matter that
Josh was still carrying a torch for his ex-wife, that
he had two kids and a dying mother, that a serious
involvement was probably the last thing he was
looking for. It didn't matter that we'd had
only one real date, a lunch date at that, and
that I'd almost drowned during it. What mattered was
that he was interested.
  Good enough to eat, he'd said.
  I felt an almost forgotten tingle between my
legs.
  What do you really know about this man? my mother
asked.
  Not much, I was forced to admit.
  That didn't matter either. Josh Wylie could have
been an ax murderer for all I cared.
Sadistic killer or not, he made me feel
things I hadn't felt in years. He
resurrected emotions so long and deeply
repressed I'd forgotten I had them. At
forty, I felt like one of those silly teenage
girls you see giggling in the mall with her friends:
And then he said; and then he said. I was
fourteen again, in love with Roger Stillman.
  And look what happened there, my mother
reminded me.
  "We'll do your hair first," Alison was
saying now, a comb appearing from out of nowhere to drag
the wet tangles of my hair across my ears and
forehead. Alison sat me down and knelt in
front of me, her palm turning my chin from one
side to the other as she studied my face. She
smiled, as if privy to my innermost thoughts. Could
she see Josh Wylie in the reflection of my
eyes?
  I heard the scissors, felt the blades
snipping at the air around my head, moving
closer. "I'll clean up later," she
announced as I felt first one tug, then another,
and watched in horror as several wet clumps of
hair fell to the white tile of the kitchen floor.
  "Oh, God," I moaned.
  "Close your eyes," Alison instructed.
"Have faith."
  With my eyes closed, the sound of cutting was
even more intense. It was as if those scissors were
slicing through all my protective outer layers,
snipping away my secrets, sapping my
strength. Samson and Delilah, I thought
dramatically, taking a series of long, deep
breaths, deciding to roll with the punches, go with the
flow.
  "I'll wait till after your facial to blow it
dry properly. We can go into the living room
now," she instructed as I stepped over the hair
lying across the white tiles, like a small area
rug. "Don't look," she said as a shudder
shook my shoulders. "Have faith. Trust me."
  I'd already laid a bedsheet across the living
room sofa in preparation for my "night at the
spa," as Alison had laughingly referred to it,
and now I stood paralyzed in front of it,
waiting for Alison to tell me what to do.
  "Okay. Lie down, with your head at this end,
and your feet ... here. That's good. I want you
to be really comfortable. You're going to enjoy this,"
Alison said as if she wasn't sure. "Now,
you get cozy, and I'll bring all the stuff I
need in here."
  "The cucumber slices are in the fridge,"
I reminded her, closing my eyes, my fingers
darting about my neck, feeling for hair.
  "You didn't have to slice them," Alison
called back from the kitchen. "I would have done that."
  I heard her rifling around in the fridge,
heard the tap running, listened to the sounds of
cupboard doors opening and closing. What was she
looking for?
  In less than a minute, Alison was back.
"We'll start with the exfoliating masque."
  "Is that with a que or a k?"
  She laughed. "The expensive one."
  "Oh, good."
  "Okay, so close your eyes, relax, think
pleasant thoughts."
  I felt something cold and slimy being spread
across my face, like molasses on a slice of
bread.
  "This might feel a bit weird as it starts
to harden."
  "Feels weird now."
  "You won't be able to talk," she warned,
slathering the product around the outlines of my
lips. "So it's best if you stay still."
  Did I have a choice? Already it felt as if
my face were encased in cement. A death mask,
I remember thinking. Death masque, I
amended, and might have laughed were it not for the stiffening
of the muscles around my mouth. "For how long?" I
asked through barely parted lips.
  "Twenty minutes."
  "Twenty minutes?" I opened my eyes,
started to sit up.
  Firm hands settled me back down.
"Relax. The night is young, and we're just
getting started. Close your eyes. I'm going
to put the cucumbers on them."
  "What are the cucumbers for?" I asked, although
I was no longer able to pronounce the hard c's
and the noun emerged as more of a verbal blur than an
actual word.
  "They reduce swelling. What kind of nurse
are you that you don't know that?" she teased. Then:
"Keep still. It was a rhetorical question." She
fitted the cucumber slices gently into the empty
circles around my eyes. Instantly, the room
darkened, as if I were wearing sunglasses. "You
like that word, rhetorical?"
  "Good word," I managed to say without moving my
mouth.
  "I'm trying to learn three new words every day."
  "Oh?" That was an easy one.
  "Yeah, it's kind of fun. I just open up the
dictionary and point to a word, and if I don't know
what it means, I write it down and memorize
the definition."
  "Such as?"
  "Well, let's see. Today I learned three
very interesting words: ineffable, which means incapable of
being expressed or described, like ineffable
happiness, you know, so great you can't describe it.
That's one. Then there's epiphany, which was a real
shock because I thought I knew what that one meant,
but I was wrong. I was really wrong. Do you know
what it means?"
  "A revelation of some sort," I managed
to squeeze out, although the effort required all my
concentration.
  "An epiphany is "the sudden, intuitive
perception or insight into the reality or essential
meaning of something,"" she recited, then paused.
I could feel her shaking her head. "Do you want
to know what I thought it meant?"
  I nodded my chin, careful not to disturb
the cucumbers at my eyes.
  "Promise you won't laugh."
  I grunted. I couldn't have laughed if I'd
tried.
  "Well, I saw this movie on TV when I
was a kid. It was about a man who, for some unknown
reason, turned into a chicken. And it was called
Epiphany. So I assumed that an epiphany
was when someone changed into a chicken. I actually
grew up believing that. God, can you imagine if
I'd tried to use it in a conversation?"
  I shook my head, albeit gently. There was
something so vulnerable about her, something so terribly
raw, as if she were sitting there with all her nerve
endings exposed. I wished I could take her in
my arms and comfort her like the big overgrown child she
was. "What's the third word?" I asked instead.
  "Meros. It's a flat surface between two
channels of a triglyph."
  "What's a triglyph?"
  "I have no idea." She laughed. "I only
do three words, remember. Now that's enough talking.
I want you to relax and just enjoy being pampered.
Something tells me you don't pamper yourself nearly
enough."
  She was right. Being pampered was new to me. I'd
worked hard all my life, first at school, then
at my chosen profession, and even at home,
looking after my mother. In some ways, I was
grateful that I hadn't had an easy ride, that
my mother hadn't spoiled me more. It made me that
much more appreciative of the things I did have, more
sensitive and caring toward others.
  "Okay," Alison was saying. "So while this
masque hardens, I'm going to start on your
pedicure. I'll be right back. Take deep
breaths. Let your whole body relax."
  A sudden silence filled the room. I heard
her moving about the kitchen. What was she doing? I
wondered, taking one deep breath, then another,
feeling the tension of the day seep slowly from my
limbs.
  "You have really strong toenails." Alison's
fingers suddenly pulled on the big toe of my right
foot.
  I realized I hadn't heard her come back
into the room. Was it possible I'd fallen
asleep? For how long?
  "I'm going to cut them now, so try not
to move."
  My feet squirmed under her touch.
  "Don't move," she warned again.
  I heard the rapid snipping of the nail
clippers as her fingers flitted expertly from one
toe to the next. This little piggy went to market,
I recited silently, then stopped because I
couldn't remember what had happened to the next little
piggy.
  "Now comes the best part," she announced,
gently massaging my tired feet with lotion. The
smell of apricots drifted toward my
nostrils. "Feels good, huh?"
  "Feels wonderful," I agreed, although I'm
not sure I said the words out loud.
  "Why, Terry Painter, I think you're
actually beginning to enjoy this."
  I nodded, tried to smile, felt tiny
fissures at my cheeks, as if my flesh had
turned to stone.
  "My husband used to give the best foot
massages," Alison said, although from the sudden
faraway tone in her voice, I knew she was
speaking more to herself than to me. "It's probably
why I married him. Certainly it would explain
why I kept going back to him. He had the best
hands. Once he started massaging my feet, I
was a goner."
  I understood what she meant. Alison had
obviously learned a great deal from her former
spouse. Her hands were magic. In less than
two minutes, I too was a goner.
  "I still miss him," Alison continued. "I
know I shouldn't, but I can't help myself. He's
so cute. You should see him. All the girls
take one look at him and faint dead away.
Which, of course, was part of the problem. He had no
willpower whatsoever. 'Course, neither did I.
He'd cheat on me, and I'd swear there was no
way I was going to forgive him, no way I was ever
going to take his sorry ass back, and then there
he'd be one night, standing at my door, and he'd
look so damn good, and of course I'd let him
in. "We're just gonna talk," I'd say,
and he'd agree, and we'd go sit on the sofa,
and the next minute, he'd start rubbing my feet,
and that was that. Back to square one."
  I thought I should probably comment, assure her
she wasn't the only woman in the world to fall for the
wrong guy, or to forgive him too many times. But
the truth was that, even had my face been
free of its cosmetic constraints, I couldn't have
found the strength to speak. Her little-girl voice was
like a lullaby, singing me to sleep. I breathed
deeply, the room growing ever darker as I
drifted in and out of consciousness.
  The next thing I remember was the sound of
footsteps overhead. I opened my eyes, found
myself staring at the white underside of two slices
of cucumber. I removed them, my eyes
adjusting quickly to the surrounding darkness. I felt
my face, still hidden beneath a layer of hard alpha
hydroxy. When had Alison turned off the
light? How long had I been asleep?
  Again I heard the sound of movement overhead, the
opening and closing of drawers. Was she in my
bedroom? I wondered, pushing myself to my feet and
turning on the nearby lamp. What was she doing?
Bright red toenails winked at me from beside the
soft, white cotton balls wedged between each
toe. Very Cherry, I remembered as I walked
on my heels toward the stairs.
  She was in the guest room, standing in front of the
bookshelf that occupied most of the wall opposite
the old burgundy velvet sofa bed. Her back
was to me. Obviously, she hadn't heard me come
up.
  "What are you doing?" I asked, the masque
around my mouth cracking like glass.
  Alison spun around, the book in her hand
dropping to the floor, landing on her toes. She
gasped, although I'm not sure whether it was from pain
or surprise. "Oh my God, you scared me."
  "What are you doing?" I asked again, the
cracks in my masque lengthening, reaching for my
eyes.
  Hesitation flickered briefly across her
face, like a candle flame caught in an
unexpected breeze. "Well, first I came
up to look for these," she said, recovering quickly as
she pulled a pair of tweezers from her pocket.
"I realized I forgot mine, and you were snoring
away, it was so cute, I didn't want to wake
you up. I figured you must have a pair somewhere, but
I had to go through practically every drawer in the
bathroom till I found them. Why don't you
keep them in the medicine cabinet like everyone
else?"
  "I thought I did," I answered lamely.
  She shook her head. "They were next to your hot
rollers, underneath the sink." She
returned my tweezers to her pocket. "And then
I was on my way back downstairs when I saw
all the books, and I thought I'd take a
second and look up word number four in the
dictionary." She bent down to retrieve the large
book with its glossy red-and-yellow cover, held
it up for me to see. "A triglyph is a
structural member of a Doric frieze," she
announced triumphantly. "Please don't
ask me what a Doric frieze is."
  It was then that I caught sight of my
reflection in the window and saw my newly shorn
hair sticking out at weird angles from around my
mummified face. "Oh, God, I look like the
bogeyman."
  Alison winced. "Don't even joke about
that." She replaced the book on the shelf, laced
her arm through mine. "Let's get that masque off
your face. We still have lots more to do."
  "I think I've had about all the pampering I
can take."
  "Nonsense. I'm just getting started."




  I took Thanksgiving off.
  This was unusual because, since my mother's death
five years ago, I'd worked every Thanksgiving.
In fact I worked every holiday, and that included
Christmas Day and New Year's Eve. Why
not? I reasoned. Unlike Margot and
Caroline, I had no family waiting for me at
home, no one to bemoan my absence or complain
they didn't see enough of me. And the residents of
Mission Care still needed looking after, holiday or
not. It was truly sad how few visitors some of
them received, how perfunctory many of those visits
were. If I could make the holidays less
lonely for these people, many of whom I'd come to like and
admire, then I was more than happy to do it.
Besides, it was a trade-off: I was doing it as much
for me as for them. I didn't want to spend the
holidays alone any more than they did.
  But this Thanksgiving was different. I wasn't
going to be alone. I was having a dinner party, a
slightly bigger dinner party than I'd first
anticipated. Aside from Josh and Alison, the
guest list now included Alison's co-worker,
Denise Nickson. Alison had
asked if we could include her, and although I was
reluctant--I didn't really trust Denise
after the incident with the earrings--Alison assured
me that she was smart, funny, and basically good at
heart. So, against my better judgment, I
agreed to include her. Besides, with Denise around
to talk to Alison, I reasoned I'd have more time
to concentrate on Josh.
  "Something smells absolutely fabulous."
Alison swept into the kitchen from the dining room,
where she'd been setting the table. She was wearing her
blue sundress, and her hair, secured behind one
ear by a delicate, blue dragonfly clip,
hung in a wondrous rush around her shoulders.
On her feet were her silver sling-back shoes.
I still couldn't look at them without feeling a jolt
of anxiety. "This turkey is going to be yummy
delicious."
  "I hope you're right."
  "What else can I do to help?"
  "The table's set?"
  "Wait till you see it. It looks like something
out of Gourmet magazine. I put the roses
Josh sent in the middle, between the candles."
  I blushed and turned back toward the stove,
pretended to be watching the pot of small red
potatoes that were boiling at a brisk and steady
pace. Believe it or not, no one had ever sent
me flowers before. "I think we're all set
to go," I said, running through my mental checklist
--turkey, stuffing, marshmallow-covered yams,
small red potatoes, homemade cranberry
sauce, a pear-and-walnut salad with
Gorgonzola dressing.
  "We have enough food for an army," Alison
remarked, throwing her hands into the air, as if she were
tossing confetti. It was a gesture of pure
joy, and it made me laugh out loud. "You're so
pretty when you laugh," Alison said.
  I smiled my appreciation, thinking that if I
looked especially nice tonight, it was all because of
her. Not only was the haircut she'd given me the
best, most flattering haircut I'd ever had--it
fell about my face in soft amber waves that
stopped just below my chin--but my skin still glowed from the
facial she'd administered, and the makeup she'd
selected and meticulously applied several
hours earlier had somehow managed to be both
dramatic and natural. My fingernails matched
my toenails, Very Cherry going very
well with my navy slacks and newly purchased
white silk shirt. My silver cupid earrings
dangled from my ears. Tonight, I told myself, was
going to be a very special night.
  The doorbell rang.
  "My God," I said. "What time is it?"
  Alison checked her watch. "Only
six-thirty. Somebody's very anxious to get
here." Big eyes widened in anticipation.
  "Do I really look okay?" I pulled my
blue-and-white-checkered apron up over my
head, careful not to disturb my hair, ran my
tongue across the muted red of my lips.
  "You look fantastic. Just relax. Take a
deep breath."
  I took one deep breath, then another for good
luck, before proceeding out of the kitchen. Even before
I reached the front door, I could hear giggling
from outside. Clearly it was Denise, and not
Josh, who'd been anxious to get here. Just as
clearly, she wasn't alone. Had she and Josh
arrived at the same time? I wondered, pulling
open the door.
  Denise, wearing a pink T-shirt with orange
letters that said DUMP HIM, and a pair of tight
black jeans, her dark hair spiking rudely
around the pale triangle of her face, was standing
on the outside landing, skinny arms wrapped around
an equally scrawny young man with short brown
hair, light brown eyes, and a strong,
hawklike nose. The face was vaguely
sinister, although it softened a bit when he smiled.
Still, he filled me with unease.
  "We're here," Denise announced gaily.
"I know we're early, but ..." She laughed, as
if she'd said something funny. "This is K.c.,"
she said, and laughed again.
  Was she drunk? I wondered. High?
"Casey?"
  "K.c.," the young man explained, biting off
each letter. He was about the same age as Alison,
I estimated. "Short for Kenneth Charles. But
nobody ever calls me that."
  I nodded, wondered who he was and what he was
doing in my house.
  "Denise?" Alison asked from behind me.
  "Hi, you." Denise pushed past me into the
living room of my home. "Wow. Nice house.
Alison, meet K.c."
  "Casey?"
  "K.c.," the young man explained again.
"Short for Kenneth Charles."
  "But nobody ever calls him that," I added,
thinking he must get awfully tired of having
to explain himself.
  "I didn't realize you were bringing a date,"
Alison said, nervous eyes flitting in my
direction.
  "Is it a problem? I just assumed it would be
all right. Everybody always makes way too much
food on Thanksgiving."
  "If it's a problem," the young man interjected
quickly, "I can go. I don't want to put
anybody out."
  "No," I heard myself say. "Denise is
right. There's more than enough food. We can't very well
toss you out on the street on Thanksgiving, can
we?" I wasn't being especially magnanimous.
It was more that I suddenly decided Josh might be
more comfortable if another man was present.
  "I'll set another place," Alison
volunteered, disappearing into the dining room as I
ushered Denise and K.c. toward the sofa and
chairs.
  "Can I get you something to drink?" I offered.
  "Vodka?" Denise asked.
  "Beer?" asked K.c.
  I had neither, so they settled for white wine.
We sat in my living room, sipping on our
drinks--Alison and I were sticking to water for the
time being--and making awkward conversation. Denise
seemed neither particularly smart nor funny, and
K.c., who said little, had a way of looking right
through you, even in repose, that was quite unsettling.
Tonight is going to be a disaster, I thought, almost
praying Josh would call to cancel.
  "So, where'd you two meet?" Alison asked.
  "At the store." Denise shrugged, her eyes
zeroing in on the large painting of lush pink and red
peonies that hung on the wall across from the sofa.
"That's a nice painting."
  "Thank you."
  "I don't usually like stuff like that. You know,
flowers and fruit and stuff."
  "Still life," I said.
  "Yeah. I usually don't like it. I like art with
more of an edge, you know? But this is kinda nice.
Where'd you get it?"
  "It was my mother's."
  "Yeah? And what--you inherited it after
she died?" Denise was seemingly oblivious to the
fact this might be none of her business. "Along
with the house and everything?"
  I said nothing, not sure how to respond.
  "I've been trying to talk Terry into buying that
painting of the woman with the large sun hat on the
beach," Alison chipped in, as if aware of my
discomfort.
  "You're an only child?" Denise pressed,
ignoring her.
  "Yes, I'm afraid so."
  "No, you're lucky," Denise protested.
"I have two sisters. We hate each other's
guts. And Alison has a brother she never
talks to. What about you, K.c.? You have any
brothers or sisters you can't stand?"
  "One of each," he said.
  "And where are they tonight?" I asked.
  "Back in Houston, I guess."
  "I didn't know you were from Texas," Denise
said. "I've always wanted to go to Texas."
  "It doesn't sound like you've known each other very
long," I remarked.
  "We met last night." Denise giggled, the
incongruously childish sound emerging from between
deep-purple lips. "Actually, I'd seen
him in the store a few times, but we didn't
talk until last night."
  "I thought you looked familiar," Alison
suddenly exclaimed. "You were in on Monday. You
asked about the frog sculpture."
  K.c. looked vaguely embarrassed. "I
was trying to pick you up," he admitted with a
laugh.
  "Oh, nice talk!" Denise said. "And
what? It didn't work, so you came back last
night and hit on me?"
  "It doesn't mean I don't love you,"
K.c. said with a sly grin.
  Denise laughed. "Isn't he cute? I
think he's so cute." She reached over, scraped
clawlike fingers across his skinny thigh. "The thing
about art," she continued, as if this were the most
logical of continua, her eyes back on the
floral painting, "is that it's such a lie.
Don't you think?"
  "I'm not sure I follow," I answered.
  "Take these flowers," Denise said. "Or the
woman with the hat on the beach. I mean, when have you
ever seen flowers this big and lush in real
life, or sand that pink? It doesn't exist."
  "It exists in the artist's imagination," I
argued.
  "My point exactly."
  "Just because art is subjective doesn't make
it a lie. Sometimes an artist's interpretation of
something is ultimately more real than the thing itself.
The artist is forcing you to view the subject in a
new and different light, to arrive at a greater
truth."
  Denise waved my theories away with a careless
hand. The wine sloshed around in her glass, veering
dangerously toward the rim. "Artists distort,
they enhance, they leave things out." She shrugged.
"That makes them liars in my book."
  "You got something against liars?" K.c. asked.
  I heard a car pull into the driveway,
listened to the sound of footsteps on the outside
path, was already on my feet when the doorbell
rang. I couldn't help but notice the look of
anticipation on Alison's face as I walked
to the door.
  "You look great," she called after me, giving
me two encouraging thumbs-up.
  I laughed and opened the door, then had to lean
against it in case my legs gave out and I fell
over the large leafy plant to my right. Josh
Wylie was wearing a blue silk shirt and carrying
a bottle of Dom P@erignon. He looked
absolutely gorgeous, and it was all I could do
to keep from throwing myself into his arms. Calm down,
I told myself. You're forty years old, not
fourteen. Relax. Take deep breaths.
  "Am I late?" Josh asked as I closed
the door after him, then stood rooted to the floor,
as if I'd been planted.
  "No. You're perfect. Perfectly on
time," I qualified quickly, letting go of the
doorframe and accepting the bottle of Dom
P@erignon. "You didn't have to bring
champagne. Your flowers were more than enough."
  "Ooh, champagne." Denise was suddenly at
my side, lifting the bottle from my hands.
"I'm Denise, and I love champagne." She
extended her free hand.
  "Denise Nickson, this is Josh Wylie,"
I said. "Denise works in the gallery with
Alison."
  Alison waved hello from the sofa.
  "It's my aunt's gallery,"
Denise explained. "So I'm kind of a
part-owner, I guess. This is my friend K.c."
  "Nice to meet you, Casey."
  "K.c.," we corrected in unison.
  "Stands for Kenneth Charles," he said.
  "But nobody calls him that," Alison said.
  "You must get awfully tired of having
to explain that to everyone," Josh said, and I
smiled, hearing my own thoughts resonating through his
words.
  What can I say about that night?
  My initial reservations were quickly dispelled in
a wave of champagne and friendly banter.
Despite the disparity in our ages and interests, the
five of us made for a lively and interesting group.
The food was delicious, the conversation effortless, the
mood relaxed and happy.
  "So what exactly does an investment
counselor do?" Denise asked Josh at one
point, the cranberry sauce on her fork competing
with the stubborn purple of her lips. "And don't
say he counsels people on their investments."
  "I'm afraid there's not much else I can
say," Josh demurred.
  "Are you counseling Terry on her investments?"
K.c. asked.
  I laughed. "First I'd have to have some money
to invest."
  "Oh, come on. You must have lots of money
kicking around," Denise protested. "I mean, you
work, you own your own house, you have a tenant.
Plus I'm sure you have a nice pension."
  "Which I don't collect till I
retire," I told her, a slight twinge of
discomfort worming its way into my gut. How had
we come to be discussing my finances?
  "What about you, K.c.?" Josh asked.
"What is it you do?"
  "Computer programmer." K.c. helped himself
to another slice of turkey, another heaping
spoonful of yams.
  "Another job I'll never understand," Denise
said. "Do you have a computer, Terry?"
  "No," I answered. "I've never really
needed one."
  "How can you survive without E-mail?"
  "You'd be surprised what you can survive
without." I stared into my lap, trying not to picture
Josh slamming me against the wall of my bedroom,
eager fingers unbuttoning my blouse.
  "You have no relatives across the country you need
to keep in touch with?" Denise asked.
  I shook my head, caught sight of K.c.
as he leaned forward, cold eyes focused on me
intently. Snake eyes, I thought with a shudder.
  "Okay, so what are we all thankful for?"
Alison suddenly asked. "Three things.
Everybody."
  "Oh, God," Denise groaned. "This is so
Oprah."
  "You first, K.c.," Alison instructed.
"Three things you're thankful for."
  K.c. lifted his glass into the air. "Good
food. Good champagne." He smiled, snake
eyes slithering between Alison and Denise. "Bad
women."
  They laughed.
  "Denise?"
  Denise made a face that said this sort of
game was beneath her, but that she'd indulge us anyway
because she was such a good sport. "Let's see.
I'm thankful the gallery was closed today and I
didn't have to work. I'm thankful my aunt is
visiting her daughter in New York and I
didn't have to spend Thanksgiving with her. And"--
she looked directly at me--"I'm thankful
you're as good a cook as Alison said you were."
  "Amen to that," Josh said, raising his glass in
a toast.
  "Okay, Josh," Alison directed, "your
turn."
  Josh paused, as if giving the matter careful
thought. "I'm thankful for my children. I'm thankful
for the wonderful care my mother gets each day. And for
that, and for tonight, I'm especially thankful to--and
for--our lovely hostess. Thank you, Terry
Painter. You're a godsend."
  "Thank you," I whispered, dangerously
close to tears.
  "I'm thankful for Terry too," Alison
said as I felt my cheeks grow warm.
"Thankful that's she's given me a place to stay
and welcomed me so warmly into her life.
Secondly, I'm thankful for my instincts that
told me to come here in the first place. And
thirdly, I'm thankful for the chance I've been
given to start over again."
  "Aren't you a little young to be starting over?" Josh
asked.
  "Your turn." Alison blushed,
swiveled toward me.
  "I'm thankful for my health," I began.
  Denise groaned. "That's like wishing for world
peace."
  "And I'm thankful for all your kind words,"
I continued, ignoring her. I looked from
Alison to Josh, then back to Alison. "And
I'm thankful for new friends and new
opportunities. I consider myself very lucky."
  "We're the lucky ones," Alison said.
  "Does anyone here believe in God?"
Denise asked suddenly.
  And then everybody was speaking at once, as the
conversation veered from philosophic to sophomoric
to downright moronic and then back again. Not
surprisingly, Alison was among the believers.
Surprisingly, so was Denise. K.c. was an
atheist, Josh an agnostic. As for me, I'd
always wanted to believe, and on a good day, I
did.
  Today, I decided, perhaps prematurely, had
been a good day.




  At ten o'clock, Josh announced it was time for him
to be heading back to Miami.
  He was right. It was time to call it a night.
We'd polished off the homemade pumpkin pie,
drunk all the champagne, finished the last of the
Baileys. Alison had cleared the table,
hand-washed the dishes, and led us in an impromptu
game of charades, which she'd handily won. "I'm
very good at games," she'd said proudly.
  "I'll walk you to your car," I told Josh,
feeling a slight twinge in my stomach, like a
poke in the ribs, as I rose from the living room
sofa and followed him to the door.
  "Nice meeting you, Josh," Denise called
after him.
  "See you again soon, I hope," Alison
said.
  K.c. said nothing, although I detected a
slight nod of his head that meant either good-bye or
that he was too drunk to do more.
  No one else made a move to leave.
Clearly, Josh and I were the only two people in the
room who understood the value of timing.
  The warm air embraced us, like a lazy lover,
as we stepped outside and gazed up at a sky
heavy with stars. The smell of the ocean filtered through
the night air like silver threads through a dark
tapestry, lingering like an expensive perfume.
"Beautiful night," I remarked, walking beside
Josh to his car.
  "Lovely evening all around."
  "I'm so glad you could make it."
  "So am I." He looked down the empty
street. "Feel like taking a little walk? Just to the
corner," he added when I hesitated.
  I'm not sure why I hesitated. In truth,
I wanted nothing more than to prolong my time with
Josh for as long as humanly possible.
Probably I was leery of leaving my other
guests alone in the house for too long.
"Sure," I heard myself say, ignoring my
concerns, falling into step beside him. My arm brushed
against his. I felt a jolt, like a small but
potent electrical charge, shoot through my
body.
  "I was hoping for a few minutes alone with you,"
Josh said.
  "Do you want to talk about your mother?"
  He laughed, stopped walking. "You think I
want to get you alone so I can talk about my
mother?"
  I looked toward the sidewalk, afraid I
was so transparent my thoughts were visible on my
forehead. I felt his hand at my chin, a
succession of increasingly powerful shocks raising
my eyes back to his, as I watched his face
tilt toward mine. If he gets any closer,
I thought, he's liable to be electrocuted.
  "I'd really like to kiss you right now," he said.
  A loud sigh escaped my lips as he moved
closer. My heart was pounding right through my clothes,
like a baby kicking in its mother's womb. Except
it wasn't my heart, I realized with a sudden
gasp. It was my stomach. And it wasn't
passion. It was pain. My God, was I going
to be sick? Was he going to kiss me and then shrink
back in horror while I threw up all over
him? Certainly that was one way of ensuring tonight would
be a night to remember, I decided, as his lips
settled gently on mine.
  "Very nice," he whispered, kissing away my
fears, his arms wrapping around me like a cloak.
  Instantly I relaxed. Come back into the
house, I wanted to say. Come back and
tell the others they have to leave. Stay and make
love to me all night. You can drive back
to Miami in the morning.
  Except, of course, I said no such thing.
Instead I kissed him again and again, then stood there
grinning like an idiot until it became obvious
he wasn't going to kiss me anymore, and we
turned back, walking hand in hand toward his car,
my mind racing with my heart, my intestines doing
a slow rope burn against the inside of my
stomach. I was thinking that it doesn't matter how
old we are, fourteen or forty, we're ageless
when it comes to love.
  "Thanks again for a wonderful evening," Josh said
when we reached his car.
  "Thank you for the champagne and the roses."
  "I'm glad you liked them."
  "They're beautiful."
  "So are you."
  He kissed me again, this time on the cheek, his
eyelashes fluttering against my skin, like
butterfly wings. "I'll see you next week,"
he said, climbing into his car.
  I watched in silence as he backed his car
onto the street, heading toward Atlantic
Avenue. When he reached the stop sign at the
corner, he waved without looking back, as if he
knew I was still watching him. I waved back, but
by then he was already halfway down the next block.
  It took several minutes before I was able
to move. Truthfully, it was as much the tingling on
my lips and cheek as the renewed cramping in my
gut that rendered me immobile. Too much rich
food and excitement for an old lady, I
decided when I was finally able to put one foot in
front of the other. I returned to the house,
prepared to tell the others that the party was officially
over, but my living room was empty. Had everyone
cleared out while I was gone?
  It was then I heard the sound of careless laughter
bouncing above my head like a rubber ball. What were
they doing upstairs? I wondered, temporarily
forgetting about the pains in my stomach.
"Alison," I called from the foot of the stairs.
  Immediately Alison's head popped into view at
the top of the landing. "Josh leave?"
  "What are you doing up there?" I asked,
ignoring her question.
  Denise suddenly appeared beside Alison.
"My fault. I asked for a tour of the house."
  "There's not much to see." I watched the two young
women make their way down the stairs, K.c.
nipping at their heels like a large,
uncoordinated golden retriever.
  "It's like a little dollhouse," Denise
pronounced.
  "I'm sorry," Alison whispered in my
ear. "She was up the stairs before I could stop
her."
  Whatever annoyance I was feeling was replaced
by a sharp jab to my solar plexus. I
grimaced, grabbed my side.
  "Something wrong?" Alison asked.
  I shook my head. "I think I should have
skipped that second helping of pie," I
muttered, hoping I wouldn't have to say more.
  "Okay, guys," Alison announced
immediately. "Party's over. Time to pack it in."
  We said our good-byes at the front door.
Alison kissed me on the cheek. I think
Denise hugged me. K.c. mumbled something about
being slightly inebriated, then almost fell into the
leafy branches of the large, white
oleander that sat to the right of the front door. Then
they were gone, and the house was quiet, save for the
whispering of the leaves.

  Surprisingly, I had no trouble falling
asleep.
  My stomach seemed to settle down the minute
everyone left, so I attributed the discomfort
to all the excitement: the elaborate dinner; a
house full of new people; my first kiss in forever;
Josh; Josh; Josh. "Yes!" I said in
Alison's voice. Then again, watching her clap
her hands together and jump up and down with glee.
"Yes, yes, yes!"
  And then I must have fallen asleep, because the
next thing I knew I was dreaming. Wild
dreams. Crazy dreams. Dreams where I was
running around the house in helpless circles,
trying to find Alison, to warn her of danger,
although the danger was nonspecific, undefined.
At one point, I was climbing up the stairs when
K.c. jumped out at me from the shadows, long
legs flying, karate-style, through the air toward
my stomach.
  I gasped, doubled forward in my bed, barely
made it to the bathroom, where I threw up,
copiously and repeatedly. But even a thorough
purging of the night's dinner provided little
relief. I sat on the tile floor, my head
spinning, painful spasms shooting through my body like
pinballs, wondering whether it was possible I was
having an attack of appendicitis.
Unlikely, I knew. It was much more likely
to be a simple case of overindulgence, or perhaps
even food poisoning. I wondered if any of
my guests had gotten sick.
  Oh, God, poor Josh, I thought, pushing
myself to my feet and creeping slowly, my back
hunched, like a doddering old woman, toward my
bedroom window. I pulled back the lace
curtains, stared at the cottage behind my house,
surprised to see the lights still on. I glanced
at the clock beside my bed. It was almost three in the
morning, awfully late for Alison to be up.
Was she sick as well? I pulled on my
housecoat and gingerly made my way down the
stairs.
  I unlocked the kitchen door and tiptoed
outside, the grass cool on my bare feet.
A sudden rush of nausea almost
overwhelmed me, and I gulped frantically at the
fresh air until the feeling subsided. I
took several long, deep breaths before continuing
toward the cottage door. It was then I heard the
sound of laughter from inside the cottage.
Clearly, Alison wasn't sick. Nor was
she alone.
  I returned to the house, relieved that
Alison was okay, that it appeared no one else
had gotten sick. My reputation as a cook was
safe, I thought, and might have laughed had it not
been for the renewed spasms that catapulted me
toward the kitchen sink. Dozens of ceramic eyes
looked down disapprovingly from the shelves above my
head, the pitiless, blank stares of the china
ladies passing silent judgment on my condition.
Serves you right, the women shouted through pouting,
painted lips. That'll teach you to have too good a
time.
  I was halfway up the stairs when the phone
rang.
  Who would be calling me at this hour? I
wondered, moving as quickly as my stomach would
permit. Alison? Had she seen me outside the
cottage door? I pushed my bent frame
toward the phone beside my bed, answered it at the
start of its fifth ring. "Hello?"
  "Have a nice evening?" the voice asked.
  Not Alison. A man. "Who is this?"
  "I have a message for you from Erica
Hollander."
  "What!"
  "She says you better watch your step."
  "Who is this?" The phone went dead in my
hands. "Hello? Hello?" I slammed down the
receiver, too angry to speak, too weak to try.
I fell back on the bed, hands shaking, heart
pounding, my brain alternating between trying to place
the voice and to put it out of my mind altogether. What
did his strange message mean? Of course,
sleep was no longer an option. I spent the
balance of the night rolling from one side of the bed to the
other, either too hot or too cold, my teeth
chattering or my forehead bathed in sweat, my arms
securing the blankets tightly under my chin, my
feet kicking them angrily back to the foot of the
bed. For hours I lay on my back observing the
moonlight slither through the lace of my curtains,
watching the darkness bleed from the sky until it
grew light. Whenever it looked as if
I might be granted a few minutes respite,
a not-quite-familiar voice would sneak up beside me and
whisper in my ear: I have a message for you from
Erica Hollander. She says you better watch
your step.
  At around eight o'clock, I pushed myself out of
bed. I was still nauseous and weak, but at least my
stomach was no longer threatening to burst from my
body. My forehead felt a little warm to the touch,
and my hands were still trembling. I decided to make
some tea, maybe eat a piece of toast, although,
at the thought of food, my stomach lurched.
Maybe just tea, I decided, about to head
downstairs when I heard voices outside my
window.
  I shuffled toward the sound and pulled back the
curtains, careful to stay out of sight. Alison
was standing in the open doorway of the cottage talking
to Denise, both still dressed in last night's
clothes. Denise was doing most of the talking, although
I couldn't make out what she was saying. The look
on Alison's face, however, told me she was
paying close attention.
  "Come on, sleepyhead," Denise suddenly
shouted toward the inside of the cottage. "Time
to get your bony ass out of there."
  Seconds later, K.c. stood in the
doorway. His shirt hung open and his blue
jeans rode dangerously low on his skinny
hips, emphasizing the line of dark hair that
spiraled from the center of his bare chest down past his
belly button, then disappeared beneath the buckle of
his black leather belt. His short brown hair was
matted and uncombed, and sleep clung to his
eyes as carelessly as the half-smoked cigarette
that dangled from his lips.
  I watched him toss the cigarette into my bed
of pink and white impatiens, then lean toward
Alison and whisper something in her ear, his fingers
playing with the gold necklace at her throat as his
eyes glanced toward my bedroom window. Was he
talking about me? I wondered, careful to keep out
of sight. Did he know I was there?
  Alison pushed him playfully aside, waving
after them as he and Denise ambled along the side
of the house to the street. My eyes followed after
them until they disappeared into the shadow of a nearby
tree. When I looked back, I saw
Alison staring up at me, a strange look on
her face. She waved, signaled that she
was coming over. Seconds later, looking
remarkably fresh and rested for someone who'd been
up all night, she was at the kitchen door.
  "Are you all right?" she asked as soon as she
saw me.
  "I was sick last night." I promptly
collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs.
  "Sick? You mean like throwing-up sick?"
  "I mean like throwing-up sick."
  "Oh, yuck! That's awful. I hate throwing
up. It's my least favorite thing in the whole
world."
  "I can't say I'm overly fond of it
myself."
  "You know how some people tell you that throwing up will
make you feel better? Not me. I'd rather feel
sick as a dog for weeks on end than throw up.
That's why it was always such a joke to me when people thought
I was bulimic. As if I would ever do anything
to make myself vomit. I mean, yuck!"
  I could almost see the exclamation point.
  "I remember when I was a little girl," she
continued, "and I got sick one night after eating
too much red licorice, and every night after that, when
I'd climb into bed, I'd ask my mother if I
was going to be all right. And she'd roll her eyes
and say yes, but I wasn't convinced, so I'd
make her promise. Even still, I'd grit my
teeth until I fell asleep."
  "You didn't believe your mother?"
  Alison shrugged, her eyes circling the
kitchen. "You want some tea?"
  "I'd love some."
  She busied herself with the mechanics of making
tea. She filled the kettle with water, dropped
a tea bag into a mug, got the milk out of the
fridge. "You probably drank too much
champagne," she ventured, eyes glued to the
kettle.
  "A watched pot never boils," I told
her.
  "What?"
  ""A watched pot never boils." One of
my mother's little aphorisms."
  "Aphorism? Good word. That's like, what, a
saying?"
  "More or less."
  Alison obligingly looked away from the
kettle and toward the window. "So I guess you
saw me talking to Denise and K.c."
It was more statement than question.
  I nodded, said nothing.
  "They wanted to see the cottage." She
paused, studied her bare feet. "Anyway, we
stayed up pretty late talking, and next thing
I knew, Denise was curled up in my bed and
K.c. was passed out on the floor." The
teakettle whistled its readiness. Alison
jumped at the sound, then laughed. "Looks like your
mother was right. I just had to stop watching it."
  "Mother knows best." I chose my next words
carefully. "Did you call your family to wish
them a happy Thanksgiving?"
  "No." Alison poured my tea. "Not quite
ready to do that yet. Here. Drink this. It'll
make you feel better."
  "I hope so." I took a tentative sip.
  "So, did you enjoy last night? I mean,
aside from the throwing-up part."
  I laughed, understanding the subject of her
family was closed, at least for now. "I had a
wonderful time."
  "I think Josh really likes you."
  "You do?"
  "I could tell by the way he looked at you.
He thinks you're something special."
  "He's a very nice man." I took another
sip of my tea, felt it burn the tip of my
tongue, pulled back.
  "Careful," Alison warned too late.
"It's hot."
  "So, what are you up to today? Going to the beach with
your friends?"
  "Not a chance. I'm going to stay right here and
make sure you're okay."
  "Oh, no. I don't want you to do that."
  Alison pulled up a chair, plunked down
beside me. "You took care of me when I got
sick, didn't you?"
  "Yes, but ..."
  "No buts." She smiled. "It's settled.
I'm not going anywhere."

  Not long after I finished the tea, my nausea
returned, and I suffered through an agonizing round
of dry heaves. Surprisingly, Alison made
a wonderful nurse, holding a cool compress
to my head and not leaving my side until I was
safely tucked back in bed. "Sleep," I can
still hear her repeating as she stroked my
hair. "Sleep ... sleep."
  Whether it was from exhaustion, the sound of her
voice, or the touch of her hand, within minutes I
was sound asleep. This time, no dreams plagued
me. I slept soundly, deeply, for several
hours. When I opened my eyes, it was almost
noon.
  I sat up in bed, twisting my neck from side
to side to get rid of the stiffness that had settled
in. Then I heard a voice talking quietly
from the second bedroom and realized it was
Alison. "I didn't call to fight," I
heard her say as I climbed out of bed, steadying
myself against the wall as I shuffled toward the door.
  "Everything is going exactly as planned," she
continued as I stepped into the hall, drew closer.
"You're just going to have to trust that I know what I'm
doing."
  I must have made a sound because she suddenly spun
around in her seat, went ghostly white.
  "Terry! How long have you been standing there? Are
you all right?" The words tumbled from her mouth in a
frantic rush, like sand from a broken hourglass.
"Look, I have to go," she said into the portable
phone at her ear, before stuffing it unceremoniously
into the pocket of her white shorts. She jumped
to her feet and quickly ushered me toward the sofa, then
sat so close to me our knees were touching. "My
brother," she explained, patting the phone in her
pocket. "I decided you were right, that the least I
could do was call my family and wish them a happy
holiday, let them know I'm okay."
  "It didn't go well?"
  "About as well as expected. Anyway, how
are you? You look a hundred percent better."
  "I feel better," I said without much
conviction. What had Alison been talking to her
brother about? What, I wondered, was going
exactly as planned? "What have you been doing
all morning?" I asked instead.
  "First I went home, took a shower, changed
my clothes. Then"--a huge grin swept across
Alison's face, temporarily obliterating
my concerns--"I found this." She grabbed a
large, leather-bound photo album from the pillow
beside her, balanced it across her lap. "I hope you
don't mind. I stumbled across it when I was
looking for something to read." She flipped it open.
"Are these your parents?"
  I found myself staring at an old
black-and-white photograph of a smiling young
couple at a public swimming pool, my father's
skinny legs sticking out from underneath a pair of
dark, oversize swim trunks, loafers on his
feet, a straw hat on his head, my mother sitting
beside him in a modest gingham bathing suit, hands
clasped primly in her lap, hair piled high
on her head, large, white sunglasses
swamping her small face. How long had it been
since I'd looked at these pictures? The
album had been tucked away at the back of the
highest shelf. How had Alison simply
stumbled across it? "That's them," I said, brushing
an invisible hair away from my mother's face,
feeling her swat my hand aside. "They weren't
married yet."
  As Alison steadily turned the pages, I
watched my parents grow up before my eyes, from shy
young lovers to self-conscious newlyweds to nervous
parents. "This one's my favorite." Alison
pointed to a picture of my mother pressing a
sad-eyed baby to her cheek. "Look at how
cute you were."
  "Cute, my ass. Just look at those bags
under my eyes." I shook my head in dismay.
"My mother claimed I didn't sleep through the
night until I was three years old. And I
peed in my pants until I was seven. No
wonder they decided not to have any more kids."
  Alison laughed, studied each page in
turn. "Which one's you?" she asked suddenly,
indicating a large photograph of a bunch of
small children arranged in neat little rows, like
pansies in a garden--my senior kindergarten
class.
  I pointed to a little girl in a white dress,
frowning from the back row.
  "You don't look very happy."
  "I never liked having my picture taken."
  "No? I love it. Oh, look at this one.
Is this you?" Alison's index finger landed on a
little girl in a plaid jumper, scowling beside her
third-grade teacher.
  "That's me all right."
  "Would you just look at that face." Alison
laughed. "You have the same expression in every
picture, even as a teenager. Which one's Roger
Stillman?"
  "What?"
  "Roger Stillman. Is he in any
of these pictures?"
  "No. He was a few grades ahead of me,"
I reminded her.
  "Too bad. I would have liked to see what he
looked like. What do you think happened to him?"
  "I have no idea."
  "Do you ever think of just picking up the phone and
calling him? Saying, "Hi, Roger
Stillman, this is Terry Painter. Remember
me?"'"
  "Never," I said, louder than I'd intended.
  "Do you think he still lives in Baltimore?"
  I shrugged my lack of interest, flipped
to another page, saw my parents, now in
glorious color, posed together on the front
lawn of their first house in Delray Beach. They
looked a little stiff, as if aware there were
difficult times ahead. "Would you mind making me
another cup of tea?" I asked.
  "It would be my supreme pleasure."
Alison pushed herself off the sofa. "How about some
toast and jam to go with it?"
  "Why not?"
  "That's the spirit."
  I leaned my head against the burgundy velvet
of the sofa, closed my eyes, the sound of
Alison's voice soft against my ear.
Everything is going exactly as planned, she
purred. And then another voice: I have a
message for you from Erica Hollander, the stranger
whispered in my ear. She says you better
watch your step.
  But I was too tired, too weak, to listen.



  The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas were
especially busy, both at the hospital and at
home. In the five years since my mother's death,
I hadn't bothered much with the festive trappings of the
holiday season. Indeed, I'd gone out of my
way to ignore the holidays, often working overtime and
volunteering for the graveyard shift. But Alison
was determined to change that.
  "What do you mean you're working on Christmas?"
she wailed.
  "It's just another day."
  "No, it's not. It's Christmas. Can't you
switch with somebody else?"
  I shook my head. It was late afternoon
and I was working in my garden. Alison was pacing
restlessly back and forth on the lawn behind me.
  "But that really sucks!" she protested, looking
and sounding at least a decade younger than her
twenty-eight years. "I mean, I was kind of
hoping we could have Christmas together."
  "We could do Christmas Eve."
  Immediately her face brightened. "That's right.
Lots of families open their presents on
Christmas Eve, don't they? I guess that would
be okay. Can I go with you to pick out a tree?"
  "A tree?" I couldn't remember the last time
I'd had a Christmas tree.
  "You have to have a tree! What's Christmas without
a tree? And we'll get decorations and little
white lights. My treat, of course. It's the
least I can do. It'll be so great. Can we do that?"
  How could I say no? In the weeks since
I'd been sick, Alison had become a
regular--and increasingly welcome--part of my
day. We spoke often on the phone from our
respective places of work, had dinner together
two or three times a week, occasionally went to the
movies or for a leisurely stroll along the
beach. No matter how busy our schedules,
Alison found time for us to be together. And despite
my initial reservations about tenants in general,
and Alison in particular, she simply ran
roughshod over any misgivings I might have had.
I was powerless where she was concerned, I realized as
we drove along Military Trail some days
later, a tall Scotch pine protruding from the
half-open trunk of my car. Alison had
managed, in the space of only several months,
to become an integral part of my life, and
despite the twelve-year difference in our ages,
probably the closest friend I'd ever had.
  "Is this not the most absolutely gorgeous
tree in the whole wide world?" she asked after
we'd finished attaching the last of the delicate,
pink bows to its long, sharp branches. We stood
back to admire our handiwork.
  "It's absolutely the most gorgeous tree
in the whole wide world," I concurred, and she
hugged me.
  "This is going to be the best Christmas ever,"
Alison declared as Christmas Eve drew
closer, and she added yet another present to the
growing pile under the tree that she'd stationed in the
corner of my living room.
  "I think she's homesick," I confided
to Margot at work. "I mean, you should see what
she's done to the house. There are decorations
everywhere, mountains of holly sprigs, and I can't
move without bumping into one of these weird little
Santas she has everywhere."
  "Sounds like she's taking over," Margot
observed with a laugh. "How long before she moves in
and you go back to living in the cottage?" She
reached for a patient's file, answered the ringing
phone beside her.
  "I think she's just homesick," I repeated,
vaguely annoyed with Margot, although I wasn't
sure why.
  Margot held out the phone. "For you."
  "Terry Painter," I announced, expecting
to hear Alison's voice. Had she somehow sensed
we were talking about her?
  "Terry, it's Josh Wylie."
  My heart sank.
  "I really hate to do this to you again," he was saying
as I lowered my chin to my chest, silently mouthing
the words along with him. "Something's come up, and
I'm going to have to cancel our lunch. I'm really
sorry."
  "So am I," I said truthfully. This was the
third lunch date Josh had canceled in as many
weeks. Aside from a few quick exchanges when
he'd dropped by to visit his mother, we hadn't seen
each other since Thanksgiving.
  "How about dinner?" he surprised me now
by asking. "I have to be up your way later and I have
a little something for you."
  "You have something for me?"
  "'Tis the season. It's just a little token of
my appreciation. For being so nice to my mother," he
added quickly. "How about I pick you up at seven
o'clock?"
  "Seven o'clock would be fine."
  "Seven o'clock it is." He clicked off without
saying good-bye.
  "Somebody looks awfully pleased with herself,"
Margot said with a sly wink.
  I said nothing, my mind already on the night
ahead. So what if Josh had canceled three
lunch dates in a row. One dinner equaled
three lunches any day. Not only that, but he had
a gift for me--a small token of his
appreciation, he'd said. For being so nice to my
mother. I tried to imagine what it could
be. A bottle of perfume? Some fancy
soaps? Maybe a silk scarf or even a
small brooch? No, it was way too early for
jewelry. Our relationship--if a few kisses
and several canceled lunch dates could be called a
relationship--was still in the beginning stages. It
wouldn't be appropriate, as my mother might have
said, for him to be showering me with extravagant
gifts. It didn't matter. Whatever Josh
gave me would be wonderful. I wondered what I
could get him in return, deciding to ask Myra
for her advice. Her condition had deteriorated in
the last few weeks, and she was understandably
depressed. Perhaps news of my upcoming dinner
date with her son might cheer her up.
  But Myra was asleep when I entered her
room, so after checking her IV and adjusting her
blankets, I left. "I'm having dinner with
your son tonight," I said from the doorway. "Wish
me luck."
  But the only response I got was an
involuntary whistle that escaped Myra's lips
as she exhaled. I closed the door and stepped
into the hall, where I was almost run over by one of the
orderlies. "What's going on?" I called after
him as he raced down the hall.
  "Patient in 423 came out of her coma," he
called back excitedly.
  "Sheena O'Connor?" I asked, but the young
man had already disappeared around a corner. "My
God, I don't believe it."
  I hurried to room 423, pushed open the
door. The room was overflowing with doctors and
assorted medical personnel, everyone moving about
purposefully, their actions both condensed and
exaggerated, as if the scene were being enacted in both
slow motion and fast-forward simultaneously. I
caught a glimpse of the pale young woman who was
the calm at the center of the storm. She was sitting
up in bed, still attached to a myriad of tubes, and
our eyes connected for only the briefest of
seconds as I was backing out of the room.
  "Wait!" Her tiny voice pierced the air.
  I froze as half a dozen bodies
swiveled in my direction, half a dozen
faces found my own.
  "I know you," the girl said. "You're the one
who's been singing to me, aren't you?"
  "You heard me?" I approached the bed, the
doctors and nurses who surrounded her
clearing a path for me.
  "I heard you," Sheena said softly, leaning
back against her pillow, large, dark eyes
fluttering to a close.
  "It's a miracle," a hushed voice
whispered from a corner of the room.
  "Has anyone notified her family?" someone
asked.
  "Her parents are on their way."
  "Should we call the police?"
  "They've already been notified."
  "It's a miracle," someone else said. "A
true Christmas miracle."

  I couldn't wait to share the news of Sheena's
miraculous recovery with Alison, so I
decided to stop off at the gallery where she worked.
Maybe Alison could help me select a
gift for Josh, something appropriate, I
thought, feeling giddy and euphoric, as I pulled
into a just vacated parking space right on
Atlantic Avenue. Another miracle!
  I didn't see Alison when I entered the
store. Nor did I see Denise. Indeed, the
gallery appeared to be deserted. How on earth
did they stay in business? I wondered, looking
around, noting that the painting of the woman with the
wide-brimmed sun hat no longer occupied its
usual place on the far wall. I felt a
pang of regret. Alison had been right about it
being the perfect painting for my living room. It was
too bad I hadn't taken her advice and
scooped it up when I had the chance. Obviously,
someone much more decisive than I had done just that.
  My life was a collection of missed
opportunities, I thought glumly, deciding that
was about to change.
  Starting with tonight.
  Starting with Josh.
  "Hello?" I called out. "Alison?"
  "Can I help you?"
  I turned to see an attractive woman
approximately my own age walking toward me,
her high heels clicking against the hardwood
floor.
  "I'm sorry. I was in my office. Have you
been waiting long?"
  "Just got here."
  The woman smiled, although the skin around her mouth
was pulled so tight it was hard to tell
whether she was happy or in pain.
Reflexively, I brought my hand to my cheek,
pushed at the fine lines around my eyes. "Is
there something in particular you're looking for?" she
asked.
  "Actually, I'm looking for someone who works
here. Alison Simms."
  The woman's smile became a tense,
straight line. "Alison no longer works here,"
she said curtly.
  "She doesn't?"
  "She left last week."
  "She left? Why?"
  "I'm afraid I had to let her go."
  "You had to let her go?" I repeated, feeling
like a parrot. "Why?"
  "Perhaps you should ask her."
  Alison hadn't said a word about being let go.
She had told me that her boss had requested
she not receive any more calls at work. Dear God,
was I the reason she'd lost her job? "And this
happened last week?" I heard myself ask, my
mind reeling.
  "Is there anything I can help you with?" Fern
Lorelli was clearly anxious to move on.
  I muttered something about needing a Christmas
gift for a friend and eventually purchased an
attractively masculine ballpoint pen I
thought Josh might like, but my heart wasn't in it.
Why had Alison been fired? More
importantly, why hadn't she told me? I
made up my mind to ask her as soon as I got
home.
  My phone was ringing as I pulled into the
driveway. I ran into the house, the bells
Alison had hung on the front door jingling as
I raced into the kitchen and grabbed for the phone. I
dropped the small bag containing my new
purchase on the counter beside three small plastic
Santas, all of whom stared at the bag with
bemused curiosity. "Hello?"
  A soft male voice slithered through the phone
wire like a snake. "Buy anything for me?"
  My breath froze in my lungs, even as my
eyes darted nervously toward the back window.
Had someone been following me? Was I being
watched? Why? I wondered, my arms folding
protectively across my chest, as if I were standing
in my kitchen completely naked. "Who is this?
What do you want?"
  My answer was a sly chuckle, followed
by silence and the familiar drone of the dial tone.
  "Damn it!" I hung up and immediately pressed
star 69. But whoever was calling had blocked the
trace. I slammed the phone into its carriage.
  It rang again almost immediately.
  "Look, I don't know what your problem
is," I said instead of hello. "But if you
don't stop bothering me, I'm going to call the
police."
  "Terry?"
  "Josh!"
  "I know I broke our lunch date, but do you
really think the police are necessary?"
  "I'm so sorry. I've been getting these
crank calls. ... It's nothing." I sighed,
shook thoughts of other voices out of my head.
  "Rough day?"
  "Actually, no," I said, regrouping,
refocusing. "It was a great day." I wondered
briefly why he was calling. Surely it
wasn't to talk about my day. "You remember
Sheena O'Connor? She came out of her coma this
afternoon," I prattled on, almost afraid to let
him speak. "It was incredible. Everyone's calling
it a Christmas miracle."
  "It must have been very exciting."
  "It was amazing. And the best part was that she'd
heard me singing to her while she was comatose.
Isn't that incredible?" I asked, sounding just like
Alison, aware I'd used superlatives
three times in as many seconds. "Anyway,
I'll tell you all about it tonight."
  An awful silence followed. For the second time
that day, my heart sank, my happiness crashing
to the floor with such force I felt the room shake
beneath my feet.
  "I feel like such a jerk," Josh was saying.
  "Is there a problem?" I opened the nearest
drawer and stuffed the gift bag from Lorelli
Gallery inside it. Clearly, I wasn't
going to be seeing Josh Wylie anytime soon.
  "It's Jillian," he said, referring to his
daughter. "She came home from school and said she
wasn't feeling very well."
  "Does she have a fever?"
  "I don't think so, but I just wouldn't feel
comfortable about leaving her. I'm so sorry. I can't
believe I'm doing this to you twice in one day.
Maybe you should call the police."
  "Some days are like that," I said gamely,
slamming the cupboard drawer shut, watching the
three Santas collapse against each other, like
dominoes.
  "I feel really terrible about this."
  "You'll make it up to me," I ventured
bravely.
  "Absolutely. As soon as I get back
from California."
  "You're going away?"
  "Just for a couple of weeks. The kids have
cousins in San Francisco. We leave the day
after tomorrow, get back January third."
  So much for New Year's Eve, I thought.
  "I hope you don't hate me."
  "These things happen."
  "I will make it up to you."
  "Have a wonderful trip," I said. "And tell
Jillian I hope she feels better soon."
  "I will."
  "See you next year," I said cheerily, then
hung up the phone before I burst into tears.
"Damn it!" I swore. "Damn it. Damn
it. Damn it!"
  There was a knock on the kitchen door. I
gasped, budding tears coating my eyes, leaving a
filmy residue.
  "I'm sorry," Alison apologized over
the sound of jingling bells as I opened the door
to let her in. "I didn't mean to scare you."
  I caught a glimpse of strawberry curls,
white shorts, and long, tanned legs, before
turning away.
  "Terry, what's wrong?"
  "Why didn't you tell me you lost your job?"
I demanded, swiping at my eyes with the back of
my hand, refusing to look at her.
  I could almost feel the color drain from
Alison's face. "What?"
  "I dropped into the gallery this afternoon. I
spoke to Fern Lorelli."
  "Oh."
  "She said she had to let you go."
  Silence. Then: "What else did she say?"
  "Not much."
  "She didn't say why?"
  Wiping the last errant tears from my eyes, I
pivoted around to face her. Alison's gaze
immediately dropped to the floor. "She said I should
ask you."
  Alison nodded, still unable to look me in the
eye. "I was going to tell you."
  "But you didn't."
  "I thought I'd wait until I found another
job. I didn't want you worrying about the rent.
I didn't want to ruin Christmas."
  "Why were you let go?"
  Slowly Alison lifted her gaze to mine.
"I didn't do anything wrong," her voice
implored. "Apparently there was some money
missing. Certain figures didn't add up.
... I swear it wasn't me."
  "It was just easier for her to fire you than
confront her own niece," I offered after a
pause, biting down on my tongue to keep from
adding, I told you so.
  "You don't have to worry about anything.
Honestly. I have enough money."
  "I'm not worried about the money."
  "Then what is it? Are you worried about me?
Don't be," she said before I could respond.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I won't
lie to you ever again. I promise. Please don't
be angry with me."
  "I'm not angry."
  "You're sure?"
  I nodded, realizing it was true, that if I was
angry with anyone, it was with myself. For being such a
damn fool.
  "I have a great idea," Alison suddenly
announced, running from the room.
  Seconds later, I heard her foraging around
under the Christmas tree, and seconds after that she
was back, a brightly, if somewhat sloppily,
wrapped gift in her hands. She extended it
toward me. "Since we're opening the presents
early anyway, it won't hurt to open this one
now. Ignore the wrapping. I actually took a
course in gift-wrapping once, would you believe?
Go on. Open it. It'll make you feel
better."
  "What is it?"
  "Open it."
  I tore the wrapping off the brown cardboard
box, opened it. Large dark eyes stared up at
me from under a shroud of translucent bubble wrap.
Slowly, carefully, I lifted the head vase
into the air. The china lady sported an
elaborate blond coif, a large blue bow
at her throat, and mock diamond
studs in her ears. "She's beautiful. Where did
you find her?"
  "At the flea market over by Woolbright.
Isn't she great? I mean, I know you think
they're junk and everything, but I couldn't resist.
I saw her, and I thought it was kind of like a sign
or something."
  "A sign?"
  "Like I was meant to find her, and you were meant to have
her. Fate," she said with an embarrassed roll
of her eyes. "I mean, the other heads were more your
mother's. This one's, well ... she's all yours.
Your firstborn, so to speak. Do you like her?"
  "I like her very much."
  Alison squealed with delight. "She's in
mint condition. Check the eyelashes."
  "She's perfect." I turned the china head
over in my hands. "Thank you."
  "Feel better?"
  "Much."
  "Where are you going to put her?" Alison
glanced toward the five shelves of ladies'
heads.
  "This one's pretty special. I think
I'll keep her in my room."
  Alison beamed, as if I'd just paid her the
highest of compliments. "So, I guess I'll
see you later?"
  "Later," I agreed, hearing the bells jingle
as the kitchen door closed behind her. I wandered
into the dining area, smiling at the sprigs of holly
and pine that lay across the top of the cabinet, at the
apple-cheeked Santa Claus who stood in the
middle of the dining room table, at the
papier-m`ach`e reindeer that leaned against the wall.
  The living room was more of the same: more Santas,
more reindeer, at least a dozen elves. If there
was a space, something Christmassy was in it. And
then there was the tree itself--tall and full and
smelling of the forest, its branches swathed in pink
bows and small white lights, presents swelling
from beneath its base. Just looking at it buoyed my
spirits. And it was all Alison's doing, I
recognized, cradling the china head vase in my
hands as if it were indeed my firstborn child.
  Alison was the true Christmas miracle,
I decided.
  What was I doing moping around the house because some
guy had stood me up? Just think of all the things
I had to be grateful for.
  Name three, I heard Alison urge.
  "My health," I said reflexively, then
groaned. "Sheena O'Connor's amazing
recovery." My God, she'd actually heard
me sing to her! "Alison," I whispered, then
again, louder, more forcefully: "Alison."
  I looked down at the china head in my hands,
my heart full of remorse. I was no better
than Fern Lorelli, I thought with disgust. I'd
used Alison as a scapegoat, transferred
my anger and disappointment with someone else to her.
  How could I have let her leave without giving her
something in return? I reached under the tree and
selected a small parcel wrapped in silver
foil. Then I carried it back into the kitchen,
leaving the china head on the kitchen table, next to the
Santa Claus salt-and-pepper shakers
Alison had picked up at Target. The sound
of jingle bells followed me across the small
patch of yard to the cottage door.
  I heard the voices as I was about to knock.
  "I told you to let me handle this," Alison
was saying, her voice an angry hiss, intense
enough to be heard from outside.
  "I'm just here to help."
  "I don't need your help. I know what
I'm doing."
  "Since when?"
  I turned to leave, my shoulder accidentally
brushing against the bells hanging from the bronze
knocker, setting them jangling. Almost immediately, the
door opened, and Alison stood before me with questioning
eyes. "Terry!"
  Instinctively, I thrust the gift toward her.
"I wanted you to have this."
  "Oh, that's so sweet." She glanced toward the
interior of the cottage. "You didn't have to."
  "I know, but I thought ..." What did I
think? "Is someone here?" I ventured meekly.
  There was a moment's strained silence as a handsome
young man materialized behind Alison, as if
waved there by a magic wand. He was several inches
taller than Alison, with fair skin, curly,
dark hair, and the disturbingly blue eyes of a
Siamese cat. Well-defined biceps bulged
from beneath the short sleeves of a black T-shirt
that stretched tightly across his chest.
  "That would be me," the young man said, smiling.
He reached around Alison and extended his hand.
  "Terry," Alison said, her gaze
drifting toward the grass, the second time this afternoon
she'd been too embarrassed to look me in the
eyes, "I'd like you to meet Lance Palmay.
My brother."



  "A pleasure to meet you," Lance said, his
handshake surprisingly gentle.
  "I called him after Thanksgiving.
Remember?" Alison asked.
  I nodded, recalling the one-sided conversation
I'd overheard the morning I was so desperately
sick.
  Everything is going exactly as planned.
You're just going to have to trust that I know what I'm
doing.
  "Lance decided he needed to fly down and see
for himself how I'm making out."
  "Looks like she's managing just fine," Lance
pronounced.
  "That's why I came over before, to tell you about
Lance," Alison explained, inviting me inside
the cottage with a sweep of her hand. "We got
kind of sidetracked. ..."
  I'm not sure what I expected to see when
I stepped inside--a tinsel-covered wonderland,
a veritable army of toys, a re-creation of the
North Pole? But surprisingly, the cottage
bore only a few traces of Christmas--a
large red candle, surrounded by a few careless
sprigs of holly, on the glass coffee table in
front of the deep purple love seat, a lonely
Santa Claus doll lying facedown on the
bentwood rocker. That was it.
  "Do you want a cold drink?" Alison
offered.
  I shook my head, watched as Lance flopped
down on the large floral-print chair. He
looks way too comfortable, I thought, masking the
unkind thought with a clearing of my throat. "When
did you get in?"
  "Plane got into Fort Lauderdale around
twelve-thirty." He smiled at Alison.
"I rented a car at the airport. White
Lincoln Town Car, no less. It's parked
across the street. You must have seen it. Surprised
old sleepyhead here as she was getting out of bed."
  Alison's eyes narrowed as her shoulders
tensed.
  "Where are you staying?" I asked.
  The two exchanged wary glances.
  "We were just talking about that," Alison began.
  "I thought I could stay here for a few days,"
Lance said as if the decision had already been made.
  "Here?" I repeated when I could think of nothing
else to say.
  "Of course if you have any objections ...,"
Alison said quickly.
  "Why would she object?" Lance asked, looking
right at me.
  "But where would you sleep?" The sofa was far too
short for the elongated legs of a former high school
basketball player, the double bed way too
small to accommodate a brother and sister
comfortably.
  "This is a pretty neat chair." Lance pounded
its oversize arms. "And I can always throw a
pillow on the floor."
  "Is it all right?" Alison asked me again.
"Because honestly, if it isn't, Lance can find a
motel."
  "At this time of year? Without a reservation? I
wouldn't count on it."
  "I don't want you to be uncomfortable,"
Alison said.
  "Absolutely not," Lance concurred. "If
my staying here would make you feel uncomfortable in
any way ..."
  "It's your comfort I'm concerned with."
  "Don't worry about me."
  "I'll pay you extra," Alison
volunteered.
  "Don't be silly. That's not the point."
  "Terry had a bad experience with her last
tenant," Alison told her brother.
  "How so?"
  "Too long a story." I shook my head.
"Well, okay then, I guess it's okay. A
few days, you said?"
  "Absolutely," Alison agreed.
  "Christmas ... New Year's, tops,"
Lance said, effortlessly stretching the few days
to ten.
  "Well ..."
  "Can I open my present now?" Alison
asked eagerly. Without waiting for my reply, she
tore off the silver wrapping paper, her eyes
widening with delight when she saw what was inside.
"A wallet! Oh, that's so great. I
need a wallet. How'd you know that?"
  I laughed, picturing the loose bills that were
always tumbling around inside her purse.
  "We are just so tuned in to each other, don't you
think?" Alison stated more than asked, turning the
honey-colored leather wallet over in her hands,
caressing its smooth sides. "It's amazing.
Don't you think?"
  "I think it's a very nice wallet," Lance
said. "Terry is obviously a woman of
impeccable taste."
  Was he being sarcastic? I couldn't tell.
  "I should go." I turned toward the door.
  "You'll come with us for dinner, won't you?"
Alison asked.
  "I don't think so. I'm not very hungry. You
guys go, get reacquainted."
  "Okay," Alison agreed reluctantly,
"but only if you promise to spend the day with us
tomorrow."
  "Tomorrow?"
  "I know you're not working tomorrow, and I want to show
Lance all around Delray."
  "You don't need me for that."
  "Yeah, I do. Please. It won't be the
same without you."
  "You know it's pointless to argue," Lance said with a
laugh.
  He was right, and we all knew it.
  "You have to come," Alison persisted. "Please.
It'll be so fun. Please. Please. Say
you'll at least think about it."
  "I'll think about it," I said.

  Of course, in the end I agreed to go. What
other choice did I have? It's pointless to say that
I was being dangerously naive, even reckless, that
I was deluding myself into thinking that everything was going
to be all right, that Alison and her brother were
exactly the people they represented themselves to be.
I've said all these things to myself, and much more besides.
But I continued to rationalize my doubts away.
I convinced myself Alison was sincere in her
reasons for not telling me she'd been fired, and
that, of course, she'd had nothing to do with any money
that might be missing from the gallery.
  And what of the conversation I'd overheard at the
cottage door?
  I told you to let me handle this.
  Handle what?
  I'm just here to help.
  I don't need your help. I know what
I'm doing.
  What did it mean?
  Nothing, I assured myself that night. Alison
and her brother could have been talking about anything.
What self-conscious paranoia made me think
their conversation had anything to do with me? Not everything was
about me, as my mother might have said. Whatever
Alison and her brother had been arguing about
probably didn't concern me at all.
  Handle what?
  I was too tired to try figuring it out. And the
truth was, I didn't want to. I didn't
want to believe that Alison was anything other than
the beautiful free spirit who'd brought magic into my
otherwise mundane existence. Why would I
assume she had ulterior motives or that she
might be planning anything sinister? Why couldn't
her brother's visit be as unexpected and
spontaneous as they claimed?
  So I made a conscious decision to ignore the
warning bells that were jingling like mad in my head, much
like the bells Alison had hung from our doors.
I rationalized away my instincts, reminded myself
that Lance Palmay would be gone in a few days,
scolded myself for being so suspicious, so uptight.
Then I made a cup of tea and carried it into the
living room, where I curled up on the sofa with a
new book, the white lights of the Christmas
tree winking behind me, the smell of pine needles
competing with the aroma of white oleander. I took a
sip of the soothingly hot liquid, read a few
pages, read them again when they failed to register,
then slowly drifted off to sleep, the book
slipping from my hands to the floor, as old ghosts
rushed toward me from the darkness and distant voices
whispered in my ears.
  In my dream I was kissing Roger Stillman
in the backseat of his old red Thunderbird, his hands
groping me under my sweater and skirt. A
succession of increasingly loud moans escaped his
lips as he triumphantly rolled my
panties down over my hips and climbed on
top of me. "Are you wearing a rubber?" I asked
him, feeling my flesh tear as he pushed his way
roughly inside me. I cried out, opening my
eyes, eyes that had been tightly closed throughout
most of our encounter, and that's when I saw the
policeman staring at us through the car
window, his flashlight illuminating the careless
sprinkling of dark hairs across the top of
Roger's bare buttocks. I screamed, but
Roger continued humping away, like an unwelcome
dog on a human leg. Any leg, any
human, I realized, pushing him off me, watching
him effortlessly morph into Alison's brother,
Lance Palmay.
  "Could you step out of the car, please?" the police
officer directed, and Roger/lance complied with an
easy smile.
  I struggled with my clothing, trying to push my
skirt down over the panties twisted around my
knees, but the policeman was already climbing into the
backseat, assuming Roger's former position on
top of me, his flashlight directed at my
eyes so that I couldn't see his face, his large
penis pushing its way toward my mouth. "You've
been a bad girl," he was saying in Josh
Wylie's soothing baritone. "I'm going to have
to tell your mother."
  "Please don't do that," I begged as his
monstrous organ forced my lips apart. "Please
don't tell my mother."
  "Tell me what?" my mother asked, suddenly
materializing on the seat beside me.
  Which is when I woke up.
  "Well, that was fun," I muttered, my heart
pounding as I looked around the room, dark except
for the flickering white lights of the tree behind me.
I checked my watch, discovered I'd been
sleeping for several hours, which meant I'd
probably be up half the night. I rolled my
head back, letting it drop lazily from one
shoulder to the other, and waited for my heartbeat
to return to normal. I realized, with equal
amounts of shame and surprise, that the dream had
excited me in spite of its peculiarities.
In spite of my mother.
  Or maybe because of her.
  I marveled at the appearance of Roger
Stillman in my dream. I didn't think I'd
ever dreamed about him before, even during the heat of
what might have been described, rather generously, as
our relationship. And why the link to Alison's
brother? Yes, they were both tall and good-looking,
but so what? My subconscious had obviously
intuited a deeper connection, even if my
conscious mind had yet to determine what that
connection might be.
  I wiped a trickle of perspiration from the
side of my neck, massaged the tenderness at my
shoulders, my hand falling across my breast, the way
Roger Stillman's hand had done, my nipples
hardening at the memory of his fingers reaching underneath
my blouse to unhook the clasp at the front of
my bra. I felt my bare breasts rush into his
waiting hands, recalled the way he fumbled with my
pliant flesh, manipulating it like cookie
dough, his eager mouth sucking on my nipples, as
ferociously as a starving infant.
  I remembered my mother's barely concealed disgust
each time she looked at my maturing body, as
if my breasts were a deliberate act of
rebellion on my part, something for which I should be
duly ashamed.
  "Go away, Mother," I whispered now, lying
back on the sofa, recalling how clumsily
Roger had pulled on the zipper of my pants
before pushing his hand down the front of my panties.
I thought of Josh's hands, imagined his fingers in
place of Roger's, felt them dancing around my
most secret folds before disappearing inside me.
  I cried out, my own fingers unable to follow my
mind's lead, to provide my body the relief it
craved. Instead I flipped onto my stomach and
pressed myself against the hard edge of the sofa, its
soft pillows muffling my embarrassed cries,
my body shaking with a series of mild convulsions.
  Instantly, my mother's shame swept over me.
  I pushed myself to my feet and looked around,
half-expecting my mother to be sitting in one of the
Queen Anne chairs, watching me, as she had
watched me in my dream. But the room was
mercifully empty of ghosts.
  I walked to the window, stared out at the street,
watched large palm leaves dance in the shadows of the
tall streetlight. I pressed my head against the
glass, clasping my hands tightly behind my
back. I caught a flicker of movement across the
street, a shadow where before had been nothing. Was
someone there? Dear God, had anyone seen me?
  Someone's always watching, my mother admonished
as I rushed to the front door, threw it open, and
stared into the night.
  Bettye McCoy and her two idiot dogs
were rounding the corner and coming this way. I watched them
approach, totally oblivious to my presence in the
darkened doorway. She was wearing a pair of
tight blue jeans and a cropped red
sweater, with matching red heels. A red headband
held her thick blond hair in place. Like an
aging and surgically enhanced Alice in
Wonderland, I thought cruelly, listening to her
heels click against the pavement as she was pulled
along by her two dogs. Of course the dogs
stopped every few seconds to sniff at each and every
bush, repeatedly lifting their legs to mark their
territory. Just do your business and move on, I
thought, watching in growing dismay as one of the dogs
suddenly spun around and lifted his rump into the
air, dropping several unwelcome deposits in
the middle of the sidewalk at the end of my
walkway. I waited for Bettye McCoy
to scoop the droppings into her waiting plastic
bag, but instead she only smirked, then tucked the
empty bag back inside her jeans pocket before
walking away.
  I reacted without thinking. "Excuse me!" I
ran down the front path, stopping just short of the
neat pile of fresh excrement. "Excuse me,"
I called again when Bettye McCoy failed
to take notice.
  Her dogs began to bark and pull at their
leashes. "I'm sorry," Bettye McCoy
said, reluctantly turning around. "Were you
addressing me?"
  "Do you see anyone else?"
  "Is there something I can do for you?" Bettye
McCoy arched one disdainful eyebrow.
  "You can clean up after your dogs."
  "I always clean up after my dogs."
  "Not tonight, you didn't." I pointed at the
small pile of dog feces by my feet.
  "My dogs didn't do that."
  I could scarcely believe my ears. "What
are you talking about? I watched him do it." I
pointed at the smaller of the two white dogs, who
looked as if he were in danger of strangling on his
leash.
  "It's not Corky's," Bettye McCoy
insisted. "Corky didn't do it."
  "I was standing right in the doorway. I saw the
whole thing."
  "Corky didn't do it."
  "Look. Why don't you just admit your dog
did it, clean it up, and be on your way.
Don't treat me like an idiot."
  "You are an idiot," Bettye McCoy
muttered, not quite under her breath.
  I couldn't believe my ears. "What did you
say?"
  "I said you're an idiot," Bettye
McCoy repeated brazenly. "First you chase
poor Cedric out of your yard with a broom, and now
you accuse Corky of pooping on your precious
sidewalk. You know what you need, don't you?"
  "Suppose you tell me."
  "Get a man, lady, and stop picking on my
dogs!"
  "Keep them off my property or I'll lay
them flat," I countered, our voices bouncing off
the trees, echoing through the leaves. From out of the
corner of my eye, I saw Alison and her
brother walking up the street.
  "Terry!" Alison rushed to my side.
  "What's going on here?" Lance asked, trying
to keep the bemusement in his eyes from spreading to the
rest of his face.
  "The woman's a lunatic," Bettye
McCoy shouted, already in retreat.
  "She wouldn't clean up after her dog," I
said, understanding how hopeless I must sound.
  "Her dog did this?" Lance pointed to the dog
feces he'd narrowly missed stepping in.
  I nodded, then watched in shock as he scooped
the offending dog poo into his hands, then hurled it,
with stunning accuracy, at Bettye McCoy's
head. It splattered against her blond hair,
clinging to the back of her head, like mud.
  Bettye McCoy stopped, her shoulders
rising around her ears as she spun around to face us,
her face mirroring the openmouthed amazement of my
own.
  "You better close your mouth," Lance warned.
"There might be more."
  "You're all crazy," Bettye McCoy
stammered, backing up and getting entwined in the
dogs' leashes, almost losing her balance, then
bursting into tears. "All of you."
  We watched as she extricated herself from the
dogs' leashes, a small turd dropping from her
hair to her right shoulder, then falling toward the
ground, landing on the toe of one red shoe. A
final outraged squeal escaped Bettye
McCoy's lips as she kicked off her shoes,
gathered one yapping dog under each arm, then ran
to the end of the block and disappeared.
  "Think she'll call the police?" Alison
asked.
  "Oh, I don't think she'd want to chance this
story making the rounds." I looked at Lance,
who was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
Had he really picked up a dog turd with his
bare hands and hurled it at my tormentor? My
hero, I thought with a laugh. "Thank you."
  "Anytime."
  We returned to the house in silence. "How was
dinner?" I asked before I went inside.
  "Not nearly as exciting as what was going on
here," Alison said. "God, I can't leave you
alone for a minute. Speaking of which, have you decided
about tomorrow?"
  I smiled, then laughed out loud. "What time do
you want me to be ready?"



  Lance knocked on my kitchen door at ten
minutes after noon the following day. He was all
in black; I was all in white. We looked like
opposing pawns on a chessboard. "I thought you
said eleven o'clock," I said, trying to keep my mother
out of my voice.
  "Slept in," he said without apology. "You
ready to go?"
  "Where's Alison?"
  "Still in bed. Migraine."
  "Oh, no! Is she all right?"
  "Should be fine in a few hours."
  A verbal minimalist, I decided, watching
his eyes swallow my kitchen whole. "I better
go check."
  "Not necessary." Lance grabbed my floppy straw
bag from the kitchen table, slung it over my
shoulder. "Alison instructed me to take you
to lunch, said she'll join us as soon as she can stand
up straight."
  "I think I should check on her first," I
protested, remembering how sick Alison had
been with her last migraine, but Lance was already
ushering me out the door, guiding me away from the
cottage and around the side of the house.
  "She'll be fine," he said, giving my elbow
an extra squeeze as we reached the street.
"Stop worrying."
  "I just don't feel right about going."
  "Come on. It'll give us a chance to get
better acquainted."
  I looked up and down the sun-soaked
street. Shadows, like puddles, spilled across the
road from the high trees. Waves of heat, like
ocean surf, rolled up from the pavement. Several
houses down, a large snowy egret stood,
straight and still as stone, on a manicured front
lawn. "Anywhere in mind?"
  "The Everglades?"
  "What!"
  "Just joking. Nature's not my thing. Thought
we'd try Elwood's. We can walk, and we
don't have to worry about snakes."
  "Don't be too sure." Elwood's was a
converted filling station turned biker hangout that
specialized in barbecue and Elvis
memorabilia. It was located on Atlantic
Avenue several blocks west of the Lorelli
Gallery. "How do you know about Elwood's?"
  "Alison pointed it out last night. Thought it
looked interesting."
  I shrugged, recalling the last time I'd been
to Elwood's had been with Erica Hollander. I
was about to suggest an alternative, but I decided
against it, instinctively understanding that to argue with
Alison's brother would be as pointless as arguing with
Alison herself. Taking no for an answer was
clearly not a family trait.
  "It's unusual to be this hot in December,"
I remarked idly as we fell into step beside one
another, the heat wrapping itself around my shoulders like
a scratchy shawl. But Lance wasn't paying
attention, his eyes flitting restlessly from one
side of the street to the other, as if half-
expecting someone to jump out at us from behind a neatly
trimmed hedge. "Looking for anything in
particular?"
  "What kind of tree is that?" he asked
suddenly, his finger brushing against the tip of my
nose as he pointed to the squat palm tree in the
middle of my neighbor's front yard.
"Looks like it has a bunch of penises hanging
from it."
  "I beg your pardon!"
  Lance bounded across my neighbor's lawn,
kneeling beside the tree in question, and pointed at the
numerous protuberances of various lengths that hung
from its trunk. "You don't think they look like a
bunch of uncircumcised dicks? Take a good
look."
  "You're crazy." Reluctantly I rolled
my eyes toward the tree. "Oh, my
God. You're right."
  Lance laughed so loud, he startled the nearby
egret, who soared gracefully into the air, like a
giant paper plane. "Ain't nature grand?"
  "They're called screw palms," I
whispered.
  "What?"
  "You heard me."
  "You're kidding me, right?"
  "Honestly. That's their name."
  "Screw palms?"
  "I couldn't possibly make up something like
that."
  Lance shook his head, grabbed my elbow,
picked up the pace of our walk. "Come on,"
he said, laughing. "All this talk about screwing
is making me hungry."

  "You should have seen this city twenty years ago,"
I was saying between bites of my hamburger.
"Half these storefronts were vacant, the school
system was a disaster, race relations were a mess.
About the only business that was doing well was the
drug trade."
  "Really?" It was the first time since I'd started
my verbal tour of Delray that Lance had shown
any real interest. "And how's the drug trade
doing these days?" he asked, surveying the line of
motorcycles parked outside the large front
patio where we were sitting. "I mean, where would a
person go if he were interested in such things?"
  "Jail, most likely," I said as Lance's
lips curled into a grudging smile.
  "Cute. You're very cute."
  My turn to smile. Cute had never been a
word used to describe me.
  We watched a middle-aged man whose ragged,
gray ponytail extended halfway down the
back of his black leather jacket as he wiggled
his sagging gut between two chairs. Grandpas on
wheels, I thought, taking another bite of my
burger, wondering how anyone could wear leather in this
heat. "Now, of course, the city's completely
changed."
  "And what changed it exactly?"
  I paused, trying to choose between the short and
long answers, deciding on the short. "Money."
  Lance laughed. "Ah, yes. Money makes the
world go round."
  "I thought it was love."
  "That's because you're a hopeless romantic."
  "I am?"
  "You're not?"
  "Maybe," I admitted, squirming under his
sudden scrutiny. "Maybe I am a
romantic."
  "Don't forget hopeless." He reached across the
table and peeled several sweat-dampened hairs
away from my forehead with a gentle but confident hand,
as if he were teasing a bra strap off my shoulder.
  I lowered my gaze to the table, the tips of
Lance's fingers lingering on my flesh even after
he'd removed his hand. "What about you?"
  He lifted a sauce-coated sparerib from his
plate to his mouth, tearing the meat off with one neat
tug. "Well," he said with a wink, "I love
money. Does that qualify?"
  I took a sip of my beer, held the
ice-cold glass against my throat, trying
to ignore the perspiration trickling into the deep
vee of my white T-shirt.
  "Wow! Would you look at those babies!" Lance
exclaimed, and I saw that Lance's attention had
been captured by the two shiny black
motorcycles with chrome-plated monkey-hanger
handlebars that had just pulled up in front of the
restaurant. "Aren't they beauties?"
  "Harley-Davidsons?" I asked, pulling
out the only brand with which I was familiar, trying
to sound interested.
  Lance shook his head. "Yamaha 750cc
Viragos." He punctuated his sentence with an
appreciative whistle.
  "You obviously know a lot about
motorcycles."
  "A bit." He raised another barbecued
rib to his lips, then slowly and meticulously
stripped it bare.
  I thought of Alison. She would have polished off
those ribs in a heartbeat. "Maybe we should
call Alison. See how she's doing."
  Lance patted his cell phone, which lay on the
table next to his plate. "She knows my
number."
  "It's been over an hour."
  "She'll call."
  I rubbed the back of my neck, the sweat
coating my fingers like shellac. "Has your
family been very worried about her?"
  He shrugged. "Nah. They pretty
much know what to expect by now."
  "Which is?"
  "Alison's gonna do what Alison's
gonna do. No point arguing. No point getting
in her face about it."
  "But you obviously felt concerned enough to fly down
here and see for yourself."
  "Just checking to make sure she's okay. I
mean, she comes to Florida, doesn't know a
soul ..."
  "She knew Rita Bishop," I said,
recalling the name of Alison's friend.
  "Who?"
  "Rita Bishop." I wondered if I had the
name correct.
  Lance looked confused, although he tried to hide
it by tearing into another rib. "Oh, yeah, Rita.
Whatever happened to her anyway?"
  I realized I'd forgotten to ask personnel
to find out where she'd gone. "I don't know.
Alison couldn't locate her."
  "Typical." Lance released a deep breath
of air. "It's hot," he said, as if noticing
the temperature for the first time.
  "I think it's sweet that you were concerned about your
sister. I didn't think you were that close."
  "Close enough to worry." He shrugged, an
increasingly familiar gesture. "What can I
say? Maybe I'm a romantic after all."
  I couldn't help but smile. I liked Lance
for worrying about Alison's welfare. "It's
nice you could take the time off work."
  "No problem when you're self-employed."
  "What is it you do?" I tried to remember if
Alison had ever mentioned her brother's occupation.
  Lance looked surprised by the question. He coughed,
ran his hand through his hair. "Systems analyst,"
he said, so quietly I almost didn't hear him.
  My turn to be surprised. "They teach that
sort of thing at Brown?"
  "Brown?"
  "Alison said you graduated summa cum
laude."
  He laughed, coughed a second time. "Long
time ago. A lot of beer under the bridge since
then." He hoisted his mug into the space between us,
finished what was left in his glass, and swiveled
around in his chair, looking for the waiter. "You ready
for another one?"
  My own mug was still half-full.
"I'm fine for the moment."
  "Another draft," Lance called to a bald and
heavily tattooed waiter resting against the far
wall. FEAR was stamped in large blue letters
along his right forearm; NO MAN was imprinted
on the other. Charming, I thought, noticing a man
nursing a beer at a small round table in the
corner, a red bandanna wrapped around his forehead
like a blood-soaked strip of gauze. Long,
calloused fingers stroked a beard that was dark and
scruffy. The man was staring at me, I realized,
thinking there was something disturbingly familiar about him,
trying to remember if and when I'd seen him before.
  "How's your burger?" Lance asked, swatting
a buzzing insect away from his head as he squinted
into the sunlight.
  "It's fine."
  "Just fine? My ribs were fantastic. I'm
thinking of ordering another pound."
  I glanced at his empty plate. "Are you
serious?"
  "I'm always serious about what I put in my
mouth." His tongue lapped some errant sauce from
his upper lip.
  Was he flirting with me? Or was the heat starting
to affect my brain? Should have worn a hat,
I could almost hear my mother say.
  I looked away, my eyes pulled back
toward the man with the red bandanna. He cocked his
head to one side, then raised his beer mug in a
silent toast, as if he'd been expecting me
to look his way again. Where had I seen him before?
  "So, tell me what you think of my baby
sister," Lance instructed as the waiter approached
with his beer. Lance gulped at its large head,
chewed it as if it were solid food.
  "I think she's great."
  "She involved with anyone special these days?"
  "Not to my knowledge."
  "She tell you about her ex-husband?"
  "Just that he was a mistake."
  Lance laughed, shook his head.
  "You don't agree?"
  "Seemed like a nice enough guy to me. But, hey,
what do I know? She's the one who lived with him.
Although Alison doesn't always know what's good for
her," he added, his face darkening as a cloud
passed by overhead.
  "I don't think I agree with that."
  "I don't think you know Alison as
well as I do."
  "Maybe not," I conceded, deciding to shift the
focus of the conversation away from Alison. "What
about you? Any sweet young thing on the horizon?"
  "Not really." Lance allowed a slow smile
to creep across his lips. "Actually, I've always
had a thing for older women."
  I laughed. "You should drop by the hospital one
day. I'll introduce you to some of my
patients."
  Lance stretched his neck back over the top of
his spine and poured half his beer down his throat.
"So, what's the story on this guy who sings here every
Thursday night?" he asked, as if this were the most
logical of follow-ups.
  I glanced at the large cardboard cutout of a
Las Vegas-styled Elvis impersonator--
long sideburns, rhinestone-studded, white
jumpsuit, flowing cape, classic karate
pose--that greeted patrons at the door to the
restaurant's interior. "He's a Delray
policeman, believe it or not."
  "Is he any good?"
  "Very good." I'd heard him the time I was here with
Erica. I gasped, suddenly realizing where I'd
seen the man with the red bandanna before. I'd seen him
with Erica Hollander. My eyes shot toward the
corner of the patio, but the man was no longer there.
  "Something wrong?" Lance asked, signaling the
waiter for another half order of ribs and two more
beers. Clearly we weren't going anywhere anytime
soon.
  "Will you excuse me a minute?" I was already out
of my chair and heading for the washrooms at the back
of the restaurant before he could answer. I needed
to splash some cold water on my face. The heat
was definitely getting to me.
  The interior of the restaurant was soothingly dark
and, while not exactly cold, considerably
cooler than outside. I passed the large bar,
its barstools constructed from the old hoists of the
former gas station. Most people ate outside, but a
few wooden tables hugged by leatherette
furniture were scattered around the room for those who
preferred not to see what they were eating. "The pig
place," people called Elwood's, with affection.
I wondered, as I brushed by another potbellied
biker, if they were referring to the menu or the
clientele.
  I spent the next few minutes in the
washroom, trying to convince myself that my mind was
playing tricks on me, that the heat plus my
overly active imagination had deceived me into thinking
that the man with the red bandanna and scruffy goatee was
anything but an overly familiar stereotype. Of
course I didn't know him. Of course I'd
never seen him with Erica.
  Except even as I was trying to convince myself
I was seeing bogeymen who didn't exist, I
knew the truth--that I had seen the man before,
seen him with Erica, and not just once, but several
times. And not only here, I realized, as a
series of suppressed images assaulted my
already spinning brain, but much closer to home.
Hadn't I seen him coming out of the cottage on
several mornings with his arm around Erica's waist?
Hadn't I heard the unmistakable sounds of a
motorcycle disappearing down the middle of a
darkened street on several evenings? And did the
fact he was back mean Erica was back as
well?
  I sprinkled water on my neck, dabbed a
few drops behind my ears, as if it were perfume,
stared at myself in the grimy mirror over the sink.
My mother stared back. "Dear God," I said out
loud, realizing how much her features were starting
to intrude upon my own.
  Except for the eyes in the back of her head,
I thought ruefully, remembering her terrifying
admonition when I was a little girl. There's no
point in trying to fool me, she'd warned. I
see everything. I have eyes in the back of my
head.
  Too bad I hadn't inherited those, I thought,
returning to the patio. My table was empty, and
I looked around for Lance.
  I saw the man with the red bandanna first. He was
standing by the row of motorcycles parked along the
curb, one hand resting on a pair of steel
handlebars, and he and Lance were having an
obviously serious conversation. I watched the man
lean forward to whisper something in Lance's ear, before
climbing on his bike and backing out into traffic,
acknowledging me with a barely perceptible nod of his
head. Lance remained where he was, as still as the
cardboard-imitation Elvis, his fists clenched
tightly at his sides.
  "What was that about?" I asked when Lance
returned to the table.
  "What was what about?"
  "That guy you were talking to."
  "What about him?"
  "How do you know him?"
  "I don't know him." Lance's eyes squinted
into the sunlight.
  "You were talking to him."
  "I'm a friendly guy."
  "Don't play games with me, Lance."
  "What kind of games?" Lance leaned back in
his seat, ran his tongue along his lower lip.
  "Look, that guy you were talking to is bad
news. He was involved with my previous tenant.
I think he's been phoning me," I said,
realizing this was true.
  "You think? You don't know?" Lance looked
amused.
  "I'm not sure," I backpedaled, beginning
to doubt my instincts.
  "Sorry, sweetheart, I don't have a
clue what you're talking about."
  "Why were you talking to him?"
  "Why is it so important?"
  "What were you talking about?" I pressed, my
voice rising in frustration.
  "Hey," Lance said softly, his hand reaching across
the table to stroke my arm. "No need to get
upset. It was nothing. I was just telling him how
much I liked his bike. That's all it was. You
okay?"
  I nodded, somewhat mollified. Already I was
starting to feel foolish about my outburst.
  Lance picked up his cell phone. "Time
to give Alison a call."



  Alison joined us at Elwood's within
minutes of Lance's call, her migraine
blissfully vanquished. "Those pills you gave
me were a godsend," she told me repeatedly,
looking radiant in her blue sundress, as she
simultaneously wolfed down an order of
spareribs and chewed on a mouthful of french
fries. I marveled that she managed to do so with such
grace. I also marveled that her headache had had
no effect on her appetite. Indeed, she
seemed in better shape than I did. "Are you
okay?" she asked me as Lance was settling the
bill.
  "Me? I'm fine."
  "You're so quiet."
  "Terry thought she saw some guy who was involved
with her last tenant," Lance interjected.
  "Really? Who?"
  I shook my head. "It probably wasn't
him. Must be the heat," I demurred, now almost
convinced I'd been mistaken.
  "It's a scorcher all right." Alison
looked around the patio, still crowded at almost three
o'clock. "Okay, so where should we go now?"
  I suggested a visit to the Morikami
Museum and Japanese Gardens, something I
thought would be both soothing and interesting, but Alison
said she wasn't in the mood for museums and Lance
reiterated that nature wasn't his thing. So instead
we went for a long walk along the Intracoastal
Waterway and took a boat ride on the
Ramblin' Rose II, then sat on the
seawall at twilight and watched the bridge as it
opened for a small parade of magnificent yachts
on their way to the Bahamas.
  "Did you know that alligators move really
fast?" Alison asked later, apropos of
nothing at all, as we strolled along Seventh
Avenue, heading for home. "And that if you're ever
being chased by one, you should run in a zigzag, because
alligators can only move in a straight
line?"
  "I'll keep that in mind," I said.
  "What's the difference between alligators and
crocodiles?" Lance asked.
  "Crocs are nastier," Alison said with the
sweetest of smiles. She stretched her arms
toward the sky, as if reaching for the full moon that
dangled precariously overhead. "I'm starving."
  "You just ate," I reminded her.
  "That was hours ago. I'm famished. Come on,
let's go to Boston's."
  "I'm game," Lance said.
  "You two go. I'm exhausted."
  "Come on, Terry. You can't poop out on us
now."
  "Sorry, Alison. I have to be up really
early in the morning. What I need now is a
cup of herbal tea, a soothing bubble bath, and
my nice comfortable bed."
  "Let Terry go," Lance urged his sister
softly.
  "Did you have a good time?" Alison stared at
me expectantly, the fat yellow
moon reflected in eyes as eager as a child's.
"Three words."
  "Yes," I answered truthfully, dismissing
any lingering concerns about the man in the red bandanna.
I'd done my best to forget about him during the long
afternoon, but like a bad penny, he kept popping up.
"Yes. Yes. Yes," I said, banishing his
image altogether.
  Alison wrapped me in a tight embrace,
several loose tendrils of her hair tickling
my cheek, sneaking between my lips. "See you
later, alligator," she said, kissing my
forehead.
  "In a while, crocodile," I answered
back, watching them until they turned the corner
and were swallowed by the night. I could hear Alison
laughing in the dark, and I wondered briefly what
she found so amusing. The echo of her laughter
pursued me down the street, bouncing off my
back like sharpened stones.
  What's the difference between alligators and
crocodiles? Lance had asked.
  Crocs are nastier, Alison had
replied.
  My house was in total darkness. Normally I
leave at least one light on, but Lance had ushered
me out so quickly, I'd obviously forgotten.
Proceeding cautiously, my eyes scanning the
ground in case Bettye McCoy had returned
with the dogs from hell, I zigzagged up my front
path, mindful of hungry alligators that might
have strayed dangerously off course.
  Feeling both relieved and foolish--
foolishly relieved?--I unlocked the front
door and flicked on the light switch, my eyes
sweeping across the sofa, the Queen Anne chairs,
the painting of peonies on the wall beside the window,
the Christmas tree in the corner, the numerous
presents beneath it, the daunting parade of Santas
and reindeer and elves Alison had lovingly
assembled.
  "Merry Christmas, everybody," I said,
locking the door behind me and heading for the kitchen.
"And an especially merry Christmas to you, dear
ladies," I greeted the sixty-five china
heads regarding me with indifferent eyes. "I
trust you were good little girls while I was away."
I filled the kettle with water, made myself a
cup of ginger-peach tea, and carried it up the
stairs to the bathroom, where I stripped
naked and poured myself a bath. I climbed inside
and leaned my head against the cool enamel,
jasmine-scented bubbles covering me like a
blanket.
  I remembered how once, when I was a little
girl, my mother had found me in the tub, my legs
akimbo, the water lapping against the insides of my
thighs, as I giggled with childish abandon. The
spanking I'd received that night was worse than
any other she'd administered over the years, partly
because I was soaking wet, and partly because I had no
idea why I was being punished. I kept begging
her to tell me what I'd done wrong, but my mother
never said a word. To this day, I can feel the sting of
her fingers on my bare buttocks, like the bite of
thousands of tiny wasps, my wet skin a
magnifying glass, reflecting and enlarging my
pain and humiliation. More than anything, I
remember the sound of those slaps as they resonated
against my bare bottom, then ricocheted off the
walls. Even now there are nights, when I
close my eyes to sleep, that I hear it.
  I shook my head free of such unpleasant
thoughts and slid down in the tub, dragging my head
under the water's surface, my hair floating
around my head, like seaweed. Immediately, another
unpleasant memory attached itself to the insides of
my closed eyelids: three little gray-and-white
kittens, abandoned strays I'd found shivering in
a corner of our garage, all mangy and mewing and
"probably riddled with ringworm," as my mother had
proclaimed before wresting them from my arms and drowning
them in a pail of water in the backyard.
  I tried unsuccessfully not to see the kittens
as I lay in the tub, an inch of water covering
my face, like a shroud. What was the matter with
me? Why was my mother so much in my thoughts these days?
  It seemed that ever since Alison's arrival,
my mother had once again taken up residence in not
only the house, but my brain. Probably it was
all the questions Alison asked, the photographs
we'd looked through together. They were responsible for
my strange dreams, these unscheduled trips down
memory lane. I hadn't thought of those damn
kittens in years. Why now, for God's sake?
Hadn't I made peace with my mother during those
long, awful days of her illness? Hadn't she
begged my forgiveness? Hadn't I gratefully
bestowed it?
  My mother was such a formidable presence,
although I'm at a loss to say exactly why.
At only five feet two inches tall, it was
hardly her physical stature that made her so
imposing. Indeed, her disproportionately large
bosom gave her a pigeonlike shape that was
almost comic, and her features were surprisingly
small and nondescript.
  I think what truly set her apart was the way
she carried herself, proud shoulders rigid,
stubborn head held high, so that her tiny,
upturned nose always seemed to be looking down
at you from a great height.
  That posture infused all aspects of her
life. She was definite in her opinions, even
on subjects she knew little about. Her temper was
quick, her tongue sharp. I learned early that there was
no point in trying to press my side of things, that
only one side mattered.
  Certainly my father was rarely consulted. If
he had any opinions, he kept them to himself.
I'd learned early to count on him for nothing, and in
that way, he never disappointed me. If he had
any regrets, they died with him.
  My mother became even angrier after my father
died, lashing out at me at the slightest
provocation. You're a stupid, stupid
girl! I can still hear her shout whenever I've
done something particularly foolish.
  Later, of course, when age rounded those
stubborn shoulders and infirmity softened her more
abrasive edges, she became gradually less
formidable, less self-righteous, less prone
to poisonous outbursts. Or maybe she just
became less. After her stroke, my mother literally
shrank to half her former size.
  And a strange thing happened.
  In becoming less, she became more, as the
architect Mies van der Rohe might have said--
more tolerant, more grateful, more vulnerable. Her
shadow shrank to something approximating human
size.
  You know that everything I did, I did for your
benefit, she said often in those last months of her
life.
  I know that, I told her. Of course
I know that.
  I didn't mean to be cruel.
  I know.
  It's the way I was raised. My mother was the
same with me.
  You were a good mother, I said.
  I made a lot of mistakes.
  We all make mistakes.
  Can you forgive me?
  Of course I forgive you. I kissed the
flaky, dry skin of her forehead. You're my
mother. I love you.
  I love you too, she whispered.
  Or maybe she didn't. Maybe I just
wanted to hear her say the words so badly that I
imagined she said them.
  Why was she returning to haunt me now?
  I pushed my head above the water's surface,
felt the tiny soap bubbles evaporating on my
skin. Was there something she was trying to tell me? Was
she trying to warn me, to protect me, in death, the
way she never had during her lifetime?
  Protect me from what?
  I pulled the plug with my toes, listening as the
water gulped its way musically down the drain.
It took a moment for me to become aware of other
sounds, another moment for me to understand exactly
what those sounds were. Bells, I realized,
hearing a downstairs door open and close, as my
heart slid down the drain with the last of the bubbles.
  Someone was in the house.
  I stepped softly from the tub, gathering my
robe around me as I stretched over to lock the
bathroom door. But the lock had been broken
for the better part of a year, and the closest thing I had
to a weapon was the blunt blade of a disposable
razor. I might have laughed had I not been so
terrified.
  "Hello? Is someone there?" I called as I
peeked out the bathroom door and stepped into the
hall. "Alison? Is that you?" I waited for
someone to respond, my wet feet leaving
footprints on the hardwood floor as I
ventured to the top of the stairs. "Alison?
Lance? Is that you?"
  Nothing.
  Was it possible I'd been mistaken?
  I did a quick check of the bedrooms before inching
my way down the stairs toward the living room,
half-expecting someone to lunge out of the shadows with
each step I took. But no one lunged and nothing
in the living room appeared to have been disturbed.
Everything was in its proper place, exactly as it
had been earlier.
  I jiggled the front door handle and
breathed a deep sigh of relief at finding the
door securely locked. "Hello?" I
called again as I headed toward the kitchen. "Is
anybody here?" But the kitchen was as empty as the
rest of the house. "So now I'm hearing things," I
muttered, my shoulders relaxing as I reached for the
back door.
  It fell open at my touch.
  "Oh, my God." I stepped back in mounting
horror as the warm night air pushed its way
rudely inside the kitchen. "Stay calm."
Hadn't I just checked every room in the house and
found nothing?
  You didn't check the closets, I heard
Alison say. You didn't look under the
bed.
  You're a stupid, stupid girl! my mother
added for good measure.
  "There are no such things as bogeymen," I
told them loudly, deciding it was entirely
possible I'd neglected to lock the back door
when I'd left the house. I pictured Lance,
unapologetic and an hour late, slipping my
purse over my shoulder and ushering me outside, his
hand on my elbow. I hadn't turned on any
lights and I hadn't locked the kitchen door.
  "I didn't lock the door!" I informed the
rows of ladies' heads. "I didn't lock the
door," I repeated, locking it now, laughing at
my foolishness. "There are no such things as
bogeymen."
  The phone rang.
  "Don't you know it's dangerous to leave your
door unlocked?" the voice asked before I had a
chance to say hello. "You never know who might
drop by."
  I spun around, my hand sweeping across the counter
and knocking against the block of knives. I
pulled the largest of the knives out of its slot,
waved it in the air like a flag. "Who is this?"
  "Sweet dreams, Terry. Take care of
yourself."
  "Hello? Hello? Damn it! Who is this?"
I slammed the phone back into its cradle, then
immediately picked it up again, punched in 911.
  "Emergency," a woman's voice stated after
several minutes on hold.
  "Well, it's not exactly an emergency,"
I qualified.
  "This is 911, ma'am. If it's not
an emergency, you should call your local police
station."
  "Well, I'm not sure exactly."
  "Ma'am, is this an emergency or isn't
it?"
  "No," I admitted, lowering the knife to my
side.
  "Please call your local police station if
you have a problem."
  "Thank you. I'll do that."
  Except I didn't. What was I going
to say, after all? That I suspected someone had
broken into my house, except that I'd left the
door unlocked and nothing had been taken? That
I'd received a vaguely menacing call from an
anonymous man whose words, on their surface, were
decidedly more solicitous than threatening.
Don't you know it's dangerous to leave your
door unlocked? You never know who might drop
by. Sweet dreams. Take care of yourself.
  Sure. That would bring the police running.
  I returned the phone to its cradle and sank
into a kitchen chair, trying to decide my next
move. Should I call the police anyway,
risk their derision, or worse, their indifference?
If only I had something more concrete to offer them,
to prove I wasn't some lonely, middle-aged
woman with a too active imagination and way too
much time on her hands. If only I was sure about
the voice on the other end of the phone.
  I played the words back in my head, like a
recording. Sweet dreams, Terry. Take
care of yourself. But while there was something familiar
about the speaker, I couldn't be sure it belonged
to Erica's biker friend, the man I'd seen talking
to Lance at Elwood's, the seriousness of their
expressions indicative of more than a shared
interest in motorcycles. Was there some connection
between the two men? Between Lance and Erica? Between
Erica and Alison?
  Was it just a coincidence these phone calls had
started around the time Alison had turned up on
my doorstep?
  What the hell was going on?
  And then I saw him.
  He was standing outside the kitchen window, his
forehead pressed against the windowpane, the red of his
bandanna bleeding into the glass.
  "Oh, my God."
  And then, as suddenly as his image had
appeared, it vanished, absorbed by the night like a
blotter.
  Had I seen anyone at all?
  I rushed to the window, peered out at the night.
  I saw nothing.
  No one.
  I rifled through a kitchen drawer for the spare
set of keys to the cottage. You're a
stupid, stupid girl, my mother admonished, and for
once, I had to agree with her. But I needed some
answers, and those answers could very well be found in
Alison's journal. I estimated I had at
least half an hour before Alison and her brother
returned home. More than enough time if I moved
quickly.
  Clutching the keys tightly, I threw open the
door and stepped outside, my bare feet
slipping into the night air, like a pair of
slippers.
  "Are you crazy? What are you doing?" I
mumbled as I locked the door behind me and
approached the cottage, hand extended, key
pointing at the lock. I was almost at the door when
I heard a twig snap behind me.
  I gasped, spun around.
  "Hi, there," a disembodied voice said from the
darkness. Slowly, almost magically, a man
materialized out of nothing to take shape in my
backyard. With deliberate care, he stepped
into the moon's spotlight. He was tall,
skinny, clean-shaven. There was no scraggly
beard, no red bandanna. "Remember me?"
  "K.c.," I whispered.
  "Short for Kenneth Charles, but nobody ever
... hell, you know the rest."
  "What are you doing here?"
  "I came to see Alison."
  "She's not home."
  "Really? Then where are you going?"
  I slipped the key to the cottage into the side
pocket of my robe, wondering if he'd
noticed. "I thought I heard something. I was just
checking to make sure everything was all right." I
wondered why I was bothering to explain myself to someone
I barely knew.
  "It was probably just me."
  "Did you just phone me?" I asked, my
voice sharper than I'd intended.
  K.c. produced a cell phone from his
pocket, smiled lazily. "Was I
supposed to?"
  "You didn't answer my question."
  "No, I didn't phone you." His eyes
narrowed. "Are you okay?"
  "I'm fine."
  "You seem a little on edge."
  "No," I said, forcing a yawn. "Just a little
tired, I guess. Busy day." I looked
down, realized my robe had fallen open. I
quickly secured the two sides of the robe together,
ignoring the growing smile on K.c.'s face.
"I'll tell Alison you stopped by."
  "If you don't mind, I think I'll wait
till she gets back."
  "Suit yourself." I turned back toward the
house.
  "Terry?" he called after me.
  I stopped, turned around.
  "I just wanted to thank you again for the lovely
Thanksgiving dinner."
  "I'm glad you enjoyed it."
  "You don't find many people these days who are so
willing to open their homes to strangers."
  Or so stupid, I heard my mother say, the
key to the cottage weighing heavily in my
pocket. "I was happy to do it." Again I
turned toward the house.
  "Terry?" he called a second time.
  Again I stopped, although this time I didn't
turn around.
  "Take care of yourself," he said, as I stepped
inside the house and locked the door behind me.



  "Merry Christmas!" Alison jumped into the
air at precisely the stroke of midnight,
clapping her hands with childish abandon.
  "Merry Christmas," Lance echoed, clicking
his glass of eggnog against Alison's, then mine.
  "God bless us, everyone," I added, taking a
tiny sip of the thick liquid, pungent fumes of
nutmeg swirling through my nostrils.
  The evening had been pleasant, filled with good
food and happy chatter. Just the three of us. No
uninvited guests. No apparitions in the glass.
No unexpected phone calls. I'd asked
Alison about K.c. She claimed not to have seen
or heard from him since Thanksgiving. When I
told her about my encounter with him, she'd
shrugged and said, "That's odd. I wonder what he
wanted." Ultimately I decided I'd
probably blown the whole incident out of
proportion and pushed it to the back of my mind.
  "Where's that from?" Alison was asking now.
  "Where's what from?"
  "What you just said. "God bless us, everyone."
That sounds so familiar."
  "Charles Dickens," I told her. "A
Christmas Carol."
  "That's right," Lance said. "We saw the
movie. Remember? Bill Murray was in it."
  "You should read the book."
  Lance shrugged his indifference. "Don't read
much."
  "Why is that?"
  "Not really interested."
  "Lance had his fill of books at Brown,"
Alison was quick to explain.
  "What does interest you?" I pressed.
  Lance glanced across the table at his sister before
returning his attention to me. "You interest me."
  "I do?"
  "Yes, lady, you certainly do."
  I laughed. "Now you're mocking me."
  "On the contrary. I find you fascinating."
  It was my turn to glance at Alison. She
seemed to be holding her breath. "And what
exactly is it about me that fascinates you?"
  He shook his head. "I'm not sure
exactly. What is it they say about still waters
running deep?"
  Now I was the one holding my breath. "Just that
they do."
  "Guess I'd like to be around when they get all
churned up." Lance took another sip of
eggnog, the pale yellow cream creating a thin
mustache across his upper lip. He ran a lazy
tongue across it, his eyes fastened on mine.
  "I don't read nearly as much as I should,"
Alison piped in.
  "You don't read at all."
  A flush of embarrassment stained Alison's
cheeks, turning them almost the same color as her
sweater. "Maybe you could recommend some good
books for me, Terry. Something to get me started
again."
  "Sure. Although I probably don't read as
much as I should either."
  "We should all read more," Alison
agreed.
  "There's lots of things we should do," Lance said
cryptically.
  "Name three," I said, and Alison smiled,
although the smile was tentative, as if she was
afraid of what her brother might say.
  "We should stop procrastinating," Lance said.
  "Procrastinating," Alison repeated with a
strained laugh. "Good word."
  "Procrastinating over what?" I asked.
  Lance ignored my question. "We should stop playing
games."
  "What kind of games?" I asked, watching the
smile harden on Alison's face.
  "We should shit or get off the pot." Lance
finished the eggnog in his glass, then tossed his
napkin onto the table, as if challenging his sister
to a duel.
  "Am I missing something here?"
  Alison leaped to her feet. "Speaking of
getting off the pot, can we open the presents
now?" She was in the living room and at the tree
before I could answer.
  "Open this one first," she was saying, holding a
small gift bag toward me as I approached.
"It's from me. It's just little. I thought we could
start with the small gifts first. Save the best ones
for last." I carefully withdrew a small
crystal rock from its tissue. "It's a
paperweight. I thought it was so pretty."
  "I think it's lovely. Thank you." I sat
down next to Alison on the floor, my mind still
on our previous exchange--procrastinating over
what? What kind of games?--as I ran my
fingers along the jagged pink surface of the
crystal. "I love it."
  "Really?"
  "It's beautiful." I motioned toward a
small, square box wrapped in red and green.
"Your turn."
  Eager hands tore at the wrapping paper.
"What is it?"
  "Open it and find out."
  "This is so exciting. Isn't this so exciting?"
Alison discarded the last of the paper and ripped
open the box. "Would you just look at this! Lance,
look. Nail polish. Six bottles, all in
fabulous colors."
  "Be still my heart," Lance said from the sofa.
  "Vanilla Milkshake, Mango
Madness, Wildflower ... These are so great."
  "Use them well."
  "We'll do another spa day."
  "Now that sounds like fun," Lance said. "Can I
come?"
  "Only if you let us paint your toes with
Mango Madness," I told him.
  "Lady, you can paint whatever part of my
anatomy your little heart desires." Lance
flopped over the sofa and joined us on the floor.
"Anything for me under there?"
  Alison made a prolonged show of searching under
the tree. "No, I'm afraid it doesn't
look like there's anything for you. Oh, wait.
Here's something." She extended an oblong box
wrapped in gold. "It's a golf shirt," she
announced before the package was half-unwrapped.
"It's an extra-large because the salesman said
they fit small. What do you think? Do you think
it'll fit?"
  Lance held the beige-and-black golf shirt
against the navy one he was wearing. "Looks good.
What do you think, Terry?"
  "I think your sister has very good taste."
  Lance laughed. "First time she's ever been
accused of that."
  "Very funny." Alison pointed at the
design that criss-crossed the lightweight
fabric. "Those are golf tees, in case you
didn't know."
  "Looks like I'll have to stick around," Lance
said casually. "Take up golf."
  Alison dropped her eyes to the floor.
"Here's something for Terry." She read the sticker,
glanced warily at her brother. "From Lance," she
said with obvious surprise. "You didn't tell
me you were buying Terry a present."
  "What? You think I was raised in a barn?"
  I opened the gift, my hands trembling with the knowledge
I hadn't bought anything for him. Inside was a
long, lilac-colored nightgown, its lace
bodice scooped provocatively low.
  "Oh, my," Alison said.
  "It's silk."
  "It's lovely. But I really can't accept
something like this," I said in my mother's voice.
  Totally inappropriate, I heard her
agree.
  "What are you talking about? Of course you can.
Why don't you try it on right now,
model it for us." Lance's fingers slipped under the
long slit that ran up the side of the nightgown.
I shivered, as if his hand were on my leg.
  "I think you should save it for when Josh comes
home," Alison said, eyes still on her brother.
  "Josh?" Lance sat up straight, his interest
clearly piqued. "First I'm hearing of any
Josh."
  "He's a friend of Terry's."
  "Sounds like more than a friend."
  "His mother is one of my patients," I
qualified, not really wanting to discuss Josh with
Alison's brother, wondering what Josh was doing
at that moment. It was three hours earlier in
California. Probably he was attending some
big family dinner, or maybe he was out doing
some last-minute shopping. Did he miss me?
Had he thought about me at all?
  "What's the matter with his mother?"
  I pictured Myra Wylie asleep in her
narrow hospital bed. "Everything," I said
sadly.
  Lance shrugged. "She exceeded her expiration
date, did she?"
  "What?"
  "Lance thinks people should be stamped with a "best
before" date. You know, like dairy products."
  I laughed in spite of myself.
  "You ever consider pulling the plug on some of these
people?"
  "What!"
  "I think you'd be doing most of them a favor.
And yourself too, come to think of it."
  "Now you've really lost me."
  "Well, I'm just thinking out loud here, but I
bet you get pretty close to some of these lonely
old biddies. Am I right?"
  I nodded, not sure where this conversation was going.
  "And a few of them probably have a little something
stashed away," Lance continued. "I bet it
wouldn't be that difficult to get them to include you in
their wills, have them sign over the bulk of their
estates to you, their humble caregiver. Then after a
suitable period of time, enough so as not to arouse undue
suspicion, you just give nature a little push.
You know, a stray air bubble in their IV; an
extra dose of something to help them sleep.
Hell, I don't have to tell you. You're the
nurse. You'd know exactly how to do it. Wouldn't
you?"
  I looked for the familiar mischievous twinkle
in his eyes, but he stared back at me with eyes as
cold and humorless as a corpse's. Was he
serious?
  "What do you think, Terry?" he pressed.
"Sounds like a plan to me."
  "I think plans like that are the reason our
jails are so overcrowded."
  "Lance is just kidding," Alison said.
  "Am I?"
  "Is money really so important to you?"
  "It's pretty important."
  "So important you'd actually consider taking
someone's life?"
  "Guess that would depend."
  "Lance is just joking," Alison interrupted
again. "Enough, Lance. Terry doesn't understand your
sense of humor."
  "I think she understands me very well."
  "It's my turn to open another present,"
Alison said, pulling a gift from under the tree with
such force she almost knocked the whole thing over.
"Look. It's from Denise."
  "Where is Denise these days?" I asked, as
eager as Alison to move on.
  "She's spending Christmas with her folks up
north. But she'll be back in time for New
Year's. Speaking of which, I guess we should start
making plans for New Year's Eve."
  "I'm working New Year's Eve," I told
her.
  "You're not!"
  "I'm afraid so."
  "But it's the start of a whole new year. I
can't believe you're working. It's not fair!"
  I laughed. "Open your present."
  Alison quietly unwrapped her gift and
held out a pair of pink, heart-shaped earrings.
I couldn't help but wonder if Denise had paid
for them or simply helped herself to more of her
aunt's inventory. Alison said nothing. She
closed the small cardboard box and lowered it to the
floor.
  "Don't you like them?"
  "They're very nice."
  "Poor Alison's all upset because you
won't be celebrating New Year's Eve with
us."
  "I'm just disappointed."
  "Don't be. It's just another
night," I said, although I didn't really
believe it. Hadn't I been equally disappointed
when Josh had announced he'd be out of town. "I
just realized I forgot to put Lance's present under
the tree." I scrambled to my feet, ran into the
kitchen, retrieved the bag with the ballpoint pen
I'd originally intended for Josh--what the hell?
I'd buy him something better, something more personal
--then headed back to the living room.
  "What's the matter with you?" I heard
Alison hiss as I approached.
  "Lighten up," Lance said.
  "What are you trying to pull?"
  "I'm just having fun with her."
  "I don't like it."
  "Relax."
  "I'm warning you ..."
  "Is that an ultimatum? Because we both know
how much I love ultimatums."
  "Here it is," I said, announcing my presence
before I walked back into the room.
  Lance reached across the top of the sofa to take the
small bag dangling from my fingers. "Just what I
wanted," he said without a trace of irony as he
extricated the thick, black pen from its layers
of tissue. "Thank you, Terry. I'm touched."
He stood up, walked around the sofa, and extended
his hand.
  I took it, expecting a small handshake of
gratitude, but instead he pulled me toward him,
bringing his face so close to mine I tasted his
breath in my mouth. I turned my cheek, but it was
almost as if he'd anticipated my reaction, and
he turned with me, catching me fully on the
lips. "What are you doing?" I asked,
attempting a smile but breaking away, the taste
of him lingering.
  He looked surprised, as if he had no
idea what I was talking about. Had he thought I
wouldn't notice? "It's a great pen," he said.
  "Okay, you guys," Alison called.
"There's still lots to go here. My turn."
  "It's always your turn." Lance resumed his
place on the sofa.
  Alison pulled a baseball cap with a logo
from the Houston Astros out of a bag without examining
the card. "Look. It's from K.c. Isn't that
sweet?" She put the hat on her head. "He
dropped by this afternoon," she explained before I had time
to ask. "He told me he came over
the other night to give it to me, but I wasn't
home," she continued unprompted. "That's why he
was here."
  I nodded, although I couldn't recall any
gift in K.c.'s hands. "What do you know about
him?" I asked, straining to sound casual.
  "Not much. Why?"
  "Just curious."
  "He thinks you don't like him."
  "He's right."
  "Why is that?"
  "I don't trust him, I guess."
  "Seemed like a nice enough guy to me," Lance
interjected.
  "I think he's nice too," Alison
agreed.
  "Name three things you like about him," I
challenged.
  Alison smiled. "Let's see. I like his
accent."
  K.c.'s gentle Texas twang slammed
against my ears.
  "I like his eyes."
  I hated K.c.'s eyes, I thought, seeing
them laughing at me through the darkness of the other night.
  "I like that he bought me a present."
  "What three things do you like about me?" Lance
asked suddenly, turning to me.
  "I'm not sure I like anything about you at
all."
  He laughed, although it was the truth, and I think
he knew that. "Sure you do," he insisted
anyway. "Think."
  "I can't."
  "No more presents till you come up with something."
  "Okay," I said, giving up. "I like that you
threw dog poop at Bettye McCoy."
  He laughed. "Are you saying you like my
spunk?"
  "I think she's saying you're full of you know
what," Alison corrected.
  "What else do you like?" Lance asked, ignoring
his sister.
  "I like your taste in nightgowns," I
admitted, watching my mother shake her head in the
reflection from the front window.
  "You like the way I taste," Lance
translated, blue eyes dancing.
  I shook my head, declined comment. "I like your
belt," I said finally.
  "You like my belt?"
  "It's a very nice belt."
  Lance Palmay glanced down at the black
leather belt that was secured around his slender waist
by a large silver buckle. "You like my belt,"
he repeated wondrously. "Anyone ever tell you
that you're a very strange woman, Terry
Painter?"
  We opened the remainder of the gifts in
relative silence. A T-shirt from me
to Alison, a photograph album from Alison
to me. Some movie tickets, a box of
shortbread cookies, a travel alarm clock,
a pair of fluffy pink slippers. "Last one,"
I said, reaching under the tree and extricating a
small package with a large white bow.
  "What is it?" Alison looked almost
afraid to open it.
  "I hope you like it." I watched as she gently
lifted off the bow and discarded the paper, removing the
lid from the top of the box. "I thought it was time for you
to have a necklace of your own," I said as she
held up the thin gold necklace that spelled out
her name.
  Tears formed in Alison's eyes, fell
freely down her face. Silently, she reached
up and removed the heart necklace, replacing it
with the new one. "It's beautiful. I'll never
take it off."
  I laughed, but tears were in my own eyes as
well.
  Alison suddenly got up and reached to the very
back of the tree, pulling out a long, thin,
rectangular present wrapped in dark green
paper. "It's for you," she said, laying it across my
lap.
  Even before I unwrapped it, I knew what it
was. "This is too much," I whispered, staring at
the painting of a woman in a large-brimmed hat
relaxing on a beach of pink sand. "This is way
too much."
  "You like it, don't you?"
  "Of course I like it. I love it. But it's
way too expensive."
  "I got my employee discount. This was before I
got canned, of course."
  We both laughed, although we were crying too.
  "Even so ..."
  "Even so, nothing. It belongs here. Right here."
Alison pointed to the blank space on
the wall behind the sofa. "Lance'll help you hang
it. He's good at hanging stuff."
  "Are you suggesting I'm well hung?" Lance
asked as he pushed himself to his feet.
  "Lance!"
  But I barely heard them. "Nobody's ever
done anything like this for me before," I whispered.
Whatever reservations I harbored, whatever questions
remained unanswered, whatever doubts still lingered,
they vanished in that instant.
  "Me neither," Alison said, stroking the gold
at her neck, then extending her arms toward me
  "Careful, you two," Lance said. "I might
get jealous."
  Alison ignored him, wrapping me in an
almost suffocating embrace. I felt the wetness
of her tears on my cheeks, the pounding of her
heart against my own. At that moment it was
impossible to tell where I left off and she
began.
  "Merry Christmas, Terry," she cried
softly.
  "Merry Christmas, Alison."



  "Merry Christmas," I called as I pushed
open the door to Myra Wylie's hospital
room.
  It was just past eight o'clock in the morning, and
Myra Wylie was lying in her bed, her head
turned toward the window. She made no move
to turn around, even as I closed the door behind me
and cautiously approached, holding my breath.
I'd been through this routine already twice this morning,
and both times had found Myra Wylie sleeping
soundly. I hadn't disturbed her. How often did
the poor woman get a good night's sleep
anymore?
  I remembered that my mother's last months had
been marked by extreme restlessness. She'd tossed
and turned in her bed all night, hardly closing
her eyes at all. If Christmas had managed
to bring a measure of peace to Myra Wylie's
tortured existence, then who was I to disturb her?
  Except that there was something different about her
posture this morning, something worrisome about the way
her shoulders slumped against their covers, something
unsettling in the angle of her head. "Myra?"
I reached for the skeletal hand beneath the
sheet, praying for a pulse.
  "It's all right," she said, her voice clear
but dull, as if it had been stripped of its
natural shine by a harsh abrasive. "I'm not
dead yet."
  Lance thinks people should be stamped with a "best before"
date, I heard Alison say.
  Immediately I rushed around to the other side of the
bed, positioned myself directly in front of her,
and realized instantly that she'd been crying.
"Myra, what's the matter? Has something
happened? Are you in pain? What's wrong?"
  "Nothing's wrong."
  "Something's obviously upset you."
  She shrugged, the tiny gesture upsetting her
delicate equilibrium, throwing her frail
body into a series of exaggerated spasms. I
grabbed a glass of water from the night table,
extended the straw to her lips, watched as she
coaxed the tepid liquid into her mouth.
  "Do you want me to call a doctor?"
  Myra shook her head, said nothing.
  "What is it? You can tell me."
  "I'm just a silly old woman," Myra
said, really looking at me for the first time since
I'd walked into the room. She tried to smile,
but the attempt disappeared into a prolonged set of
twitches that made her jaw quiver like a
ventriloquist's dummy.
  "No, you're not." I smoothed several fine
wisps of hair--more like threads really--away from
her forehead. "I think you're just feeling a little
sorry for yourself, that's all."
  "I'm a silly old woman."
  "I brought you a present." I watched her
eyes fill instantly with a child's delight.
We're never too old for presents, I thought,
pulling a small package out of the pocket of my
uniform.
  She struggled with the wrapping for several
seconds, then gave up and handed the present
back to me. "You open it," she instructed
eagerly, and I discarded the paper to reveal a
pair of bright, red-and-green Christmas socks.
  "So your feet will stay nice and warm."
  She brought her hand to her heart, as pleased as
if I'd brought her diamonds. "Will you put them
on for me?"
  "It will be my pleasure." I lifted up the
bottom of the sheets, felt her toes
ice-cold against the palms of my hands. "How's
that?" I asked, slipping on first one sock, then
the other.
  "Wonderful. Just wonderful."
  "Merry Christmas, Myra."
  A shadow, like a large palm frond, passed
across her face. "I don't have anything for you."
  "I wasn't expecting anything."
  The shadow disappeared as quickly as it had come, her
eyes noticeably brightening. "I might have some
money in my purse." She nodded toward the end
table. "You could take as much as you want, buy
yourself something nice from me."
  I bet you get pretty close to some of these
lonely old biddies, I heard Lance say.
I bet it wouldn't be too difficult to get
them to include you in their wills, have them sign over
the bulk of their estates to you.
  He was right, I realized in that instant. It
wouldn't be difficult at all.
  And once I had their money, then what? Was I
expected to sign over my own estate
to Alison? Was that the plan?
  Was I the lonely old biddy to whom he'd been
referring? Was I the real target here?
  Why not? I had a home, a cottage, a
retirement savings plan.
  Sounds like a plan to me, I heard Lance
say.
  Everything is going exactly as planned,
I recalled Alison telling her brother over
the phone after Thanksgiving.
  What was the matter with me? I wondered
impatiently. Where were these thoughts coming from? Hadn't
I made a conscious decision to banish such
silliness from my mind?
  "Terry," Myra was saying. "Terry, dear,
what's the matter?"
  Instantly, I snapped back into the here and
now. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"
  "I asked if you could get my purse from the
drawer."
  "Myra, Josh took your purse home with him
months ago. Don't you remember?"
  She shook her head, dislodged several fresh
tears.
  "You miss Josh, don't you? That's why you're
so depressed."
  Myra buried her cheek into the side of her
pillow.
  "I miss him too," I said, trying to sound
upbeat and cheerful. "But he'll be back real
soon."
  She nodded.
  I checked my watch. "It's only five
o'clock in the morning in California. I'm sure
he's planning to phone you as soon as he wakes
up."
  "He called last night."
  "He did? That's great. How is he?"
  "Fine. He's fine." Myra's voice was
curiously flat, as if someone had rolled over
it with a tire.
  "Myra, are you sure you're okay? Does
something hurt you?"
  "Nothing hurts. You're here. My feet are
warm. What more could I want?"
  "How about a piece of marzipan?" I pulled
a miniature marzipan banana out of my
pocket.
  "Oh--I love marzipan. How did you
know?"
  "One marzipan lover can always spot another."
I unwrapped the marzipan candy, placed it between
her lips, felt her nibble at it like a
squirrel.
  "It's delicious." Her hand reached toward my
face. I leaned forward, felt her fingers
trembling against my cheek. "Thank you, dear."
  "Anytime."
  "Terry ..."
  "Yes?"
  She lifted her mouth to my ear. "You've been
so kind. The daughter I never had."
  You've been so kind, I repeated
silently back at her. The mother I never
had.
  "I want you to know how grateful I am for
everything you've done for me."
  "I know."
  "I love you."
  "I love you too," I whispered, burying my
tears in the soft threads of her silver hair.
  There was a knock on the door, and I turned,
half-expecting to find Josh standing there. If this were
the movies, I thought, then Josh Wylie would have
flown in as a surprise gift for his mother on
Christmas morning. He would have seen me standing beside
her bed, recognized me as the great love of his
life, and instantly dropped to his
knees, begging me to be his wife. But as this
wasn't the movies, when I turned toward the
knock I saw, not a love-struck suitor, but
an indifferent, gum-chewing orderly. "Yes?"
  "Phone call for you at the nurses' station."
  "For me? Are you sure?"
  "Beverley said to tell you it was important."
  Who would be calling me at work on Christmas
morning? It had to be Alison. Had something
happened? Was anything wrong?
  "You go, dear," Myra said. "I'll see you
later."
  "You're sure you're all right?"
  "I'm always all right when you're around."
  "Then I'll be back before you know it."
  I left the room and headed for the nurses'
station. "Line two," Beverley said as soon as
she saw me. "He said it couldn't wait."
  "He?" Josh? I wondered. Calling from
San Francisco to wish me a merry
Christmas, to say he missed me, to tell me
he was coming home early? Or maybe Lance, I
second-guessed, calling to tell me there'd been
an accident, that Alison had been critically
injured. "Hello?"
  "Merry Christmas."
  "Merry Christmas to you," I repeated,
disappointed it wasn't Josh, relieved it
wasn't Lance.
  "Erica sends her love, says she's sorry
she couldn't be with you for the holidays."
  "Who are you?" I shouted, unmindful of the people
walking by. "Enough is enough! I don't know
what your game is but--"
  "Terry!" Beverley cautioned from somewhere beside
me, lifting a silencing finger to her mouth.
  I dropped the receiver angrily into its
cradle. "Sorry. I didn't mean to raise
my voice."
  "Who was that?"
  "I don't know."
  "You don't know?"
  "I've been getting these nuisance calls."
  Beverley nodded. "You don't have to tell me
about those," she said, chubby fingers carelessly tapping
the desk as she leafed through a small stack of
patients' files. She was thrice-divorced and
at least twice her fighting weight. Her hair
was too short, too permed, and too many shades of
blond. Clearly, this was a woman
only comfortable with extremes, possibly the
reason for the three divorces, I thought, but then,
who was I to judge? I'd always felt vaguely
sorry for her. Now I wondered if she felt the
same about me. "After my last divorce,"
Beverley was saying, "my ex-husband called me
fifty times a day. Fifty! I changed my
number four times, didn't do any good. I
finally had to sic the police on him."
  "I guess I might have to do that."
  "Kind of hard when you don't know who it is.
You have no idea ...?"
  A smiling trio appeared before my eyes--
Lance and K.c. flanking the man with the red
bandanna. "No," I said.
  "Too bad. He sounded so sexy, the way he
said your name. Real slow. Kind of like he was
purring. I thought it might be, you know, someone
special." She shrugged, returning her attention
to the stack of papers in front of her.
"Probably just some stupid kid getting his
jollies."
  "Well, if anybody else calls, just
tell him ... I don't know. Use your
imagination."
  "Don't worry. I'll think of something."
  I heard her laughing as I walked down the
hall, no clear idea where I was headed until
I found myself in front of Sheena O'Connor's
door. I peeked inside, saw her sitting up
and talking animatedly on the phone. I was about
to withdraw when her voice stopped me.
  "No, wait." She waved me inside the
room. "Come in. I'll just be another minute."
  While she finished her conversation, I checked
on the many flower arrangements and poinsettias that
filled the room, watering the several that were in dire
need, and silently counting the others, stopping at
fifteen. We love you, Mom and Dad.
Merry Christmas, Munchkin, from Aunt
Kathy and Uncle Steve. Way to go,
Love Annie. I paused the longest at the
two dozen long-stemmed yellow roses,
recalling the roses Josh had sent me for
Thanksgiving, wondering if there'd be a
surprise bouquet waiting for me when I got
home.
  "Smells like a funeral parlor in here."
Sheena laughed as she replaced the receiver.
  She looks beautiful, I thought,
brown eyes as soft as sable against the whiteness of
her skin. Her face was still swollen from the beating
she'd received and her subsequent corrective
surgery, but the deep scratches around her mouth
had faded into fine lines, and the only sign her
nose had been broken was a slight curvature
to the left, an imperfection I rather liked, but one
she probably wouldn't.
  "I think it smells nice," I said
truthfully.
  "I guess." She nodded toward the phone.
"That was my parents. They're on their way over
with a truckful of presents."
  "I bet they are."
  "I just wish I could go home."
  "I would think you'll be going home very soon.
You've made remarkable progress."
  "Why don't you sit down," Sheena suggested.
"Talk to me for a while. Unless you're busy
..."
  I pulled up a nearby chair, plopped down
into it. "I'm not busy."
  "How come you're working today? Doesn't your
family mind?"
  "They don't mind," I said, deciding Sheena
wasn't really interested in the details of my
life story. She was just making pleasant conversation
as a way of passing the time before her own family
arrived.
  "Are you married?" she asked unexpectedly,
glancing at my bare ring finger.
  I pictured Josh, his warm eyes and warmer
lips. I felt his mouth graze mine as his
eyelids fluttered against my cheek. "Yes,"
I told her. "I am."
  "Do you have any kids? I bet you have lots of
kids."
  "I have a daughter," I heard myself say, and
almost gasped at my audacity. What was I
doing? I tried picturing Alison as she must have
looked as a little girl. "She's older than you
are."
  "Just the one child?"
  "Just the one."
  "I'm surprised. I would have thought you'd have at
least three."
  "Really? Why?"
  "Just 'cause I think you'd be a really good
mother." She smiled shyly. "I remember the way
you sang to me. How did that song go?"
  "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra," I sang
softly. "Too-ra-loo-ra-lie ..."
  "That's it. It was so beautiful. It was calling
to me."
  I stopped singing. "What was it like?"
  "Being in a coma?"
  I nodded.
  She shook her head. "I guess it was like being
asleep. I don't really remember anything
specific. Mostly voices off in the distance, like
if I was dreaming, except there were no
pictures. And then the sound of someone singing. You,"
she said, and smiled. "You brought me back."
  "Do you remember anything about the attack?"
  A shiver swept the smile from Sheena's
face.
  "I'm sorry," I apologized immediately.
"I shouldn't have asked."
  "No, that's all right," Sheena said quickly.
"The police have asked me about it a hundred
times. I wish I had something to tell them. But the
truth is, I don't remember a thing about the
attack itself. I just remember that I was lying in
my backyard, working on my tan. My parents were
out and my sister was at the beach. I was waiting for a
phone call--this guy I liked at school--so
I didn't want to leave the house. I stretched
a blanket across the grass and lay down on my
stomach. I remember undoing the back of my
bikini top. It's pretty secluded in my
backyard. I didn't think anyone could see
me. I was almost dozing off when I heard it."
She stopped, her eyes coming to rest on a large
red poinsettia behind my head.
  "Heard what?"
  "There was this sound. The leaves were rustling.
No," she corrected immediately. "It wasn't as
strong as that. It was quieter."
  "They were whispering," I said, my own voice
hushed.
  "Yes! That's exactly what it was." Her
eyes fastened on mine. "I remember thinking it
was so strange that the leaves would be moving when there was
no wind at all. And then I felt someone standing
over me, and it was too late."
  "I'm so sorry."
  "My instincts were trying to warn me, but I
didn't listen."
  I nodded. How often we ignore our
instincts, I was thinking. How often we
ignore the whispering of the leaves.
  "Will you sing to me again?" Sheena asked, lying
back against her pillow and closing her eyes.
  "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra," I began
softly.
  "Too-ra-loo-ra-lie," Sheena sang with
me.
  "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra," we sang
together, our voices steadily gaining strength. And
I was able, for a few fleeting minutes, to pretend
that the leaves had stopped whispering, and all was right
with the world.



  "He called again," Beverley said as I
returned to the nurses' station at the end of my
shift.
  I didn't have to ask whom she meant. "When?"
  Beverley glanced at the large, round clock
on the wall. "About forty minutes ago. I
told him you were dead."
  I laughed in spite of myself. "What did he
say?"
  "Said he'd catch you later." She shrugged, as
if to ask, What can you do? "Holiday season
brings out all the crazies, I guess."
  "I guess," I repeated, moving like an
automaton toward the elevators, pressing the
button repeatedly until the doors opened. Was
that all it was?
  My instincts were trying to warn me, I
heard Sheena O'Connor repeat, but I
didn't listen.
  The elevator was already pretty full, and I
had to squeeze in between two middle-aged men, one
of whom smelled of liquor, the other of poor
personal hygiene. I watched the doors drag
to a close and steadied my feet as the elevator
lurched into its slow, almost painful descent.
"Merry Christmas," one of the men said, the smell
of whiskey overwhelming the small space, like
fumes of poisonous gas.
  I held my breath, nodded, and prayed the
elevator wouldn't stop at every floor. Of
course it did, and even more people crowded inside.
"Merry Christmas," the man beside me greeted
each new occupant, at one point even
attempting a courtly bow. He promptly lost
his balance and fell against me, his hand
brushing against my breast as he tried to right himself.
"Sorry about that," he said with a stupid grin as I
fought back the urge to throw up all over him.
Unlike Alison, I had no phobias in that
department.
  The elevator finally reached the lobby, bouncing
several times on its arrival, as if it were
surprised it had landed in one piece, and its
doors yawned open. Everyone folded together as
one, pouring from the elevator like water from a
glass. I felt a hand on my rear end and
initially dismissed the intrusion as an unavoidable
consequence of so many people being squished together like
sardines, until I felt stray fingers trying
to worm their way between my legs. I angrily
swatted the hand away and glared at the drunk beside
me, whose stupid grin had now settled across his
entire face. "Jerk," I muttered. I
stepped into the lobby, releasing the trapped air from
my lungs and brushing another phantom hand from my
backside, feeling its illusion linger, invisible
fingers continuing to probe.
  "Terry," a voice said from somewhere behind me, and
I found myself staring at an attractive,
olive-skinned woman about five years younger than
I, whose name stubbornly refused to materialize.
"Luisa," she said, as if sensing my
predicament. "From Admitting. I thought I
recognized you when you got in the elevator, but it
was so crowded ..."
  "And smelly."
  She laughed. "Wasn't that awful? were you working
today?"
  I nodded. "You?"
  She shook her head. Several black curls
fell across her wide forehead. "No. I was
visiting my grandmother. She tripped on a tiny
crack in the sidewalk last week and broke her
hip. Can you believe it?"
  "I'm sorry."
  "This getting older is for the birds."
  I thought of my mother, of Myra Wylie, of
all the sick and helpless men and women who'd
exceeded their "best before" dates.
  "Well, have a merry Christmas," Luisa
said. "And if I don't see you before, have a
healthy and happy New Year."
  "The same to you." I watched her turn and
walk away. "Luisa," I called out
suddenly, the unexpected urgency in my
voice stopping us both dead in our tracks.
Luisa eyed me quizzically as I ran to catch
up to her. "Sorry, I just remembered something I
need to ask you about."
  Luisa said nothing, waited for me to continue.
  "A friend of mine is trying to locate a woman
who used to work here. Rita Bishop." Why was I
bringing this up now? I wondered. Hadn't
Alison herself told me not to bother?
  Luisa raised thick, black eyebrows,
furrowed her wide brow. "Name doesn't ring a
bell."
  "She left about six, seven months ago."
  "Do you know what department she worked in?"
  "I think she was a secretary or something."
  "Well, I've been here for three years and
I've never heard of any Rita Bishop, but that
doesn't necessarily mean anything. Would you like
me to check the files?"
  "I don't want to put you to any trouble."
  "It'll only take a minute."
  I followed Luisa to the main office, waited
while she unlocked the door. This is silly,
I told myself, watching while she flipped on the
lights and quickly activated the computer on her
desk.
  But my conversation with Sheena O'Connor had
left me a little unsettled. My instincts were
trying to warn me, she'd said, and I'd nodded
understanding, realizing how successfully I'd buried
my own instincts, feeling them stubbornly
reasserting themselves now, refusing to be ignored
any longer.
  "I'm pulling up the personnel files,"
Luisa explained, her eyes on the screen.
"I don't see anyone by that name. You said she
left about six or seven months ago?"
  "Maybe eight," I qualified.
  "Well, I can't find anyone by that name at
all." Luisa paused, typed in some further
information. "You said Rita Bishop, right?"
  "Right."
  "I show a Sally Pope."
  I laughed. "Close, but no cigar."
  "Let me check something else." She pressed
a few more keys. "I'll enter her name, let the
computer run a search."
  I nodded, although I already knew what the
outcome of that search would be. Mission Care would
have no record of Rita Bishop ever
having worked here. In fact, it was highly doubtful
that anyone named Rita Bishop worked anywhere, that
she existed at all. Alison hadn't shown up
at Mission Care looking for an old friend named
Rita Bishop. She'd shown up at Mission
Care looking for me.
  There was no other plausible explanation.
  The only remaining question was why.
  "No." Luisa shook her head. "There's
nothing. I'm not sure where else to look."
  "That's okay. Don't bother."
  "Sorry." Luisa shut off the computer.
"There's an assisted-living community not far from here
called Manor Care. Maybe your friend got the
name confused."
  "Maybe," I said hopefully, grasping at
proverbial straws, still trying to ignore my
instincts, to silence the whispering of the leaves
by convincing myself that Alison was exactly whom she
claimed to be, that she hadn't lied to me, that she
wasn't lying to me still. "Thanks for trying," I
told Luisa, offering her a lift home. But
she had her own car, and we wished each other a
final merry Christmas in the parking lot. Ten
minutes later, I was still sitting in my car,
trying to figure out what it all meant, and more
importantly, what I was going to do next.

  It was already dark when I pulled my car into my
driveway. Lance's white Lincoln Town Car
was parked on the street, and I debated whether
to knock on the cottage door and confront
Alison and her brother with my latest discovery.
Except that I was confused and exhausted and
vulnerable, and Alison always had a plausible
explanation for everything. Besides, what exactly was
I so upset about? That I was being played for a
fool? Or that I still hadn't figured out what the
game was?
  One thing was clear: I wasn't some random
victim. I'd obviously been researched
carefully, chosen for a specific purpose, although
the reason I'd been selected continued to elude
me. A lot of time and money--I thought of the
expensive painting Alison had presented me with
at midnight--had gone into whatever plan she and
her brother had concocted. But why? What could they
possibly want with me? What could they
possibly expect from me? And what, if
anything, did Erica Hollander have to do with
any of it?
  I got out of the car, fished in my purse for my
keys, reconsidered calling the police. And
saying what exactly? That I'd rented out the
small cottage behind my house to a young woman
I now suspected of being a con artist? Or
worse.
  And what has this young woman done to arouse your
suspicions? I could hear them ask. Has
she asked you for money? Is she behind in her rent?
  Well, no. She pays her rent exactly
on time, and she's never asked me for a thing. In
fact, she's bought me expensive presents and
gone out of her way to be nice to me.
  Well, that's certainly suspicious. No
wonder you called us.
  You don't understand. I'm afraid.
  Afraid of what exactly?
  I don't know.
  Listen, lady, it's your house. If you
don't like her, ask her to leave.
  Exactly. So simple. Ask her to leave.
That's all I had to do. So, why didn't I?
What was stopping me? Was I trying to persuade
myself that, despite mounting evidence to the contrary,
there was a simple and perfectly reasonable answer
for each and every deception, that nothing had happened that
couldn't be neatly explained away? Was I still
trying to convince myself that there were no ulterior
motives, no grand conspiracy, no risk to my
safety and well-being?
  I can't ask her to leave.
  Why not?
  Because I don't want her to go, I
acknowledged silently.
  It was her brother I wanted gone, and in
another week, he would be. Happy New Year
indeed! Then we could go back to the way it had been
in the beginning. We could go back to pretending that
Alison wasn't pretending, that she was everything
she had initially represented herself to be.
  At that moment, I tripped across the image of
Sheena O'Connor, who appeared before me,
stretched out on a blanket across my front
lawn. I watched her reach behind her back
to untie the top of her bikini, then turn her
profile lazily toward the indifferent moon
overhead. I heard the cool breeze rustling through
the trees, listened to the subtle whispers warning
her of danger, saw her wave them away
with a careless toss of her hand, as if brushing off a
pesky mosquito.
  Could I really afford to be so cavalier?
  The only solution was to talk to Alison. If
she could provide me with a plausible explanation for
what was going on, I would consider the matter
settled. If not, I'd have to insist she leave.
  Before I could change my mind, I marched around
the side of the house and stepped up to the cottage
door, knocking forcefully. Immediately, I thought
better of it. I was being too hasty, too
foolhardy, too naive. At the very least, I
should tell someone of my concerns. If not the
police, then maybe Josh or someone at work.
Except that Josh was out of town and my coworkers
had their own problems to deal with. Besides, it was
Christmas. I thought of all the lovely gifts
Alison had given me, the beautiful painting, the
china head vase. Christmas Day was hardly the
time to question her sincerity, to accuse her of sinister
plans and nefarious motives.
  Nefarious, I could hear her say. Good
word.
  There was plenty of time to confront her, I
decided, turning to leave.
  "Door's open," Lance called from inside the
cottage.
  Reluctantly, I pushed open the door.
What other choice did I have? I stepped over
the threshold and shut the door behind me, glancing
past the empty living room toward the rumpled bed
in the next room. You made your bed, I
heard my mother say.
  "What's the matter? You forget your key?"
Lance asked, emerging from the bathroom, wearing
nothing but a towel around his slender waist. His
hair was wet. Beads of water glistened from his
sculpted chest.
  "Oh."
  "Oh yourself," he said with a mischievous smile.
  "I'm sorry. I didn't realize ..."
  "Didn't realize what? That I was naked?"
He took two steps toward me.
  I took two steps back. "I've
obviously interrupted you."
  "Shower's all finished." Lance lifted
muscular arms into the air. "See? Clean all
over." He turned, the towel lifting slightly
as he spun around, exposing a flash of inner
thigh.
  I pretended not to notice. "Is Alison
here?" Silly question, I thought, biting down on my
tongue. Obviously, she wasn't.
  "She went for a walk."
  "A walk?"
  "Said she needed some air."
  "Is she feeling all right?"
  "Sure. Why wouldn't she be?"
  "No migraine?"
  He laughed. "She's fine." He took
another step toward me. "Is there anything I can
do for you? Keep you entertained until Alison
gets back?"
  I backed up until I felt the door
handle press against the small of my back.
"No. I just wanted to thank her again for the
beautiful painting."
  "I can come over," he offered, his right thumb
hooking into the top of his towel. "Hang it for you
right now."
  "It can wait till morning."
  "Some things are better hung at night." His
tongue darted between newly parted lips.
  "Some things are better left to the imagination,"
I countered.
  "And I bet you have quite the imagination."
  "What makes you say that?"
  His eyes traveled down my white sweater and
black pants, lingering on my breasts, stopping
on my crotch. "I've been watching you."
  "You've been watching me," I repeated,
afraid to say more. I felt an unwanted tingle
between my legs.
  "Just trying to figure you out."
  I lifted my hands into the air. Two can play
this game, I thought, curiously emboldened.
"What you see is what you get."
  "Is that so?"
  I nodded as he edged closer, so close now
I felt the dampness of his recent shower on my
skin.
  "No secrets?" he asked
provocatively.
  I shook my head, his breath brushing against the
side of my cheek like a furtive kiss. "I'm
very boring, I'm afraid."
  "What exactly is it you're afraid of?"
  I almost laughed, would have had he not been standing so
close. "What exactly," I repeated in a
voice not quite my own, "do you want from
me?"
  "What do you want from me?"
  This time I did laugh, immediately tasting his breath
on mine. "I've never been very good at games."
  "I love games," Lance countered. "You ever
see a cat playing with a mouse? Cat gets the
poor mouse cornered, no question the mouse is
gonna bite the dust, but the cat isn't
satisfied with just the kill. The kill's the least
interesting part, as far as the cat's concerned. No,
the cat likes to play a while first."
  "Is that what you're doing? Playing with me?"
  "Is that what you're doing?" he repeated
slowly. "Playing with me?"
  I heard footsteps behind me, felt the
doorknob turn against the small of my back, and
suddenly the door opened, and I was propelled
into Lance's waiting arms. Immediately, he grabbed
my hand, slid it beneath the towel at his waist. I
felt the wet curls of his pubic hair as his
organ stiffened against my unwilling fingers. Without
pausing to consider my actions, I reached up with my
free hand and slapped him hard across the face.
"Okay, that's it. I want you out of here right
now."
  "Terry!" Alison exclaimed, stepping
inside as I struggled to compose myself. "What's
the matter?" She looked at her brother.
"What's going on here? What did you say
to Terry? What have you done?"
  "Just a slight misunderstanding," Lance said,
flopping down on the large chair and extending one
leg across its overstuffed arm, so that his entire
expanse of inner thigh was clearly visible. His
cheek was red where I'd slapped him. "Isn't that
right, Terry?"
  "I was just telling your brother that I think it's
time he found another place to stay."
  Alison's expression vacillated between
confusion and anger as her eyes traveled back and
forth between us. "Whatever he's done, please let
me apologize--"
  "Hey," Lance interrupted, bringing both legs
to the floor. "You don't have to apologize for me.
I was walking out of the shower when she came waltzing
in."
  "I knocked," I offered quickly. "Lance said
to come in, the door was open."
  "You don't have to explain," Alison said,
staring at her brother. "Whatever you said
or did, I want you to apologize right now."
  "I didn't do anything."
  "Apologize anyway."
  Lance glared at his sister, although by the time he
turned to me, his face had softened, and he
managed to look suitably contrite. "I'm
sorry, Terry," he said quietly and with
conviction. "I thought we were just having some fun. I
guess sometimes I get carried away. I really
am sorry."
  I nodded, silently accepting his apology.
"I should go."
  "I'll be out of your hair in a few days.
How's that?" Lance asked as I opened the
cottage door.
  Again I nodded, stepping outside and closing the
door behind me, hoping to overhear snatches of their
conversation, but there was nothing. In the ensuing silence,
I stumbled toward my back door, the night air
cool against my skin, still damp from contact with
Lance's body, my fingers tingling with unwanted
echoes of the feel of his flesh. You ever see a
cat playing with a mouse? I heard him whisper in
my ear.
  "The cat isn't satisfied with just the kill,"
I acknowledged out loud as, moments later, I
stepped into my own shower, tried washing the smell of
him from my fingertips.
  The cat likes to play a while first.



  "The last time I made love was on New
Year's Eve," Myra Wylie said, her
voice heavy with age and infirmity, although a
youthful glint was in her eyes. I pulled my
chair closer to her bedside and leaned forward,
eager to catch each word. "It was ten years ago.
Steve and I--Steve was my husband--had been
invited to this ghastly party, you know, one of those
overblown affairs where there are too many people, most
of them strangers, and everybody drinks too much,
and laughs too loud, and makes a great show of
having a good time, but they're really pretty
miserable. You know the kind of party I mean."
  I nodded, although I had no real idea what
she was talking about. I'd never been to one of those
parties. I'd never had a date for New
Year's Eve.
  "Well, I wasn't in a great
mood because I didn't want to go to the damn party,
and Steve knew that, but it was at the home of one of
his former business partners, and he didn't think we
could say no. You know how it is."
  I didn't, but I agreed anyway.
  "So, I got all dolled up in my fancy
new dress, and Steve put on his tuxedo. He
always looked so handsome in his tuxedo. Not that I
told him how handsome he looked." Myra's
eyes grew wistful, filled with tears. "I should
have told him."
  I grabbed a tissue from the night table beside
Myra's bed and dabbed gently at the rolling
waves of flesh beneath her eyes. "I'm sure he
knew how you felt about him."
  "Oh, he knew. But I should have told him
anyway. It never hurts to tell someone he's
loved."
  "So you went to the party," I encouraged when she
failed to continue.
  "We went to the party," Myra repeated,
picking up the thread of her earlier musings, "and it
was every bit as awful as I knew it was going to be,
so I guess there was a certain satisfaction in
that. And we drank too much champagne, and
laughed too loud at jokes that were only mildly
funny, and pretended to be having the best time of
our lives, just like everybody else, and at
midnight, we yelled, "Happy New
Year," like a bunch of drunken old idiots,
and kissed everyone in sight. Pretty soon after
that, we left for home. I was very nervous. I was
always on the lookout for drunk drivers--I had
an uncle who'd been killed by one when I was a
little girl--and this being New Year's Eve, well
..." She coughed, gasped for air. I lifted the
nearby glass of water to her lips.
  "All out of champagne, I'm afraid," I
said, watching her gulp it down.
  "Tastes even better." She finished the last
of the water, lay back against her pillows.
"Shouldn't get so excited. It's all this talk
about sex, I guess."
  "I must have missed something," I said, and she
laughed.
  "I haven't gotten to the good part yet." She
cleared her throat. "Not that there was much of a good
part."
  "No?"
  "Not that it was bad," she qualified.
"What is it they say about sex? When it's good,
it's really good, and when it's bad, it's still good?
It was that kind of bad. Do you follow?"
  Again I nodded, although my own experiences with
sex had been decidedly more bad than good.
  "Well, we got home around twelve-
thirty, maybe later. I guess it doesn't
matter. The point is that it was later than we were
used to staying up, and we were exhausted. I don't
know why we felt we had to have sex that night just because
it was New Year's Eve. I mean, we weren't
kids anymore. We were in our late
seventies, for heaven's sake. It wasn't like
we weren't going to see each other the next
morning. It wasn't like we hadn't been having
sex for almost half a century." She stopped.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?"
  I shook my head.
  "I'm glad. Because I'm rather enjoying talking
about this. I never have before, you know. Out loud, that is.
You're sure you don't mind?"
  "I'm sure."
  "It's been my experience that young people don't like
to hear about old people having sex. They think it's,
I don't know ... yicky," she settled on
finally.
  I laughed. "Yicky?"
  Good word, I heard Alison say.
  I quickly pushed thoughts of Alison from my
mind. I'd seen almost nothing of either her or her
brother since the episode in the cottage.
Alison had come over early the next morning
to apologize again for her brother's
inappropriate behavior, and to assure me
he'd be leaving in a matter of days. But Lance's
rented white Lincoln was still parked in my
driveway when I'd left for work this evening, and the
painting Alison had bought me for Christmas
remained on my living room floor, waiting
to be hung.
  "Children, especially, don't like to think of their
parents having sex, even when they're older and should
know better. They prefer to think of their conception as
some sort of miracle birth, or that their parents
only did it that once or maybe twice and
stopped altogether once they'd completed their
families. But, God, Steve and I did it
all the time. Sorry, I can see by the look on
your face that was rather indelicate."
  "No, of course not," I stammered,
pushing some nonexistent hairs away from my
forehead, trying to arrange my features into a
placid mask. I was thinking of my own parents,
how certain I'd always been that my birth had been
a freak of nature, or that sex had been something
they'd tried once, disliked intensely, and had
never attempted again, that that was the reason I was an
only child. Now Myra was telling me this wasn't
necessarily the case.
  "Too much information," Myra joked. "That's
what Josh always says."
  "He'll be home soon."
  "Yes." She looked toward the window. "Where
was I?"
  "You were having sex all the time."
  Myra all but hooted with glee. It was the most
animated I'd ever seen her. "Oh, I was such
a bad girl." She laughed even harder. "Can
I tell you something I've never told anyone?"
  "Of course." I held my breath, almost
afraid of what she was about to say.
  "Steve wasn't the only man I ever had
sex with."
  I said nothing, although truthfully, I was almost
relieved. Myra Wylie was so full of
surprises tonight, I hadn't been sure what she
was about to confide.
  "No, there were several others before him. And this was
in the days before birth control, when girls who had
sex before marriage were considered loose women,
although, of course, that never stopped anyone from doing
it. Well, you know ..."
  I nodded. This time I did know.
  "Anyway, there were several young men before I met
Steve, although I told him he was the first, and he
believed me."
  "Were you .his first?"
  She leaned forward, cupped withered hands around her
mouth, lowered her voice, as if afraid her
late husband might be eavesdropping at the
door. "I think I was." A smile pulled
at her powdery skin. "Steve was such a natural
lover. Much better than the other boys I'd
been with."
  "And were there others after you got married?" I
ventured.
  "Heavens, no! Once I'd made that
commitment, that was it. Not that there weren't
opportunities. But after I got married, I
never really looked at other men in that
way. I had my Stevie, and he kept me
plenty busy." Her voice trailed off. She
stared at the ceiling. For a minute, I thought she
might have fallen asleep. "So on New
Year's Eve," she started up again, her eyes
flickering across the ceiling as if her past were being
projected on it, "we got home and went to bed,
and we kissed each other and wished each other a
happy New Year, and Steve said, "What do
you think? Are you too tired?"' And I was, but
I didn't want to say so, so instead I said,
"No. I'm okay. How about you?"' So, of
course, he said he was okay too, and we made
love, although neither of us really felt like it, and it was
a bit of an effort, if you know what I mean."
  Again I nodded, hoping she wouldn't go
into details.
  "But we managed. I think we felt we should,
it being the New Year and everything. Sort of like on
your anniversary or your birthday. You just feel you
should. Anyway, we made love and then we
fell asleep. Sex always puts me right
to sleep." She laughed. "And later, I was so
glad we'd made love that night because it turned
out to be the last time we ever did. Steve had a
heart attack the following week and died a month
after that."
  "You must miss him a great deal."
  "There isn't a day goes by that I don't think
about him. But I guess I'll be seeing him again
pretty soon," she said brightly.
  "Well, let's hope not too soon." I
patted her arm and stood up, straightening her
covers, although there was no need. I checked my
watch. Another twenty minutes and it would be a
brand-new year.
  "Will you sit with me until midnight?" she
asked. "Then I promise to go to sleep like a good
little girl."
  I sat back down, watched Myra's eyes
flutter to a close.
  "I'm not asleep," she warned. "Just resting
my eyes."
  "I'm not going anywhere," I assured her,
watching the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the
covers, noting the satisfied smile that lingered in
the folds of her ancient face.
  At seventy-seven, she'd still been sexually
active. At eighty-seven, the thought of sex still
made her smile. I was envious, I
realized. When had sex ever made me smile?
When had it brought me anything but embarrassment and
shame?
  My first time had been fast and uncomfortable and not
particularly pleasant. I remember Roger
Stillman trying to pry my legs apart, the few
hurried grabs at my breasts that served as
foreplay. And then the sudden jolt of pain as his
body pushed into mine, the unexpected weight of his
torso as he collapsed on top of me when it was
over.
  The last time I'd had sex hadn't been much of
an improvement, I thought with a shudder, again envying
the dying old woman lying in bed before me. She'd
been so open, so honest with me. What would she think
if I were to be equally open and honest with her?
  Could I tell her that the last time I'd had
sex--real sex, not just the hint of it with Josh or
the threat of it with Lance--had been the night my mother
died? I shook my head in disbelief. Dear
God, how could I have done anything so vile?
What on earth had possessed me?
  In truth, I'd all but pushed the details of
that night out of my mind altogether. But Myra's
memories had unleashed a flood of my own. I
sat back in my chair, stared at the window, saw
the ghosts of my past etched in the dark mirror of
glass.
  I watched myself as I sat stiffly by my mother's
bedside, her death obvious in the grayness of her
pallor, and the stillness that had settled over her
body like a fine coating of wax. Her eyes and
mouth were open, and I reached out to close them, her
skin already cool against my fingers. Even in death,
there remained a hint of the anger that had fueled her
life. Even with her eyes closed and her breath
stopped, a certain ferocity clung to her
features. She was still a force to be reckoned with,
I remember thinking as I bent down to kiss her
lips, surprised to find them so soft and pliant.
When had I ever experienced softness from those lips?
Had she ever kissed me as a baby, a toddler,
a child? Had those lips ever brushed across my forehead
to check if I was feverish? Had they ever whispered
"I love you" while I slept?
  The sad fact was that I'd hated my mother almost
as much as I'd loved her, that I'd spent my
entire life trying to please her, to make up for
whatever wrongs, both real and imaginary, I'd
committed. After she'd suffered her
stroke, I'd tried everything in my power to nurse
her back to health, and when it became obvious
to both of us she wouldn't get better, I'd
continued to do my best to make sure she was as
comfortable as possible. I'd sacrificed so much of
my life for her, and suddenly she was gone, and I
had nothing. No one. I was left with an
emptiness so overwhelming I didn't know what
to do.
  I remember pacing back and forth at the foot
of her bed. Back and forth. Back and forth. I could
feel her watching me through closed, dead eyes,
casting her continuing disapproval across my shoulders
like a heavy cloak. What kind of nurse are
you that you couldn't keep your own mother alive? I
could hear her demand through cold, dead lips. And it
was true, I conceded. I'd failed her. Again.
As I'd always failed her.
  "I'm so sorry," I cried out loud. "So
sorry."
  Sorry, sorry, sorry.
  A sorry excuse for a nurse. A
sorrier excuse for a daughter.
  I don't remember leaving the house, although at
some point I obviously did. I must have showered
and changed my clothes, although I have no memory of
having done so. I do remember being in a bar on
Atlantic Avenue, throwing back several
glasses of tequila, and flirting with the handsomely
nondescript bartender until he abandoned me
for a girl who kept tossing her long blond
hair from one shoulder to the other at the far end of the
bar. I then turned my attention to another
generically handsome man, this one wearing a bright
Hawaiian shirt, who casually slipped his
wedding band into the pocket of his tight jeans as he
sidled up beside me.
  "I don't think I've seen you in here before,"
he said.
  Yes, he actually said that. Maybe because it was
true, maybe because he was too lazy to think of
anything more original, maybe because he sensed I was
such an easy mark that nothing was to be gained by being more
creative.
  "It's my first time," I told him, trying--and
failing--to toss my hair over my shoulder like the
blonde at the end of the bar.
  "First time, huh?" He signaled the bartender
to refill our drinks. "I like first times. Don't
you?"
  I gave him what I hoped would pass as a
mysterious smile and said nothing. Instead I pushed
my shoulders back and crossed my legs, his
eyes tracing each move. I was wearing a striped
jersey that accentuated the swell of my bosom, and
strappy sandals that dangled provocatively from
my bare toes. He was tall and slender, with
hair as black as coal and eyes the color of
cool mint. He did most of the talking--about what
I don't remember. I'm sure he told me
his name, but I've successfully blocked it out.
Jack, John, Jerrod. Something with a J. I
don't think I told him mine. I'm not sure
he asked.
  We had a few more drinks, and he suggested
going somewhere more private. Without another word, I
slid from my barstool and walked to the door.
Surprisingly, I had no trouble walking,
despite all the liquor in my system. In
fact, I didn't feel the least bit drunk,
although afterward, I convinced myself I'd been very drunk
indeed. But as much as I'd like to blame what
happened that night on a combination of grief and
alcohol, I'm no longer sure I can do that.
The truth is that I wasn't drunk that night,
at least not so drunk I wasn't responsible for
my actions. The truth is that I knew
exactly what I was doing when I agreed
to leave that bar for somewhere more private, when I let
Jack or John or Jerrod feel me up as
we stumbled toward his car, when I whispered that I
lived just around the corner.
  He parked on the street in front of my
house, and I led him around the side to the cottage
at the back. "Who lives in the main house?"
he asked as I opened the cottage door and
began turning on the lights.
  "My mother," I told him, glancing toward her
bedroom window.
  "Aren't you afraid she'll see us with all these
lights on?"
  "She's a very sound sleeper," I said, pulling
off my jersey in front of the window, hearing my
mother's silent gasp.
  After that, we said little. But if I'd been
expecting great sex, I was sorely disappointed.
If I'd been looking for some kind of release,
I got nothing of the sort. Instead I got a
lot of grunting and thrashing about to no particular
purpose, and when it was over--too fast,
yet not nearly fast enough--I couldn't wait for
Jack or John or Jerrod to put on his
tight jeans and Hawaiian shirt and leave.
  "I'll call you," he said on his way out the
door.
  I nodded, looking up at my mother's room,
feeling the crushing weight of her disapproval, as
heavy as the weight of the man who'd just left my
bed. I took a shower and got dressed, then I
called for an ambulance and returned to the main
house, where I sat dutifully by my mother's side
until it arrived. Then I wiped that night from my
mind as if it had never happened and refused to think
of it again.
  Until now.
  I glanced at my watch. It was midnight.
"Happy New Year," I whispered, kissing
Myra's warm cheek.
  "Happy New Year," she repeated, opening
her eyes briefly, her thin lashes brushing against
my skin.
  Seconds later, she was asleep, and once
again, I was alone.



  I thought I heard something when I stepped into the
hallway. I stopped, looked around, saw nothing
but an empty corridor. I stood there, my hand
still on the door to Myra's room, my head
cocked to one side, like an attentive puppy,
my ears on full alert for any errant sounds--
a stray step, a heavy breath--anything at all
out of the ordinary.
  But there was nothing.
  I shook my head and started down the hall,
looking in on my patients as I passed each
joyless room. Most were asleep, or pretending
to be. Only Eliot Winchell, a middle-aged
man saddled with the brain of a toddler as the result
of a seemingly harmless spill from a bicycle, was
awake. He waved when he saw me.
  "Happy New Year, Mr. Winchell," I
said, automatically checking his pulse. "Is there
anything I can get for you?"
  He smiled his eerie child's smile and said
nothing.
  "Do you need to go to the bathroom?"
  He shook his head, smiled wider, the white of
his teeth flashing in the semidarkness of the
room.
  "Then try to get some sleep now, Mr.
Winchell. You have a very busy day ahead of you."
I doubted this was true, but what difference did it
make? One day would be pretty much the same as the
next for Eliot Winchell for the rest of his life.
"Why weren't you wearing your helmet, Eliot?"
I scolded in my mother's voice, watching the child's
smile vanish abruptly from his face. "Get
some sleep," I said, softening, patting his arm, and
making sure his covers were secure. "I'll see
you tomorrow."
  I heard the noise as soon as I stepped
back into the hall.
  I spun around, my eyes darting back and forth,
up and down the brightly lit corridor. But again,
there was nothing. I held my breath, waited,
tried unsuccessfully to figure out exactly
what it was I thought I'd heard. But there was nothing
I could put my finger on, nothing but a vague
sense of disquiet.
  "It's nothing," I said out loud as I walked
past Sheena O'Connor's former room. Sheena
O'Connor was no longer a patient at Mission
Care. Her doctors felt she'd recovered
sufficiently to release her, and her parents had
arrived to take her home the day before yesterday.
  "Isn't it great? I'll be home for New
Year's," she'd exclaimed.
  "You take good care of yourself," I urged.
  "You'll keep in touch, won't you? You'll come
visit me?"
  "Of course I will," I said, but I think we
both knew that once she left the hospital,
I'd never see her again.
  She hugged me. "I'm gonna call you every time
I can't sleep," she warned. "Have you sing to me."
  "You won't have any trouble sleeping."
  What was she doing now? I wondered, returning
to the nurses' station, realizing I missed having
someone to sing to.
  On holidays, the hospital retained only
a skeletal staff. Beverley and I were the only
nurses on the floor. Truthfully, I would have
preferred total solitude. Then I wouldn't have
to spend the first moments of the New Year mired in
boring small talk or pretend to be interested in
Beverley's mind-numbingly stupid problems. I
wouldn't be expected to offer advice I knew would
never be followed. I could simply enjoy
this time alone. Chances were slight there'd be an
emergency, and doctors were on call if I
needed them. A glorified babysitter, that's
all you are, I heard my mother whisper.
  "Did you hear something?" I asked Beverley,
drowning out the sound of my mother's voice.
  "Like what?" Beverley looked up from the double
issue of People she was perusing and listened. "I
don't hear anything."
  I shrugged, unconvinced. The silence of the
night pounded against my head like a hammer.
  "Just your imagination working overtime," Beverley
pronounced.
  God knows I have plenty of imagination, I
thought. Yes, sir--lots of imagination.
  And no life.
  The people dying in their beds just down the hall had more
life than I did. Myra Wylie, for
God's sake, at eighty-seven and sick with
leukemia and heart disease, still grew wistful at
the very thought of sex. Ten years ago, ten years
ago, she'd still been sexually active! And here
was I, almost half her age, with only a tiny
fraction of her life experience. What was I
waiting for? How much of my life was I going
to waste?
  I'd never made New Year's resolutions
before, but I made one now. Come hell or high
water, this year was going to be different. Josh would
be back from California in a few days, and I was
going to be ready for him.
  "Who would you sleep with if you had the chance?"
Beverley startled me by asking, as if privy to my
thoughts. "Tom Cruise or Russell
Crowe?" She held up the magazine, tapped
fake, orange nails against the appropriate
pictures.
  "Is George Clooney an option?"
  She laughed, and I listened in mounting fear as the
laugh spun circles around us. "Don't tell
me you didn't hear that."
  "I heard it." Beverley dropped the
magazine to the counter and rose to her feet.
"Probably Larry Foster in 415. He has
that weird little laugh. I'll go check on him."
  "Maybe we should call security."
  Fake, orange nails waved my concerns
aside as Beverley headed down the hall.
  I picked up the People magazine and flipped
through its pages, trying to pretend there was
no cause for alarm by concentrating on which stars had
undergone plastic surgery in the last year. "You,
definitely," I said, pointing to the picture of
an aging starlet who, except for an exaggerated
mane of curly blond hair, barely resembled
her former self. In fact, it was only after I
read the name beneath the photograph that I realized
who she was.
  That's when I heard the sound again.
  The magazine dropped from my hands and slid off
my lap as I jumped to my feet. "Who's
there?" I demanded, eyes straying toward the alarm
button on the wall.
  A figure emerged from behind a nearby pillar and
sauntered slowly toward me, his fingers hooked
into the pockets of his black jeans, a cruel
smile tugging at his lips. Tall, skinny,
dressed all in black, his brown eyes laughed
at me from atop his hawklike nose. I
didn't need a name beneath a photograph
to identify him.
  "K.c.!"
  "Happy New Year, Terry."
  I fought to get air into my lungs. "What are
you doing here? How did you get past security?"
  "You mean my friend Sylvester?"
  "What did you do to him?"
  The smile disappeared from his mouth. "You mean after
I slit his throat?"
  My voice fell to my knees. "Oh, my
God!"
  K.c. laughed, slapped his thigh in
disbelief. "What--you think I'm serious? You
think I'd hurt my friend Sylvester? What kind
of people have you been hanging out with, lady? Of course
I didn't hurt him. I just explained how
unfair I thought it was you had to miss out on all
the festivities and said I wanted to surprise you
with a party of your own. Sylvester was very understanding,
especially when I presented him with a nice
bottle of ten-year-old Scotch. What's the
matter, Terry? You don't look very happy
to see me."
  "Are you alone?"
  "What do you think?" He lifted his right hand,
aimed it at my heart. It was only then I saw
the gun.


  There was a loud bang, and in a blinding flash,
the world exploded. I fell back, cried out,
glanced toward my chest, waiting for the sight of my
blood to seep through the whiteness of my uniform.
  "My God, what's going on here?" Beverley
exclaimed as my vision began to blur. "Who are
you?" she demanded of K.c. as the taste of blood
filled my mouth.
  "Friends of Terry's," K.c. answered
easily, and I was too weak to object.
  And then Alison suddenly jumped into view.
"Happy New Year!" she shouted.
  "Happy New Year!" echoed Denise,
popping up beside her.
  "Welcome to the first day of the rest of your
life," Lance announced from another corner,
laughing as champagne gushed from the large bottle
in his hand to spill across the floor. "That was one
noisy cork. Anybody see where it went?"
  "What's going on here?" Beverley asked again,
although a smile was already creeping into her voice.
  "New Year's celebration," Lance told
her. "We didn't think you angels of mercy should
miss out on all the fun."
  "Well, aren't you sweet. I'm Beverley,
by the way."
  "Pleasure to meet you, Beverley. I'm
Lance. This is Alison, Denise, and K.c."
  "Any friends of Terry's"--Beverley began,
then stopped when she saw the look on my face.
  "You scared me half to death," I said,
realizing I hadn't been shot after all.
  Lance laughed. "A little scare's good for you.
Gets the adrenaline pumping."
  "We didn't mean to scare you," Alison
apologized. "We just wanted to surprise you."
  "Don't you like surprises, Terry?"
Denise asked, approaching the nurses' station.
Her black hair had outgrown its trendy cut,
and as a result, its spikes had lost some of their
sharp edges, collapsing around her pale face like
ash from a cigarette. Her eyes were rimmed with
black, making her look more ghoulish than
sophisticated, an effect I don't think was
intentional, although knowing Denise, perhaps it was.
  "Please don't touch anything," I
admonished, still trying to catch my breath.
  "We brought glasses," Alison said,
producing them from the large shopping bag in her
hands.
  "We thought of everything," K.c. added.
  "Where do you keep the drugs?" Denise asked.
  "What!"
  "Just joking."
  "What happened to your lip?" Alison asked.
  I touched the side of my mouth where I must have
bitten down. Immediately, Lance was beside me, licking
the drop of blood from my finger with the exaggerated
gusto of a movie vampire. "Hmm. Two
thousand two. A very good year."
  I pulled my hand away. "Save it, Bela
Lugosi," I told him, struggling to keep
everyone in my line of sight. Beverley already had
a glass in her hand.
  "Don't be upset with us, Terry," Alison
pleaded. She was dressed all in white, her
strawberry-blond curls falling loosely around
her face, Botticelli's Venus removed from
her shell.
  "I'm just not sure this is such a good idea."
  "It's a great idea," Beverley countered with a
slap on my arm, as Lance began carefully
measuring out equal amounts of champagne. I
noticed that he too was dressed all in white.
  "We couldn't let you spend New Year's
Eve alone," K.c. said.
  "That wouldn't have been very nice of us." Denise
began rifling through a nearby stack of patients'
charts.
  I quickly moved them out of her reach. "You
shouldn't be back here."
  "Why not?"
  "Denise," Alison said.
  Denise promptly left the nurses' station,
grabbing a glass of champagne from the counter as she
brushed by. "Cheers, everybody."
  "Wait. We have to make a toast." Alison
waited to make sure we each had a glass.
  "What are we drinking to?" Lance asked his
sister.
  "To the best year ever." Alison raised her
glass into the air.
  "The best year ever," we all agreed.
  I didn't want to be considered a wet
blanket, so I took one sip, then another.
The champagne tasted surprisingly refreshing, so
I took several more, the bubbles stinging the
insides of my nose. "Good health," I said under
my breath.
  "And wealth," Denise added quickly.
  "May we all get exactly what we want
in the coming year," Lance continued.
  "Everything that's coming to us," K.c. added,
smiling at me from over the rim of his glass as
everyone took another sip of champagne.
  "Everything we deserve," Denise said.
  "Everything we need," said Alison.
  "And what exactly is that?" her brother
challenged.
  Alison buried her nose inside her glass
of champagne and said nothing. I finished the last of
my champagne in two quick gulps.
  "Well, I know what I need," Denise
said, laughing. "I need a change of scenery."
  "Weren't you just in New York?"
  "New York doesn't count. I was with my
mother."
  "What's wrong with your mother?"
  "Nothing--if you like uptight, anal-
retentive, old farts." Denise immediately doubled
over with laughter.
  "Alison likes uptight, anal-
retentive, old farts," Lance said, looking
directly at me. "Don't you, Alison?"
  "I like everyone." Alison finished the contents
of her glass and poured herself another. I could
tell by the way she was swaying, by the way they were
all swaying, that this wasn't the evening's first
bottle of booze. "Terry, your glass is
empty." Alison filled it to the top before I
had time to object. "Drink up," she urged,
watching as I lifted the glass to my mouth.
  "I'm serious," Denise was saying. "I've
had it with the East Coast. It's time for a change."
  "Could this have anything to do with getting fired by your
aunt?" K.c. asked.
  "My aunt's an uptight, anal-
retentive, old fart."
  "Why'd she fire you?" Beverley asked,
holding out her glass for a refill.
  Denise shrugged. "Because she's jealous of me.
She's always been jealous of me."
  "I thought it was because she caught you stealing from the
till."
  Denise waved away K.c.'s unwanted
explanation. "Wouldn't have happened if she
wasn't such a damn tightwad. She was
paying me next to nothing, for God's sake. And
she has all this money. Plus, I'm family.
You'd think she could afford to be more generous. I
hate people like that. Don't you hate people like that,
Terry?"
  "I think people have a right to decide what to do with their
own money." I took another long sip of
champagne, struggled to stay focused.
  "Yeah, well, I think she's--"
  "--an uptight, anal-retentive, old
fart?" Lance asked slyly.
  "Exactly." Denise wobbled toward him,
pushed her breasts against his chest. "I was thinking of
trying New Mexico. Want to come with me?"
  "Sounds like a plan." Lance put his arms around
Denise's waist, stared over her wilting dark
spikes at Alison. "I'm getting a little
tired of South Florida myself."
  Alison looked away, smiled in my
direction, though her smile was tight, as if it were
holding back a torrent of angry words.
  A buzzer sounded.
  "What's that?" Denise raised her head from
Lance's chest.
  I glanced at the wall behind the nurses' station.
The button indicating Eliot Winchell's
room was lit up. "It's one of my patients.
I have to go."
  "We'll come with you," Lance said.
  I shook my head in an effort to clear it,
watched the room spin instead. "No. You have
to leave now."
  The buzzer sounded again.
  "Come on, guys. We should get going,"
Alison said. "We don't want to get Terry
in trouble."
  Denise shook her head. "Oh, come on.
Don't be such an uptight--"
  "--anal retentive--" K.c. continued.
  "--old fart," Lance concluded, and they all
laughed. Except for Alison, who had the
decency to look both embarrassed and ashamed.
  The buzzer sounded again.
  "Persistent little bugger, isn't he?"
Beverley said, making no move to respond to his
call.
  "Okay, guys, I appreciate your coming
here, and bringing the champagne, and celebrating
New Year's Eve with us, but I really have to go
now. And so do you."
  "We understand," K.c. said.
  "We can show ourselves out," Lance offered, guiding
the others to the elevator as the buzzer sounded yet
again.
  "Thanks for dropping by," I heard
Beverley say as I headed down the hall. The
floor was sliding under my feet, like a moving
sidewalk, and I grabbed the wall for support,
trying to control the spinning of my head. Was I
drunk already, on only two glasses of
champagne? The only other time I'd gotten this
drunk this fast, I realized, I'd also been with
Alison.
  I pushed open the door to Eliot Winchell's
room. He was sitting up in bed, his covers
bunched up around his ankles, the front of his
pajamas wet with his urine. "Oh, Eliot. Have
you had an accident?"
  "I'm sorry," he said sheepishly.
  "No. Don't be sorry. It's not your
fault."
  "Really?" Lance asked, pushing past me into the
room, followed by Denise and K.c. Alison
hung back in the doorway as the others
approached the bed. "Then whose fault is it?
Hello, I'm Dr. Palmay," Lance continued
before I had time to react. "And these are my
colleagues, Dr. Austin and Dr. Powers."
  Denise laughed, and Eliot laughed with her,
although I doubt he got the joke.
  "He's so cute," Denise said. "What's his
problem?"
  "Obviously, he's wet his pants," Lance
answered. "What kind of doctor are you
anyway?"
  "Oh, gross," Denise said.
  "You have to leave now," I said when I could find
my voice. My mouth was dry. Thoughts swirled
helplessly around my brain, as if trapped in an
unexpected eddy. I steadied myself against Eliot
Winchell's bed.
  "Yes, we do," Alison agreed from the
doorway. "Come on, Doctors. We have to go
now and let Terry do her job."
  "Looks like Terry could use a bit of
help," K.c. said. "She's looking a little
green around the gills."
  "I'm sorry, Terry," Alison said. "I
didn't know they were going to do this."
  "What are you talking about?" Lance
shot back angrily. "This whole thing was your
idea."
  And then they were gone. In the merciful silence that
followed, I changed Eliot into another pair of
pajamas and settled him back in his bed. I
did all this by rote, my head spinning, my vision
impaired by a cluster of bright neon bubbles
exploding before my eyes. Had my glass contained
something more potent than champagne?
  I clung to the walls as I navigated the
moving hallway back to the nurses' station, my
concerns swept away in an unexpected fit of
adolescent giggles that burst from my throat like
kernels of corn from a popper. Seconds
later, I collapsed into my chair, wondering at
what precise moment I'd lost control of my
life, knowing it was exactly the moment Alison
had shown up at my door.



  They were waiting for me in the parking lot at the
end of my shift.
  I saw Denise first. She was sitting on the
trunk of a car, drinking wine directly from a
bottle and kicking her feet into the air, as if
she were lounging at the end of a dock on the
Intracoastal. A small gold loop flashed
at me from the side of her right nostril. I
didn't remember seeing it earlier.
  K.c. was standing beside her, his hands crammed into the
pockets of his tight jeans, his eyes on the
ground. He looked as if he'd just been sick
or was about to be, although when he raised his head in
my direction, I saw he was smiling.
Surprisingly, I smiled back, as if I were
no longer in charge of my own reflexes, as if
I'd been reduced to a puppetlike state, and
I went wherever my strings pulled me. I'd
expected the champagne to have worn off by now, but
if anything, I was feeling even more
discombobulated than before. Strange images were
dancing around my head, refusing to settle long enough
for me to identify them. Bright colors continued
to float, like loose balloons, across my line of
vision. It required all my concentration just to put
one foot in front of the other.
  Alison and Lance were sitting, half-in,
half-out of the white Lincoln that was parked several
empty spaces away, its doors open
to the early-morning air. Lance was in the front
seat, Alison the back, and when she leaned
forward, balancing her elbows on her knees, I
saw that her eyes were puffy and wet, as if she'd
been crying. Or maybe she was just stoned, I
realized, as the unmistakable odor of marijuana
wafted toward my nose, and I saw the rich
orange glow of a hand-rolled cigarette dangling
casually from Lance's fingers.
  "Well, look who's here," Denise said.
  "About time." K.c. straightened up, lifted
his arms above his head in a prolonged, catlike
stretch, as if he were getting ready to pounce.
  "What are you still doing here?" I looked around,
the scenery blurring as I strained to see whether
anyone else was in the parking lot, but there was no
one. Great security, I thought, wondering who would
hear me if I screamed.
  Alison climbed out of the rented Lincoln,
swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I
didn't want you driving home alone on New
Year's Eve."
  Lance took a long drag of his cigarette.
"Party's just beginning."
  "Party's over," I told them, trying
to remember where I'd parked my car. "I'm
exhausted. I just want to go home and crawl
into bed."
  "Now that's a plan," Lance said, as he had
said earlier. He extended the marijuana
cigarette in my direction. Smoke filled my
nostrils, like a too sweet perfume.
  I shook my head no, although I had to admit
the sensation was not altogether unpleasant.
  "For strictly medicinal purposes, of
course." Denise slid off the trunk of the car and
inhaled deeply from the smoldering joint in Lance's
fingers.
  "K.c., you and Denise take my car,"
Lance instructed. "Alison and I'll go with
Terry." Without asking, he lifted my purse from
my hands and extricated the keys to my car.
"I'll drive," he said, the words crawling around
the joint now pressed between his lips.
  "I'm not sure this is such a good idea."
  "You shouldn't be driving in your condition." Lance
laughed, as if he knew something I didn't, and
I felt my legs buckle beneath me. They had
put something in my champagne. Probably a
hallucinogen, I decided, trying
to hang on to reality, like a child clinging to the handlebars
of a runaway bicycle. Let go, a little
voice urged inside my head. Give in and let
go.
  I felt a wave of euphoria wash over me
as I released my grip on the here and now. I
pictured myself flying backward through the air without
a helmet, the wind whipping at my hair.
Instead I found myself squashed beside Alison in the
passenger seat of my car, her arm around me in a
protective, almost smothering embrace. The
oppressive smell of marijuana circled my
head like an errant halo, forcing its way up my
sinuses, like wads of cotton batten. "What
exactly did you put in my drink?" I heard
someone ask, understanding it was me only by the echo
bouncing between my ears.
  "You mean aside from the rufies and the LSD?"
Lance laughed as we sped out of the parking lot and
turned onto Jog Road, the white Lincoln
following close behind.
  "Shut up, Lance," Alison said. "She'll
think you're serious."
  "I am serious. I'm a very serious fellow.
Come on, Terry." He waved what was left of the
marijuana cigarette in front of my face.
"In for a penny, in for a pound. Isn't that what
they say?"
  "She said she doesn't want any,"
Alison said.
  "No, that's all right," I surprised us all
by saying. What the hell, I remember thinking.
My life was no longer my own. Whatever was going
to happen was no longer up to me. I'd been
excluded from the decision-making process, and
instead of feeling threatened and afraid, I felt
relieved, even excited. I was walking a
tightrope without a safety net. I was free.
  So I laughed as I accepted the joint from
Lance's waiting fingers, then raised it to my lips
and inhaled deeply, holding it in my lungs the
way I'd seen Denise do in the parking lot,
until my throat burned and my chest threatened
to explode.
  "Look at that." Lance laughed. "She's an
old pro."
  I took another drag, this one longer than the
first, watching dispassionately as the thin paper
burned its way down to the tips of my fingers.
Unfamiliar stirrings of well-being
whooshed through my body, like a fresh transfusion of
blood. I'd never smoked marijuana before, although
I'd been tempted as a teenager. This had less
to do with any great moral integrity on my part
than it did with my greater fear of my mother finding
out.
  I drew another long drag into my lungs,
then sank into a deep well of complete and utter
calm, realizing I never wanted to resurface.
I clung to the sensation, as a drowning woman
clings to a life buoy, pressing the smoke against
my lungs like a branding iron, exhaling only the
faintest puff, and only when I could no longer
hold my breath.
  "Easy does it," Lance warned as I inhaled
again, a small tower of ash replacing the paper in
my hand.
  I gasped as the cigarette burned into my
fingers.
  "Are you all right?" Alison asked. "Did
you burn yourself?"
  "Let me see that." Lance grabbed my right
hand, forced my index and middle fingers into his
mouth, sucked greedily on their tips.
  "Oh, for God's sake." Alison slapped
her brother's hand with such force, his teeth scraped
my knuckles. "Terry, are you okay?"
  I stared at my tingling fingers.
  "That's first-rate weed, isn't it?" Lance
asked proudly.
  "Where'd you get it?" I asked in return.
  "Trust me. The drug trade still thrives in
Delray Beach."
  I looked around, trying to make sense of what
was once familiar territory. "Where are we?"
I asked as we turned onto Linton
Boulevard.
  "Lakeview Golf Course," Lance
announced, reading the large sign on our left.
"You ever play golf, Terry?"
  I shook my head, not sure whether I'd
answered him out loud.
  "I tried it once," Lance said, "but it was a
disaster. Balls splaying all over the damn
place. It's not as easy as it looks on
TV, I'll tell you that."
  "I think it's the sort of thing you need
lessons for," I heard myself say, remarkably
self-assured for someone who had no idea what
she was talking about.
  "I have no patience for lessons."
  "Lance has no patience for anything."
Alison turned toward the window. were there tears
in her eyes?
  "Are you okay?" I wondered if Lance had
another of his magic cigarettes to give to his
sister, get her to relax. Why was she so
uptight?
  Alison nodded without looking back. "You?"
  "Fine." I lay my head against her shoulder,
snuggled into the crook of her arm, closed my
eyes.
  "Terry?" Lance said. "Terry, are you
asleep? Is she asleep?" he asked
Alison before I could formulate a response.
  I felt Alison swivel toward me, her
breath warm on my face as she spoke. "I
hope you're proud of yourself," she said in my mother's
voice, and I jumped up, startled, sure she was
speaking to me.
  "So, you're not asleep," Lance said. "Trying
to trick us, were you?"
  "Where are we?" I asked again. How many times
had I asked that already? "Where are we going?"
  "Thought we'd go for a little New Year's dip in
the ocean," Lance answered.
  "Are you crazy?" Alison asked. "It's the
middle of the night. It's pitch-black out there."
  A sudden disquiet gnawed at my newfound
serenity, like a mouse on a piece of rope. I
pushed myself up in my seat and rubbed my forehead,
as if trying to clear it. Maybe a dip in the
ocean was exactly what I needed. Just what the
doctor ordered, I thought, then laughed.
  "What's so funny?" Lance asked, laughing with
me.
  Alison was the only one who didn't laugh.
Worry clung to her eyes like wraparound shades.
What's her problem? I thought with growing
irritation.
  I looked out the car window at the largely
deserted thoroughfare. Where was everybody? It was
New Year's Eve, for God's sake. Where were
all the drunken revelers, not to mention all the
extra police cars supposedly trolling the
streets? Here we were, three plastered partiers
crowded into the front seat of a car heading for the
Atlantic Ocean. Surely we deserved a
citation for that, I thought, giggling at the convoluted
absurdity of my reasoning.
  "Maybe we should just go home," Alison said.
"I think Terry's had enough excitement for one
night."
  "Every party needs a pooper," Lance began
singing. "That's why we invited you."
  "Party pooper," I joined in, laughing so
hard now I could barely catch my breath.
Whatever twinge of trepidation I might have felt
earlier had vanished as quickly as it had appeared,
carried away by wave after wave of intense
euphoria. I would ride those waves right into the
middle of the sea, I thought as the ocean
miraculously appeared before us, and Lance pulled
to a stop at the side of the road, the white
Lincoln stopping right behind.
  In the next instant, four doors opened as one
and both cars emptied. We raced each other
toward the deserted beach, so dark it was almost
impossible to see where the sand ended and the water
began. In the distance, several lonely
firecrackers exploded, and I looked up
to see a spray of brilliant pink and green
burst briefly across the sky. Aside from that, and the
low growl of a passing motorcycle, it was
quiet. I suppressed a shudder as the cool
night air blew through my hair, then wrapped itself
tightly around my neck, like a tourniquet.
  "This is so great," Denise exclaimed, throwing
her arm over my shoulder and dragging me across the
sand. "Isn't this so great, Terry?"
  "Let's get naked." Lance was already kicking
off his shoes and pulling his shirt over his head.
  "Let's not," Alison quickly countered.
"What are you trying to do, Lance?" she asked above
the roar of the ocean. "Draw as much attention to us as
possible?"
  "Not a good idea," Lance agreed quickly.
"Okay, everybody. Clothes back on." He
tried dragging his shirt back over his head, but his
head got caught in one of the sleeves, and he
gave up, throwing the shirt to the ground in
frustration, then laughing as he stomped it into the sand
with his bare feet. "Never did like that stupid
shirt," he said, and we all laughed, as if
he'd just told the funniest joke in the world.
  Except Alison. She wasn't laughing.
  I pulled off my clumsy nurse's shoes and
surveyed the ocean stretched out before me--cold,
dark, hypnotic. It beckoned me forward,
pulling me like a giant magnet, and I
rushed toward its angry waves as if
possessed, the sand cold against my stockinged
feet, the icy water rushing over my toes.
  "Way to go, Terry!" Lance yelled from the
darkness.
  "Wait for us," Denise called out as a
wave, like an oversize boxer's glove,
pummeled my back.
  I looked toward the shore, saw several
vague shapes lumbering toward me, hands waving in
the air, like delicate tree branches swaying in
the wind. I waved back, lost my balance, and
stumbled over a rock. Struggling to maintain my
footing, I saw the darkness swirling around me and
wondered briefly what in God's name I was
doing. Hadn't I pulled this stunt once before?
Hadn't I almost drowned?
  "Terry, be careful," Alison cried out,
fighting her way through the surf. "You're out too
deep. Come back."
  "Happy New Year," I shouted, splashing
at the water with my hands.
  "Somebody's stoned," Lance said, drawing
closer, his voice a singsong.
  I pushed myself to my feet, only to be
slapped down on all fours by another wave. The
taste of salt filled my mouth and I laughed,
remembering the time I'd mistakenly sprinkled
salt, instead of sugar, on my breakfast cereal,
and my mother had insisted I eat it anyway. A
lesson, she'd said, so I wouldn't make the
same mistake again. But I was always making the
same mistakes again, I realized, laughing even
louder.
  Once again, I tried to stand up, but my feet
could no longer find the ocean floor, and I was
drifting farther and farther away from the others.
"Help!" I cried as the water crept above my
head, and unseen hands reached for me in the dark.
  Strong hands pulled at my clothing. "Stop
struggling," Lance ordered, his voice as cold as
the ocean. "You only make things worse
by struggling."
  I lunged into Lance's arms, the wet hairs of
his bare chest rough against my cheek, his heartbeat
resonating against my ears. I gasped for breath,
my hands flailing wildly in the air as another
wave tore us apart, then crashed over my head like
a collapsing tent. I screamed, my mouth
filling with water, as my fingers reached
across the darkness for something solid to grab on to.
I felt a large fish slap against my calves
and I kicked it away.
  "What are you doing?" Lance yelled above the
sound of the angry surf. "Stay still."
  "Help me!" The cold water swirled around
my legs, tugging at my feet like heavy
weights, pulling me under. I felt Lance
close beside me and struggled through the darkness toward
him.
  It was then that I felt a weight on the top of
my head, pushing me back under, holding me down.
"No," I cried, although no sound emerged. I
opened my eyes underwater, saw Lance beside me, his
hands somewhere above my head.
  Was he trying to save me or kill me?
  "Stop fighting me," Lance ordered gruffly.
  I reached frantically for the water's surface,
but my body was growing weak, and my legs were
constrained by the tightness of my uniform. My lungs
felt as if they were about to burst, the sensation eerily
similar to the one I'd enjoyed earlier with my first
marijuana cigarette. So this is what it feels
like to drown, I thought, remembering the fate of those
unfortunate kittens at my mother's cruel hands.
Had they been scared? I wondered. Had they fought
back, clawed at her murderous fingers? Or had
they quietly accepted their fate, as Lance was
urging me to do now. "Damn it! Stop struggling,"
he bellowed as my head finally shattered the
surface of the water, like a fist through glass.
  And suddenly a bright light was shining toward me,
and for one insane second, I wondered if I was
already dead, if this was the white light patients
who'd suffered near-death experiences sometimes
talked about. And then I heard the distant voice
--"Police," the voice announced. "What's
going on out there?"
  "Goddamn it," Lance said, pulling me up and
securing me underneath his arm, pushing me roughly
toward the shore.
  "What's going on here?" the police officer
asked again as I collapsed on the sand by his
feet, gulping wildly at the air, unable
to speak. Alison was immediately on her hands and
knees, hugging me to her side. K.c. and
Denise hovered silently nearby.
  "Sorry, Officer," Lance said, shaking the
water from his hair, like a dog. "Our friend forgot
she doesn't know how to swim."
  "You all right?" the officer asked me. I could
tell by the timbre of his voice that he was young and more
amused than concerned.
  "She's fine," Lance said with another shake of
his head. "I'm the one you should be worrying about.
She almost killed me out there. Last time I play
hero, I'll tell you that."
  "Pretty stupid stunt, lady," a second
officer admonished, looking directly at me,
and I understood by his tone that it was the end of a long
shift, and the last thing he wanted was unnecessary
overtime. I noted that he was about the same height
and weight as his partner, with the same thick neck and
square chest. "You better get this lady home,"
he advised. "I think she's done enough
celebrating for one night."
  I opened my mouth and tried to speak, but no
sound emerged. What could I tell them after all?
That I was drunk on champagne and high on
marijuana? That I suspected I'd been
slipped some LSD? Did I really think that?
Truthfully, at that moment, I didn't know what
to think. I wasn't certain of anything, not what
had happened earlier, not what was happening now.
  "Thank you, Officers," Lance was calling after
the already retreating policemen. "Happy New
Year." When they were out of sight, he turned
back to me as Alison's arm tightened around my
waist. "You heard what the man said. Time to get
you home."



  The rest of the night is a blur.
  I remember images--Lance's knuckles,
white against the black of the steering wheel;
Alison's wet hair clinging to the gaunt
crevices of her face as tears continued spilling
from her eyes; my uniform, wet and cold, riding
high on my thighs, my sheer stockings ripped and
speckled with sand.
  I remember sounds--the wetness of our clothes
against the leather of the seats; a horn blasting as a
car sped past us on the inside lane; the nervous
tapping of Lance's foot on the brake as we
waited for a light to change from red to green.
  I remember the silence.
  And then we were home, and everyone was talking at
once.
  "What a night!"
  "How is she?"
  "What happens now?"
  I remember being half-carried, half-dragged
toward my front door.
  "What are you going to do to me?" I recall
whispering.
  "What did she say?"
  "What do you think we're going to do to you?"
  "What's she babbling about?"
  Alison's voice, as clear as the
proverbial bell: "You guys should go now. We
can handle it from here."
  I remember stumbling up the steps,
Alison's hand loosely on my elbow,
Lance's arm tight now around my waist. My
bedroom swirled around me, as if I were on an
ocean liner during stormy seas. I fought to stay
upright as Alison slipped from my side, ended
up on her knees beside my bed.
  "What the hell are you doing?" Lance demanded,
gripping me tighter, as if afraid I might
bolt, his fingernails carving small niches into my
flesh.
  "You know what I'm doing," Alison answered
defensively, pushing herself back to her feet.
  Checking for bogeymen, I told him
silently, then laughed out loud.
  "Jeez, two lunatics," Lance said, his
fingers at the front of my uniform, struggling with the
top button, as Alison left the room.
  "Don't," I protested weakly.
  "You want to go to bed soaking wet?"
  "I can get undressed by myself."
  Lance took a step back. "Suit yourself.
I'm happy to watch."
  "I think you should leave."
  "Now, that's not very hospitable," Lance said,
managing to sound hurt. "Especially after I
saved your life."
  Had he? I wondered again. Or had he tried
to end it?
  Alison reentered the room, several large
white towels in her hands. She threw one at
Lance. were they going to tie me up, gag me, then
smother me with my own pillow?
  I felt the towels in my hair, at my
breasts, between my legs. My wet uniform was
scraped from my body, a dry nightgown lowered
over my head, like a shroud.
  "Hold still," Lance said.
  "I'll do it," Alison instructed.
  Strong hands guided me toward the bed, pushed
me down on top of it, covered me with a
blanket.
  "Think she has any clue what's going on?"
Lance asked as I buried my head in the pillow
and curled into a fetal ball.
  "No. She's really out of it," Alison said.
  "So, what do we do now?"
  I felt them watching me from the foot of the bed,
as if considering my fate, weighing the
alternatives. I feigned sleep, hinted at
a snore.
  "I should probably stay with her overnight,"
Alison said.
  "What for? She's not going anywhere."
  "I know. But I'd still like to keep an eye on
her."
  "Fine. I'll keep you company."
  "No. You go. Get some sleep."
  "You know I don't sleep well when you're not
beside me."
  I felt him move to her side.
  "Lance, don't."
  "Come on, Sis. Don't be like that."
  I tilted my chin, opened my eyes just enough
to peek through the layers of lashes, see two forms
merging at the foot of my bed.
  "Don't," Alison said again, this time with less
conviction, as Lance, standing behind her, reached around
to caress her breasts.
  I felt a gasp building in my throat,
held my breath to keep it from escaping my lips.
  "I saw you, you know," Alison continued as
Lance began nuzzling her neck. "Flirting with
Denise. Don't think I didn't see you."
  "What's the matter, Sis? You jealous?"
  "This isn't right," Alison said as he twisted
her around, kissed her right on the lips.
  "We're gonna burn in hell," he
agreed, kissing her again.
  I buried my face in the pillow, smothered the
fresh scream building in the pit of my stomach.
  "Not here," Alison said huskily, taking her
brother's hand, leading him from the room.
  I waited until I knew they were gone before
opening my eyes. were they still in the house, making
love on the downstairs sofa? In the next
room? I listened for sounds of their voices,
fearful of what other noises I might
hear. I lay there in the semidarkness for what
felt like an eternity, afraid to move, the first
moon of the new year filtering through the ivory
curtains. I was trapped inside my own house,
tied to my bed by invisible wires. There was no
escape.
  I closed my eyes, opened them again, found
myself staring into the blank eyes of the ladies' head
vase that sat on my night table, the vase
Alison had bought me for Christmas. Keeping
an eye on me, I thought, and might have laughed
had I not been so sickened by everything I'd seen.
I pushed myself into a sitting position, determined
to make a run for it.
  But even as I watched myself in my mind's
eye, climbing out of bed and getting dressed,
phoning for a taxi, getting the hell out of my own
house, I knew I didn't have the strength to go
anywhere. My arms and legs were useless. They
hung from my sides like anchors. My head felt
as if some insane dentist had pumped it full of
Novocain. Already I was losing consciousness,
drifting in and out of reality. I knew I had
only seconds left before I fell into whatever
void was waiting.
  I threw myself off the bed, my arms flailing
about madly, as if I were still in the ocean and unseen
hands were pressing into the top of my head, holding
me down. My hand smacked against the lamp on the
night table, and I heard something shatter. The sound
bounced off the walls, whizzed by my ear like a
bullet. I looked toward the door, expecting
Alison and her brother to come bursting through,
restrain me. But no one came, and I
collapsed back into bed, my strength gone. I
closed my eyes, abandoned myself to whatever fate
had in store.

  I awoke to bright sunshine and the sound of
Alison's voice. "Good morning,
sleepyhead. Happy New Year!"
  She advanced toward me, wearing a pink sweater
over matching pink jeans, looking like a long stick
of cotton candy. I pushed myself up in bed,
trying to clear my head, the events of the night before
coming to me in fits and starts, like a videotape
skipping in midreel.
  What had happened last night?
  "What time is it?"
  "It's after twelve. I guess I
should have said, "Good afternoon."" Alison
deposited a tray of freshly squeezed
orange juice, hot coffee, and croissants
across my lap. "Breakfast in bed," she said, then
laughed. "Or lunch. Whatever. The
croissants are nice and fresh. Lance went
to Publix."
  Lance poked his head around Alison's shoulder.
"How you feeling?"
  I stared at him, unable to speak. Had he
tried to drown me in the ocean last night or had
he saved my life? Had I really seen him and
Alison embracing at the foot of my bed? Had
I dreamed the whole damn thing? Was that possible?
  "Oh, no!" Alison cried suddenly.
"What happened here?" Alison knelt beside the
bed and began picking up the broken pieces of the
china head vase she'd bought me for Christmas.
"What happened?" she repeated, trying to fit the
pieces back together.
  I fought to remember, the back of my hand tingling
with the memory of having smacked against something the
previous night.
  "Maybe we can fix it."
  "Don't bother," Lance said, removing the
shards from Alison's hands. "Couldn't have happened
to a nicer girl, if you ask me." He shuddered
visibly. "These ladies give me the
creeps." Then he carried the pieces out of the
room.
  "Terry, are you all right?" Alison asked.
"Terry? Is something wrong?"
  "I know," I said to her under my breath.
  "Know what?"
  "I saw you," I continued boldly. "Last
night. With your brother."
  "Oh, God," Alison said as Lance
returned to the room, smiling broadly, one
broken lady easily disposed of.
  Was I next?
  "So, has Terry recovered from her excellent
adventure?"
  "She saw us," Alison said, her voice a
monotone.
  "Saw us?" The smile slowly faded from his
face as his eyes moved rapidly between us.
  "I saw you kissing," I said flatly.
  "You saw us kissing?" The smile returned
to Lance's eyes, played with the corners of his
lips. "What else did you see?"
  "Enough." I pushed the breakfast tray
aside, climbed out of bed, not sure whether my
legs would hold me. Immediately, something stabbed at
the bottom of my foot. I cried out, fell
back against the bed, hugged my knee to my chest,
saw a small sliver of china sticking out from between
my toes.
  "Looks like the lady bites," Lance said,
taking my injured foot in his hands.
  "Don't," I said, as Alison had said last
night, weakly, without much conviction. Alison
ran from the room, returned seconds later with a
wet towel.
  "Be still," Lance said. "Relax."
  I watched as he gently plucked the piece of
china from my foot, drawing only a drop of
blood, then patting it away with the towel.
  "Seems like I'm always coming to your rescue,"
he said without a trace of irony.
  I tried to remove my foot from his grasp, but
he held on tight. "I'd like you to leave."
  "Please, Terry," Alison said from somewhere
beside me. "I can explain."
  "I don't need any explanations."
  "Please. It's not what you think."
  "And what do I think?" Again I tried
to remove my leg from Lance's sturdy hands, but his
fingers had begun expertly massaging the sole of
my foot, and I realized with no small degree
of shock that I didn't want him to stop.
  "You think he's my brother," Alison said.
  Lance's knuckles moved to the base of my
toes, kneading my calloused flesh,
manipulating my muscles as easily as
Alison manipulated my emotions.
  "He's not my brother."
  My husband used to give the best foot
massages. It's probably why I married
him. Certainly it would explain why I kept
going back to him. He had the best hands. Once
he started massaging my feet, I was a goner.
  "He's your husband," I said, my voice
free of inflection. Why hadn't I realized it
earlier? Why had it taken me so long to figure
out what should have been obvious all along?
  "Ex-husband," Alison qualified.
  "Lance Palmay," he said, extending his right
hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
  I ignored him, concentrated on Alison.
"You lied to me," I said, stating the
obvious. "Why?"
  "I'm so sorry. I didn't know what else
to do."
  "Have you ever heard of the truth?" I reclaimed
my foot from Lance's grasp, pushed past him
toward my closet, where I threw a robe over
my nightgown, drew it tight around me. Never
had I felt more vulnerable, more exposed.
  "I wanted to tell you the truth," Alison
protested, "but I was afraid."
  "Afraid of what exactly?"
  "Afraid you'd think I was some stupid,
weak-willed bimbo who falls to pieces every time
her no-good ex-husband shows up."
  "Hey--" Lance interrupted.
  "I wanted you to think well of me. I wanted
you to like me."
  "By lying to me?"
  "It was stupid. I can see that now. But--"
  "It seemed like a good idea at the time?" Lance
interjected.
  "Shut up, Lance."
  "You're sure that's his real name?" I said.
  Alison looked stricken, as if I'd
slapped her across the face. "I phoned him after
Thanksgiving. You were after me to call my
family. ..."
  "You're saying this is my fault?"
  "No, of course not. I'm just saying that in a
moment of weakness, I called Lance and told him
where I was. I didn't know he'd come
to Florida. Or maybe I did. I don't
know. I only know that when he showed up at my
door, I couldn't help myself. He promised
he'd only stay a few days. And I didn't
want to upset you. I knew your rules about no
roommates. I knew how skittish you were.
Skittish," she repeated softly, smiling
hopefully at me. "Good word."
  I felt a familiar tug, the unwanted
urge to take her in my arms and reassure her
everything was going to be all right. God, I was as
bad where she was concerned as she was with regard to her
former husband. If he was her former husband, I
thought, wondering why I should believe anything she
said. Alison changed stories as easily as she
changed clothes. What made me think she
wasn't lying to me now?
  "So I lied to you," Alison continued, as if
reading my thoughts, "told you Lance was my
brother. It just seemed easier that way."
  "You don't have a brother," I stated more than
asked.
  "No, I do," Alison said quickly. "I
do," she repeated unnecessarily, looking toward
the floor, as if afraid to let me see her
face.
  "There's something you're not telling me."
  "No. Nothing. I've told you everything."
  She was lying. I knew it, and she knew I
did. It was the reason she couldn't look me in the
eye.
  "I thought we were friends," I said weakly, not
sure what else to say.
  "We are friends," she pleaded.
  "Friends don't lie to each other. They don't
keep secrets. They don't have hidden
agendas."
  Alison's eyes shot to mine. For a second
it looked as if she were about to break down and tell
me everything, reveal the whole ugly truth of what
she was really up to, confess her part in last
night's mayhem, unravel the entire charade.
But she said nothing, and the moment passed.
  "I think you should leave now," I told her.
  She nodded, turned to go. "I'll call you
later."
  "No, you don't understand. I want you to leave
--for good."
  "What?"
  "I want you out of here."
  "You can't mean that."
  "Hey, Terry," Lance interjected.
"Don't you think you're overreacting?"
  "Was I overreacting last night when you
tried to kill me?" I shot back.
  "What!" Lance said.
  "What!" Alison echoed.
  "What the hell are you talking about?" The look
Lance gave me was equal parts amusement and
fury. "You're out of your fucking mind. You know
that, lady?"
  "I want you out of my cottage," I
insisted. "Out of my life."
  "No, please," Alison cried.
  "I'll give you till the end of the day," I
said.
  "But that's so unfair."
  "I think the law says you've got to give us
at least a month's notice," Lance
said lazily. "And I don't know about you,
Terry, but I don't react too well
to ultimatums."
  "If you don't leave, I'll call the
police. How's that for an ultimatum?"
  "Pretty lame," Lance said. "Think you
better call your lawyer too."
  "Lance will be gone within the hour," Alison said
forcefully.
  "What!" Lance exclaimed. "You can't be
serious."
  "Just go," Alison told him, her eyes never
leaving mine. "Now."
  Lance shifted uneasily from one foot to the
other, his hands slapping his sides in frustration.
Then he stormed from the room,
  "If you could just give me a few days to find
another place," Alison said softly, "I
promise I'll be out of your hair, if that's
what you still want."
  In truth, I didn't know what I wanted.
Part of me wanted Alison gone immediately; part of
me wanted her to stay. I said nothing for several
seconds, waiting for her to fill in the empty
spaces, the way she usually did, to offer even a
semiplausible explanation I could latch onto.
Even after everything that had happened, I was still
looking for a reason to believe her.
  "Fine." I spit out the word as if it were a
piece of rotten meat. "You have till the
weekend. If you're not gone by then, I'll call
the authorities."
  "Thank you." Alison breathed a deep sigh
of relief. Then she spun around, her face
disappearing inside a blur of strawberry curls.
I heard her footsteps retreating down the
stairs, the kitchen door opening and slamming shut.
I watched her from the bedroom window as she ran
toward the cottage, then stopped, turned back
toward the house. I thought I saw her smile.



  I didn't see Alison at all during the
next several days. Nor did I see Lance,
although I doubted he was really gone. I knew the
matter was far from resolved, that they weren't
likely to leave empty-handed, not with all the time and
effort invested in me so far. I lay in bed that first
night trying to figure out how much of what
Alison had told me was true, wondering where the
lies ended and the truth began, if indeed there'd
been any truth to anything she'd said. Ever.
  What difference did the truth make anyway?
  Looking back, I see that Alison's great
gift was her uncanny ability to make me doubt
myself, to make me question what was beyond question, to make me
see things that weren't really there.
  To not see things that were.
  In spite of everything, I had to keep reminding
myself that Alison was not the sweet young woman
I'd welcomed into my life, but a liar, a con
artist, and quite possibly, a cold-blooded
killer. I wasn't her friend--I was her target,
a carefully selected one at that. And judging
by what I'd read in her journal, I wasn't the
first unsuspecting woman she'd duped. What had
happened to the others?
  And why?
  That was the part I couldn't get past, the part that
kept me awake at night, tossing restlessly
back and forth in my bed. Not when Alison and her
cohorts might strike again, but why?
  Why?
  What was she after?
  What do you want from me? I should have demanded
of her. Why did you seek me out, work so hard
to make me your friend? What is it you think I have
that's of any value?
  What was the point?
  What do you mean? would have come her inevitable
response, green eyes wide with confusion,
expressive hands aflutter. I don't know
what you're talking about.
  In my lighter moments, I told myself I was
out of danger, that by confronting Alison and ordering
her to vacate the premises, by threatening to call the
police if she wasn't gone by the end of the week,
I'd effectively put the kibosh to her little
scheme. But in my darker moments, I
recognized that the only thing I'd accomplished was
a slight delay, a modest retooling of her
plans, that Alison was simply biding her time,
waiting for just the right moment to come at me again.
  At any rate, several days passed without
further incident. Alison made no further
attempts to talk to me; the white Lincoln
disappeared from my street. I went to work, tended
to my patients, and almost managed to convince myself that
the worst was over.
  On the morning of January 4, I was getting
ready for work when the phone rang. I knew that
Josh had returned from California the night before,
and I'd been eagerly anticipating his call
all morning. I glanced in the mirror over my
dresser, trying to see myself through Josh's eyes,
noting the cut Alison had given me was growing out
and I was in need of a trim. Impatiently pushing
my hair behind my ears, I pinched my cheeks
to give them needed color, then walked to the phone
and, not wanting to appear too anxious, waited one
more ring before answering it. "Hello," I said
huskily, as if freshly roused from sleep, although
I'd been up for hours.
  "Erica says to wish you a happy New
Year," the voice announced.
  "Go to hell!" I shot back, about to hang up
the phone.
  "I believe you have something that belongs to her," the
voice continued, undeterred.
  "I don't know what you're talking about."
  "I think you do."
  "You're wrong. I have no idea what you
want."
  "She'd like it back."
  "Like what back?" I felt the line go dead in
my hands. "Wait! What do you mean, I have
something of Erica's? Wait!" I continued shouting
long after I knew the caller had hung up.
  What could I possibly have of Erica's?
  The necklace, I realized with a start. The
heart-shaped pendant Alison had found beneath her
bed and worn proudly around her neck, until
I'd bought her one all her own. But it couldn't be
worth more than a few hundred dollars, and
Erica owed me far more than that in back rent.
Erica had never struck me as the sentimental
type. But then I was a lousy judge of character, I
reminded myself. Look how easily I'd allowed
myself to be duped by Alison.
  My mind was racing, thoughts crashing into one
another, like ocean waves. What was Erica's
connection to Alison? Had Erica left behind more
than the necklace, something valuable she'd hidden
inside the cottage? And was that something the reason
Alison had shown up on my doorstep, gone out
of her way to befriend me? What did she think I
had?
  "Good God," I said, my head swimming as
I grabbed my purse and ran down the
stairs and out the front door. Did I really
think Alison had any intention of vacating my
cottage by the end of the week? That she and Lance would
depart empty-handed?
  I stood paralyzed by the side of my car, not
knowing what to do, knowing only that time was running out, that
I couldn't continue to stay in my house, that I had
to talk to someone.
  I had to talk to Josh.
  I returned to the house, full of fresh
resolve, locking the door behind me and marching
purposefully to the phone in the kitchen. I
punched in the familiar numbers, then waited
while the phone rang once, twice, three
times, before someone picked it up.
  "Fourth-floor nurses' station. Margot
speaking."
  "Margot, it's Terry." There was desperation in
my voice, as if someone had pushed it from a high
ledge.
  "What's the matter? You sound awful."
  "I don't think I can come in today."
  "Don't tell me you've got that horrible
flu bug that's making the rounds."
  "I don't know. Maybe. Can you manage
without me?"
  "Guess we'll have to. Don't want you coming
in sick."
  "I'm so sorry. It just hit all of a
sudden."
  "That's how these things work."
  "I felt fine last night," I
embellished, knowing I should stop while I was
ahead, that the more lies I told, the more likely
I was to trip myself up. Wasn't that what had
happened to Alison?
  "Well, get back into bed, take two
Tylenol, and drink plenty of fluids. You know
the routine."
  "I feel really bad about this."
  "Just feel better," Margot instructed.
  I raced up the stairs to my bedroom, where I
swapped my nurse's uniform for a pair of navy
pants and matching jersey. I packed the uniform,
along with another change of clothes and some underwear,
into the large overnight bag I kept at the back
of my closet. I wasn't sure how long
I'd be gone, or where I'd be staying, but one thing
was now crystal clear--I couldn't stay here.
  Would Josh insist I stay at his
place? I wondered, throwing in my yellow
dress with the plunging neckline, in case he
suggested somewhere nice for dinner. Or maybe
I'd stay in one of those funky little art deco
hotels in South Beach. Maybe Josh would stay
with me, I projected giddily, opening the
bottom drawer of my dresser and removing the
slinky, lavender nightgown Lance had given me
for Christmas. I tossed it into the bag, thinking
how ironic it would be to wear a gift from my
would-be killer to a tryst with my would-be lover,
recognizing I was beyond giddy and was now verging on
outright hysteria.
  I took a series of long, deep breaths,
trying to calm myself down. I knew I was behaving
foolishly, even irrationally. But it was as if, in
finally deciding to take action, I'd unleashed a
part of me I'd repressed for far too long--the
part that was determined to enjoy life, take risks,
have fun. The part that was tired of being surrounded
by death. The part that wanted to live.
  I finished packing, debated whether to call
Josh, tell him I was coming, then decided
to surprise him instead. I told myself I
didn't have time for unnecessary phone calls, but
maybe I was just afraid he'd tell me not
to come, that he was too busy to see me. And I
couldn't risk that. I needed Josh to be there for
me.
  I was at the car when I realized I'd left
my nurse's shoes on the floor by the bed. I
knew I'd need them if I chose to return
to work the next day. So I tossed my overnight
bag into the backseat and reluctantly returned
to the house, taking the stairs two at a time. I
was doubled over and gasping for air when I reached my
bedroom and saw my shoes standing by the foot of the
bed, as if waiting for me. I was leaving the room
when a cursory glance out the bedroom window
revealed Alison emerging from the cottage.
  I raced downstairs, coming to an abrupt halt
at my front door, fighting to catch my breath.
I couldn't appear panicky. It was imperative
everything appear normal. Alison couldn't
suspect I was poised to take flight.
  "Going somewhere?" she asked, waiting by the side
of my car, her head tilting toward the overnight
bag on the backseat.
  "I joined a gym. Thought I'd work out before
going to the hospital." I held up my
nurse's shoes for added credibility.
  She seemed to accept my explanation.
"Terry--"
  "I'm going to be late." I opened the car
door, threw my shoes inside, walked around to the
driver's side of the car.
  "Please, I need to talk to you."
  "Really, Alison, I don't see the
point."
  "Just hear me out. Then, if you still want me
to leave, I will. I promise."
  "I've already rented out the cottage," I
told her, watching her eyes widen in alarm.
"A nurse at the hospital. She's moving in
on Saturday."
  Alison's head snapped toward the cottage.
A gasp caught in her throat.
  "Look," I backtracked, suddenly
afraid she might try to restrain me if she
thought she'd run out of time. "If you really want
to talk, we'll do it when I get home from work."
  Relief flooded Alison's face. "That'd
be great."
  "It might be quite late."
  "That's fine. I'll wait up."
  "Okay." I climbed into the car and started the
engine. "I'll see you later."
  "Later," she agreed, tapping on the hood
of the car as I backed out of the driveway.
  Later, I thought.

  I'm not sure why I chose I-95 over the
turnpike. Always take the turnpike, I
recalled Myra Wylie's advice to her son.
You get in an accident on 95 and you can be
stuck all day.
  Which was exactly what was happening, I
realized, opening my window and craning my neck
to see what was causing the prolonged delay. But
all I saw were long lines of cars, like brightly
colored snakes, stalled and going nowhere.
"God, get me out of here," I whispered,
flicking the dials of the car radio, trying to find
a traffic report. "I don't have time for this."
  I heard Alan Jackson singing about lost
love on one station, and Janet Jackson singing
about finding it on another. Maybe it was the same
love, I thought, a laugh catching in my throat.
Maybe Alan and Janet Jackson were brother
and sister. Or husband and wife. Just like
Alison and Lance. I laughed out loud, catching
the worried glance of the driver in the car beside me.
  "I am not going to think about Alison," I
whispered through barely parted lips, then flipped
to another station, listening as a male announcer
swapped inane banter with his female counterpart.
  "So, Cathy, how many New Year's
resolutions have you broken so far?"
  "I never make New Year's resolutions,
Dave."
  "Why, Cathy?"
  "Because I always break them."
  I flipped to another station. "A four-car
collision just south of the exit to Broward Boulevard
is holding up traffic on I-95," the
newscaster announced with the practiced calm of
someone used to detailing disasters. "Ambulances are
on the scene--"
  "Great." I turned off the radio, not wanting
to hear more. A four-car collision, complete with
ambulances and police cars, meant I wasn't
going anywhere for some time. There was nothing I could do
about it, so there was no point in getting upset about
it. Too bad I hadn't packed a book, I
thought, swiveling around to check the backseat.
Maybe there was a magazine on the floor. ...
  That's when I saw him.
  "Oh, God."
  He was several cars behind me, in the row to my
right, and after the initial shock, I told myself I
must be mistaken, that my eyes were playing tricks
on me again, that the sunlight and my overactive
imagination had combined to produce an image that
couldn't possibly be real, that when I looked
again, the image would be gone.
  Except that when I looked again, he was still there.
  Tall, even sitting down, his skinny frame
was hunched over the wheel of his car, small brown
eyes peering over the top of his strong, hawklike
nose. He was staring straight ahead, as if
unaware of my existence. Was it possible he
didn't know I was there? That our being on the same
stretch of highway at the same time was nothing but a
strange coincidence?
  And then he leaned forward, rested his chin on the
top of his steering wheel, and turned his gaze
purposefully to mine, his narrow lips creasing
into a slow smile. Why, Terry Painter,
I could almost hear him say. As I live and
breathe.
  "Shit!" I cursed out loud, watching as
K.c. emerged from his car and sauntered lazily
between the intervening cars toward me, his fingers hooked
into the pockets of his tight jeans. What was I
going to do? What could I do? Make a run for
it? Where would I go? Damn it! Why didn't I
have a cell phone? I was probably the only
person left on the planet who didn't own
one, who hated their mounting proliferation, their
intrusion into every facet of our lives. Was I the
only person who bristled at the sight of
teenagers walking down the street, phones
dangling from their ears like earrings, the person on the
other end of the line more important than the person
right beside them? I loathed the selfishness, the weird
antisocialness of it all. Besides, it wasn't as
if I got that many calls, I thought, as a shadow
fell across the side window of my car.
  I heard a tapping at my head and turned
to see K.c. staring at me through the tinted glass.
He signaled for me to roll down my window, and
I complied. It was unlikely he'd try to harm
me here, I reasoned, in the middle of a traffic
jam, with so many witnesses.
  "Well, well, well," he said. That was
all. Well, well, well.
  "Do you think it's a good idea to get out of your
car?"
  He shrugged. "Doesn't look like we're
going anywhere."
  I nodded, turned away. "Where are you
headed?" I asked, not looking at him, pretending
to be concentrating on the traffic ahead.
  "Nowhere in particular. You?"
  "Nowhere in particular," I repeated.
  "Thought you might be going to see Josh," he
said, catching me by surprise. I'd forgotten
they'd met at my house over Thanksgiving.
  I noticed him looking at my overnight bag
on the backseat, ignored the snide grin that
crept into his eyes, as if he could see the
silk lavender nightgown inside.
  "So, I take it you're all recovered from your
little New Year's Eve swim?"
  A shiver traveled the length of my spine.
What exactly was K.c.'s role in all this?
"Yes, I'm fine now. Thank you."
  "You had us pretty worried."
  "I'm fine."
  "Yeah, well, you should be more careful.
Wouldn't want anything to happen to you, would we?"
  "I don't know. Would you?"
  His grin spread from his eyes to his lips. He
said nothing.
  "Are you following me?" I demanded suddenly.
  The grin overtook his entire face. "Why would
I be following you?"
  "You tell me."
  He shook his head. "You're imagining things,
Terry." Then he straightened up, slapped his
open palm on the side of my car and took a
step back, as all around me, cars began inching
forward.
  I heard the approaching roar of a
motorcycle, held my breath as first one, then
two more motorbikes whizzed by. My eyes
followed them as they weaved in and out of the stalled
traffic, shiny black helmets hiding their
riders' faces. Was the man in the red bandanna
among them?
  "Be sure to give Josh my regards,"
K.c. called as he returned to his car.
Minutes later, when I finally worked up the nerve
to check in my rearview mirror, I could still see
him, sitting behind the wheel of his car, watching me.



  We crawled along I-95 for the better part
of an hour. By the time we reached Broward
Boulevard, the four cars involved in the accident
had been moved to the side of the road and the
ambulances had already gone. Judging by the mangled
remains of two of the automobiles, one a bright
red Porsche that now resembled nothing so much as a
squashed tomato, and a puddle of what appeared
to be blood beside one of the tires, I suspected
serious injuries, possibly even
fatalities. I wondered briefly whether any
of the victims would eventually find their way to my
ward at Mission Care, prayed we'd all be
spared. Several police cars remained on the
scene, their officers trying to persuade motorists
not to waste time gawking, but, of course, everyone
did. We couldn't help ourselves.
  "Keep moving," one of the officers directed as
I again checked my rearview mirror. Immediately,
K.c. waved his fingers at me in greeting, as
if he knew I was looking at him, as if he'd
been watching all along, waiting for our
eyes to meet.
  On impulse, I lowered my window,
beckoned the policeman forward.
  "Keep moving," he repeated, louder this time,
his large hands waving the traffic forward.
  "Please, can you help me? I'm being
followed," I ventured timidly, trying to make
out the features beneath the officer's protective
helmet, seeing only his dark glasses and the
impatient set of his jaw.
  "Sorry, ma'am," the policeman said, his
eyes darting back and forth among the cars, clearly
oblivious to what I'd said. "I'm afraid I
have to ask you to move along."
  I nodded, raised the window, glanced into the
rearview mirror in time to see K.c. shaking his
head and laughing, as if he understood what I'd
tried to do and was amused by my audacity. Or my
stupidity.
  What had I hoped to accomplish? Under the
circumstances, had I really expected the officer
to listen to me, let alone take my concerns
seriously? And even if he had, what could he have
done? Questioned K.c. on the spot, thereby causing
further traffic jams and longer delays? Then
what? Would he have arrested him? Highly doubtful.
At best, he would have hauled both of us off to the
station. A lot of good that would have done me.
  Excuse me, sir, but this woman claims
you were following her.
  Following her? Terry, did you tell the
officer I was following you?
  Do you two know each other?
  We're friends, Officer. She had me over
to her house for Thanksgiving dinner.
  Is this true, ma'am?
  Yes, but ...
  To tell you the truth, Officer, she's been
acting very strangely lately. All her friends are
worried about her.
  I felt the officer's judgmental nod. Still,
I reminded myself, no matter how strong
K.c.'s denials, my complaint would be a
matter of record. At the very least, it might
buy me some time. Again I lowered my window,
waved the officer over. "Please, Officer, can you
help me?"
  "Is there a problem, ma'am?" He leaned in
toward me, removing his dark glasses with an
impatient hand.
  I saw that he was young, younger than I, maybe
even younger than K.c. I also heard by his
tone, by the way he said "ma'am," that he would have a
hard time believing a young man like K.c. would
waste his time following a middle-aged woman like
me. The thought now occurred to me that I would be
dismissed as a troublemaker, that by mouthing off
prematurely, I would effectively destroy
any credibility I might need in the future.
No, I decided, I would accomplish nothing
by crying wolf. And I would miss seeing Josh,
who was my only real hope. "Was anybody
hurt?" I asked.
  "'Fraid so," the officer said, pushing his
sunglasses back across the bridge of his nose,
backing away.
  "I'm a nurse. If there's anything I can do
..."
  But the policeman wasn't interested in my
offer of help. "It's been taken care of" came
his curt reply. "Keep moving, please."
  The traffic thinned out after that, and by the time we
reached Hollywood Boulevard, it was back to its
normal pace. I picked up my speed,
zigzagging between lanes whenever possible, trying
to escape K.c., but he remained stubbornly
on my tail. In an effort to shake him, I
almost took the exit at Miami Shores, then
decided against it. I didn't know the area, and if
I was going to try to lose K.c., it was
probably better to do it somewhere I wouldn't get
lost myself.
  He was still behind me when I transferred onto
U.s. 1, heading south. Somewhere between Coconut
Grove and Coral Gables, where Josh lived,
K.c. vanished. This wasn't due to any clever
maneuvering on my part. On the contrary--one
minute he was behind me; the next minute he was
gone.
  I checked my rearview mirror at each
stoplight. I saw a woman in a black
Accord talking animatedly on her cell
phone, a woman in a cream-colored minivan
trying to subdue a backseat of unruly children, and a
man picking his nose in a green BMW.
  K.c. and his maroon-colored Impala were
nowhere to be seen. Which didn't mean he wasn't
lurking about, I realized, repeatedly swiveling
around in my seat, scanning my surroundings for
anyone remotely suspicious. Both
the make and color of K.c.'s car told me it
was likely a rental. Again, I wondered how he
fit into Alison's plan.
  The sound of a car horn brought me back to the here
and now. The light had turned green and I was being
urged forward. I continued driving north along
U.s. 1, repeatedly checking my rearview
mirror, twisting around in my seat at each
subsequent red light, but it appeared my efforts
had been successful. "I lost him," I
announced triumphantly, turning to the car next
to me in time to see a well-dressed, middle-aged
man jam his index finger high inside his left
nostril. "Wonderful," I said, entering the town
of Coral Gables and continuing past the grand,
geometrically designed entertainment and shopping
complex known as Paseos, in the heart of the tidy
Miami suburb. I deliberately avoided the
famous Miracle Mile District, turning
left, then right, then right again, looking for Sunset
Place. I took several wrong turns, found
myself back where I started, and almost had a heart
attack when I saw a maroon-colored
Impala pull up behind me. But one peek at the
wizened, gray-haired man stooped over the steering
wheel quickly brought my heart rate back
to normal. I laughed at my paranoia and shook
my head, continuing on.
  Eventually I found myself on the right street,
albeit at the wrong end. Sunset Place was
typical of many streets in the area, a palm-
lined avenue full of small Spanish-style
bungalows in all the colors of the rainbow. Josh
lived with his children at number 1044, a neat,
white house with a sloping brown-tile roof, and a
beautiful front garden filled with coral and
white impatiens, as well as a variety of other
flowers whose blooms I recognized, but whose names
always eluded me.
  I parked on the street directly across from
Josh's house, then sat for several minutes
trying to decide my next move. How had I
come this far without a plan? What was I doing, showing
up at his door, uninvited and unannounced, at
just after one o'clock on a Friday afternoon?
  My stomach was rumbling as I opened the car
door and climbed out. Black rain clouds
hovered ominously overhead, like bruises on an
otherwise blue sky, and I debated whether I
should go somewhere for lunch before seeing Josh,
then decided to wait. Maybe Josh would suggest
lunch at his favorite neighborhood caf`e.
  Unless he wasn't alone, I thought, stopping
in the middle of the road. School didn't start
till Monday. It was entirely possible his children
would be at home. What was I going to say to them?
Hi, it's your aunt Terry, come for an
extended stay?
  And what if Josh wasn't there? I asked
myself, returning to the sidewalk. His car wasn't
in the driveway, so it was entirely possible that,
despite his having just returned from his vacation, he
was already off visiting clients. Or maybe he was
in Delray seeing his mother, I realized with a start.
It was Friday, after all. Didn't he always
visit his mother on Fridays? Of course he was in
Delray! What a fool I was, coming all this
way when all I'd had to do was go to work as usual.
What was the matter with me? What in the world had I
been thinking?
  And then the wood-paneled front door
to Josh's house opened, and suddenly Josh was standing
in the doorway, looking tanned and unbearably
handsome in a dark, short-sleeved shirt and faded
denim jeans. He looked up and down the street,
glanced at the increasingly menacing clouds, and was
about to go back inside when his gaze drifted across
the street toward me. "Terry?" he mouthed in
obvious surprise, crossing the street in
several long, quick strides. "It is you!"
  "Josh, hello."
  "Has something happened to my mother? Is she all
right? What is it?" The questions toppled from his mouth
like a line of dominoes.
  "Nothing's happened to your mother. She's fine."
  "I talked to her less than an hour ago,"
he said as if I hadn't spoken.
  "Josh, your mother's fine."
  His shoulders relaxed, although tension still narrowed his
eyes. "Then I don't understand. What are you
doing here?"
  "I need to talk to you."
  "About my mother?"
  What was the matter with him? Hadn't I already
explained my visit had nothing to do with his mother?
"No, Josh. Your mother is doing remarkably
well for a woman with both cancer and heart disease.
She's been a little depressed lately, yes, but
that's pretty normal during the holiday season.
She'll bounce back. In fact,
I'm beginning to think she'll outlive us all."
  He smiled, the lines on his forehead releasing
slowly, like an elastic band. "Well, that's a
relief anyway. I've been feeling so
guilty these last weeks."
  "Nonsense," I said in my mother's voice,
before biting down on my tongue, allowing a softer
voice to emerge. "You weren't gone long enough
to feel guilty." I lay my hand on his arm,
trying to reassure him.
  He flinched, as if I'd burned him with a
match, and pulled away, coughing into his hand. He
stared in the direction of his open front door. Was
he thinking of inviting me inside or making a run
for the house? "Feel like a cup of coffee?" he
asked, surprising me with the sudden warmth of his
smile.
  "Coffee sounds good."
  Actually lunch sounded even better, but he
didn't suggest it, and since he already seemed
spooked by my showing up on his doorstep without
prior notice, I didn't want to appear
too presumptuous. Maybe we'd go for an
early dinner, I thought hopefully, as he led me
into the rose marble foyer.
  The interior of the house was surprisingly
spacious, consisting of one large common area that
encompassed living, dining, and family rooms.
The kitchen was at the back, as were two small
bedrooms. I caught only a brief glimpse
of the master bedroom suite at the front,
noticed the bed was unmade, and felt a slight
weakening of my knees. "Your home is
lovely," I remarked, leaning against the tan
ultrasuede of the living room sofa for support,
eyeing the clean lines of the modern, minimalist
furniture throughout the house.
  "How do you take your coffee?"
  "Black," I reminded him, a smile
masking my disappointment that he hadn't
remembered.
  "Be right back. Make yourself at home."
He disappeared into the kitchen.
  I crossed the white-tiled floor,
punctuated at irregular intervals by a series
of muted needlepoint rugs. The room
surprised me. It didn't seem to reflect the
Josh Wylie I knew at all. Not that I
knew him that well, but I'd always assumed that
Josh's tastes would be closer my own,
that they leaned more toward comfort than style, more toward
tradition than trends. I reminded myself that this was
the house Josh had shared with his former wife,
decided that the decor was probably more to her taste
than his. He just hadn't gotten around to changing
it, I concluded. Perhaps out of respect for his
children's feelings.
  The walls were white and largely bare. A few
unimpressive lithographs hung at either
side of the dining room table, and a large abstract
painting of what looked to be a bowl of fruit
occupied the far wall of the family room. I
thought how nicely my own paintings would go in these
rooms, the lush flowers replacing the anemic
bowl of fruit, the unimaginative mirror by the
front door usurped by the girl with the large hat
on the beach.
  Why had Alison given me such an
expensive gift? I wondered suddenly, feeling
my stomach cramp, as if I'd been sucker
punched. I'd let my guard down for only a
fraction of a second, and Alison had used it
to sneak inside my head. Go away, I warned
her. You're not welcome in this house. I'm
safe here.
  Still, experience had shown me that once Alison
had her foot in the door, she was remarkably
difficult to dislodge. Thoughts of her now swirled
about my head: the first image of her in my
doorway; the magic way she'd twirled about the
cottage; her wondrous hair on my pillow as
she slept; Erica's necklace around her
neck; the necklace I'd given her at
Christmas to replace it. And all the gifts
she'd given me--the earrings, the head vase, the
painting. So extravagant! Had she paid for it
at all, or had Denise simply removed it from
her aunt's inventory? And what exactly was
Denise's part in all this? Was it possible the
women had known each other all along, that Denise
Nickson and Erica Hollander were two pieces
of the puzzle that was Alison Simms?
  You're a stupid, stupid girl, I
heard my mother say.
  "I hope the coffee's still good. It's been
brewing all morning," Josh announced,
returning to the room with two steaming mugs, coming
to an abrupt stop when he saw me. "Terry,
what's wrong? You look like you've just seen a
ghost."
  I raised my hands in the air, felt them
shake. I opened my mouth, but no words came.
Tears filled my eyes. Until this moment, I
hadn't realized how scared I really was, how
long I'd been denying my anxieties,
suppressing my fears, and how desperately
lonely I'd been and for how long. I was tired of
being brave, rational, and independent. I was none
of those things, and I couldn't survive this on my
own. I needed someone to stand beside me, someone
to protect me from harm. I needed Josh.
  It took all my resolve to keep from throwing
myself into his arms, to refrain from telling him what
was in my heart--how much I needed him, wanted
him, loved him. Yes, loved him, I realized,
catching my breath in my lungs, holding the words
tight against my chest, like smoke from a marijuana
cigarette. "Hold me," I whispered, my
voice a plea.
  Immediately, I felt Josh's arms around me, his
lips in my hair. "I'm sorry I haven't
called you," he was saying.
  "You've been away." I wiped the tears from
my eyes, raised my lips to his. "You're here
now."
  "I'm here now," he repeated, pressing his
lips to mine, lifting me into his arms and into the
air, carrying me toward the master bedroom, like
Clark Gable carrying Vivien Leigh, grappling
with my clothes as he fell on top of me across the
unmade bed.
  Except he did none of those things, said nothing
of the sort.
  While my imagination was busy sweeping me
into his arms and into his bed, he was already pulling out
of my arms and out of my reach.
  "Please," I heard myself say in a
desperate bid to hold on to him.
  "Terry, listen ..."
  "I'm so glad you're back. I've missed
you so much."
  "Oh, God. Terry, I owe you an
apology."
  "An apology? No. There's nothing
to apologize for." Please tell me there's
nothing to apologize for.
  "So much has happened," Josh said, retreating
to the other side of the glass table that held our
coffee. The steam from the mugs wafted into the still
air, like delicate streamers, creating a
scrim between us.
  "What do you mean? What's happened?"
  "I'm so sorry if I've misled you in any
way."
  "I don't understand. How have you misled me?"
  "I should have told you earlier. Actually, I
assumed my mother already had."
  "Told me what?"
  He lowered his head as if he were ashamed.
"Jan and I are back together."
  His words slammed against my ears. "What?"
  "Jan and I," he began, as if he actually
thought I hadn't heard him the first time.
  "When?" I interrupted, feeling sick to my
stomach.
  "Just before Christmas."
  "Before Christmas?" I echoed, as if only the
repetition of the words would make them sink in.
  "I wanted to tell you."
  "But you didn't."
  "I'm a coward. It was easier to just keep
canceling our dates. And, to be honest, I
wasn't sure if things would work out with Jan."
  "So, what are you saying? That you were using me as
backup, in case your reconciliation didn't
take?"
  "I didn't mean it that way."
  "How exactly did you mean it?"
  "The kids are so happy," he said after a
pause, as if this explained everything.
  A numbness was creeping steadily into my arms and
legs, buzzing about my head, like a pesky
mosquito. "So, Thanksgiving meant nothing
to you."
  "That's not true. Thanksgiving was wonderful."
  "The kiss ... kisses ... they were
meaningless."
  "They were beautiful."
  "But meaningless."
  Another pause, longer than the first. "Terry,
let's not do this."
  "Let's not do what?"
  "I'd like us to stay friends."
  "Friends don't lie to each other." Hadn't I
just said the same thing to Alison?
  "It was never my intention to lie." Then:
"Listen, I have a little something for you." He walked
quickly to the bedroom at the front of the house,
returned seconds later with a package wrapped
in bright blue foil. "I meant to give
it to you earlier." He dropped the package into my
hands.
  "What's this?"
  "I wanted to thank you again for taking such good
care of my mother."
  "Your mother." I felt a stab of humiliation so
deep I almost doubled over. "I take it she
knew you and Jan were back together?"
  "Why do you think she's been so depressed?"
  "She didn't tell me."
  "She's not too happy about it."
  "She's your mother. She'll come around."
  "Aren't you going to open your present?"
  I tore at the paper without enthusiasm. "A
journal," I said, turning it over in my hands,
thinking of Alison.
  "I wasn't sure if you kept one or not."
  "Guess I'll have to start."
  "I'm really sorry, Terry. I never meant
to hurt you." He broke off, looked toward the
front door.
  "Expecting company?" I asked coldly.
  "Jan and the kids are at the mall. They should be
home pretty soon." He looked anxiously
at his watch.
  "I guess your wife wouldn't be too happy
to find me here."
  "It would probably just confuse things."
  "Well, we certainly wouldn't want anyone
to be confused," I said, walking to the door. Had
I really expected him to protect me from
anyone?
  "Terry," he called after me.
  I stopped, turned around.
  Don't go. I need you. I'll find a
way out of this mess. I love you.
  "Do you think you might talk to my mother, try
to get her to understand? She loves you like a daughter.
I know she'd listen to you."
  Again I nodded, thinking this whole scene might be
funny if it weren't so mind-numbingly awful.
"I'll see what I can do."
  "Thank you."
  "Good-bye, Josh."
  "Take care of yourself."
  "I'll try," I said, closing the door behind
me.


                 24

  "Goddamn you, you stupid, stupid girl!"
I railed at myself in my mother's voice. "How
could you be so dumb? Have you no pride? No
self-respect? You're forty years old, for
God's sake. Have you learned nothing in all that
time? Do you know so little about men? Ha!" I
laughed, ignoring the not-so-furtive glances of
other drivers as I banged down on the steering
wheel, inadvertently blasting the horn. "Why
stop with men? You know nothing about anyone. There
isn't a worse judge of character in the entire world.
All someone has to do is show you a little kindness, the
tiniest bit of interest, and you can't do enough for them.
You open your house, you open your heart." You open
your legs, I continued silently, too ashamed
to say the words out loud, even in the closed confines
of my car. "A man takes you out for one measly
little lunch and already you have him marching down the aisle.
You're a stupid, stupid girl! You deserve
to be taken advantage of. You deserve to lose
everything. You're too damn stupid to live!"
  You're a stupid, stupid girl, I
heard my mother say.
  I thought of the unmade bed in Josh's bedroom.
Had he and Jan had sex this morning before she'd
left for the mall? were the crumpled sheets still
redolent with the scent of their lovemaking?
  "You're an idiot!" I shouted, my words
bouncing off the car windows to slap me in the face.
"People as stupid as you are don't deserve
to live."
  I looked into the rearview mirror, saw my
mother's eyes. I didn't need the sound of her
voice to know what she was thinking: How could you do
this? Her eyes burned into mine, until my own
eyes clouded over with so many tears she was no
longer visible. Who needed my mother's harsh
pronouncements when I was doing such a good job on
my own?
  "You're a stupid, stupid girl," I was still
repeating as I pulled into my driveway and
fumbled in my purse for my house keys. "You
deserve whatever happens to you." I checked the
street for Lance's white Lincoln. "Come and
get me," I cried at the quiet street, the
threat of rain still hovering overhead. "Game over.
I give up."
  But a quick glance told me Lance's car was
nowhere in sight. Probably had it
parked somewhere around the block, I decided, pushing
the tears away from my swollen eyes with the palms
of my hands, and running toward my front door,
repeatedly jabbing the key into the lock until I
heard the familiar click. The door fell
open.
  I marched into the living room, roughly pushing the
Christmas tree out of my way, then watched it
teeter precariously on its stand before falling against
the wall. Its ornaments dropped from its
branches and burst into delicate slivers of
silver and pink on the hard floor. "Should have
taken this stupid thing down days ago." Should never
have put it up in the first place. "Stupid,
stupid, stupid!" I ripped a handful of
festive bows from the tree's drying limbs, then
stomped on them. To imagine that Alison had ever
really liked me. To think Josh had ever really
cared. "Why would anyone want you? Why would
anyone want to be your friend, your lover?"
  My mother was right. She was always right. I was nothing
but a stupid, stupid girl. I deserved
everything that happened to me.
  How could you do this? my mother demanded, sneaking
up behind me as I entered the kitchen.
  "Go away," I cried. "Please, go away.
Leave me alone. You did your job well. I
don't need you anymore."
  From their lofty position, my mother's collection
of ladies' head vases sneered at my
na@ivet`e, my mother's words continuing to assault
me through their empty eyes and forced smiles. I
watched in horror as my arm suddenly shot out and
swept across the bottom shelf. Instantly the
line of china heads went flying in all
directions, like a swarm of angry bees. And then
the next row, and the next. I grabbed the head that
Alison had admired her first time in this room, the
one that resembled my mother, with her judgmental,
imperious gaze, like some snooty society
matron, looking down her nose at the rest of
us, Alison had said. I held the china head
high into the air, then flung it with all my might
across the room.
  It exploded upon contact with the wall, bursting
into the air like a firecracker. I laughed as
colorful shards of porcelain flew about the
room, covering the floor like confetti.
  "Terry!" a voice cried out from outside the
kitchen door. "Terry, what's
happening? Let me in. Please, let me
in!"
  The doorknob twisted frantically from side
to side. I took a second to catch my breath,
then pulled open the kitchen door.
  "My God, Terry!" Alison exclaimed,
a look of horror overwhelming her sweet
face. "What's going on here? What are you
doing? Look at you. You're bleeding."
  I raised a hand to my forehead, felt blood
on my fingers.
  "Terry, what's wrong? Did something
happen?"
  A wail, like an ancient chant, began
building in my gut, filling my mouth like water,
until it poured from my lips, spilled onto the
floor, and eventually flooded the room. I
fell to my knees, the sound of bottomless grief
bouncing off the walls, pieces of broken china
piercing my clothing, attaching themselves to my skin like
burrs.
  Instantly Alison was at my side, rocking
me in her arms, kissing my bloodied forehead,
begging me to tell her what was wrong. Almost
immediately, I felt myself being sucked back into her
orbit, falling under her spell. Even now, after
all the lies and deceit, after everything I knew
to be true, and everything I knew to be false,
I wanted nothing more than to believe she was truly
concerned about me, that no matter what was about
to happen, she wouldn't let any harm come my
way.
  "I'm such a fool," I whispered.
  "No. No, you're not a fool."
  "I am."
  "Tell me what happened. Please, Terry.
Tell me."
  I looked into her eyes. Through the thick veil
of my tears, I was almost able to convince myself of her
sincerity. Might as well tell her what
happened, I decided, wincing at the sight of my
blood on her lips. She and her friends could have a
good laugh about it later.
  "Josh is back with his wife," I said
simply, then almost laughed myself.
  "Oh, Terry, I'm so sorry."
  This time I actually did manage a
strangulated chuckle. "That's what he said."
  "You saw him?"
  I told her the whole pathetic story
of my visit with Josh, knowing K.c. had
probably already phoned her, informed her of my
plans. Had she been sitting by the window,
anxiously awaiting my return?
  "Bastard," she uttered now, giving my shoulder
a gentle squeeze.
  "No. It's my fault."
  "How is it your fault?"
  Because it always is, I thought but didn't say.
"Because I'm such a fool," I said instead.
  "If you're a fool, that must make me a
full-out moron."
  I laughed, as I did so often when I was with
her.
  "I mean, look at me and Lance, for heaven's
sake," Alison continued without prompting. "After
everything I've been through with him, after all my
resolutions about not letting him back into my
life, what do I do the first time he shows up at
my door? I invite him in. Hell, I
practically drag him inside the house. It
doesn't matter that I know he's no good for me,
that I know, sooner or later, he's going to break
my heart, screw things up, the way he always
does."
  "What things?" I interrupted.
  She shrugged sadly. "Things. Like he did with
you."
  I waited, feeling the tension in her arms,
wondering if she was about to open up, tell me
everything. But she didn't, and the moment passed.
  "Where is Lance?" I looked toward the back
door, half-expecting him to be standing there.
  "Gone."
  "Gone where?"
  Alison shook her head, her hair tickling
the side of my face. "Don't know. Don't
care."
  "You mean he's gone back to Chicago?"
  "Don't know," Alison said again. "I
guess he'll go wherever Denise tells him
to."
  "He's with Denise?"
  "Should have seen that one coming, I guess." She
hit her forehead with her hand, as if trying to knock
some sense into it. "What the hell--it was over
anyway. Finally. About time," she added for
emphasis.
  I nodded, although I doubted Lance was really
gone.
  "Men," she said, as if the word were a curse.
"Can't live with 'em--"
  "Can't shoot 'em," I said, recalling the
words to an old country song.
  "I'm so sorry about everything. If I could just
go back to the beginning, start over again ..."
  "What would you do?"
  "I wouldn't give Lance the time of day, that's for
sure. I'd run for the hills the minute I saw
him. Before it was too late."
  "It's never too late," I said, as if
pleading my case.
  "Do you really believe that?"
  I shrugged. Who knew what I believed
anymore? "I've been such a fool."
  Alison's eyes probed mine, as if she were
reaching into my soul. "He's the fool. How could
anyone not want you?"
  I studied her face for signs of ridicule,
but all I saw were fresh tears welling up in those
enormous green eyes. Her lips quivered as
I rubbed her tears away, the blood from my finger
staining her skin, like an errant brushstroke, as
I took her cheeks in my hands and drew her
face gently toward mine.
  I don't know what it was--fear, disillusion,
longing--maybe a combination of all those things--that
brought my lips so close to hers. I wondered
only briefly what I was doing, then closed my
mind to further thought as I shut my eyes, grazed
her lips with my own.
  Instantly, Alison pulled back, as Josh
had earlier. Out of my arms. Out of my reach.
"No! That's not what I meant. You don't
understand."
  "My God," I said, scrambling to my
feet, my hand covering my mouth. "My God,
oh my God."
  Alison was on her feet beside me. "It's
all right, Terry. Please, it was a misunderstanding.
It's all my fault."
  "What have I done?" I stared down at all the
shattered women at my feet, at their lost
earrings and broken strands of pearls, pieces of
their smiles mixed with stiff strands of their hair.
All the king's horses, and all the king's men,
I thought, seeing my reflection in Alison's
horrified eyes, knowing we were all broken beyond
repair, that nothing could be done to put any of us
back together again. "I have to get out of
here," I cried, fleeing the carnage, racing for the
front door.
  Alison was right behind me. "Terry, wait!
Let me come with you."
  "No, please. Just leave me alone. Leave
me alone." I was in my car before she could stop
me, the doors locked, the engine running, the car
in reverse, my foot on the gas.
  "Terry, please, come back."
  I backed out of the driveway and onto the
street, mowing over the grass of the corner lot and
almost colliding with Bettye McCoy and her
stupid dogs two blocks away. In
response, she gave me the finger and called me
a name, although it was my mother's voice I heard.
  I drove through the streets of Delray for the
better part of an hour, drawing comfort from the little
seaside town that had somehow managed to retain its
quaint, thriving downtown without falling prey to the
towering office buildings and ugly strip malls of
most of Florida's older cities. I drove
past the small, old homes of the historic marina
district, past the newer oceanfront condominiums
and luxury estates along the coast, then doubled
back, headed for the gated communities, retirement
enclaves, and country clubs that existed west of the
city limits. I drove until my legs were
stiff and my hands felt welded to the steering wheel.
I drove until the dark black clouds
spreading above my head exploded in a thunderous
rage, flooding the thoroughfares with sheets of
angry rain. Then I pulled the car over to the
side of the road and quietly watched the rain as it
pounded against my windshield, an eerie calm
settling over me, like a warm blanket. My
tears stopped. My head cleared. And I was no
longer afraid.
  I knew exactly what I had to do.

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled my car
into the parking lot of Mission Care and ran through the
continuing downpour into the lobby, shaking the water from
my hair as I headed for the stairwell. I kept
my head down, not wanting anyone to see me. I
was supposed to be in bed with the flu after all, not
gallivanting around in the rain. Besides, my visit
was personal, not professional. There was no
reason for anyone to know I was there.
  I climbed the steps to the fourth floor,
stopping at the landing to catch my breath before
cracking open the door and peeking my head around.
No one was there, so I proceeded cautiously
down the corridor. I was halfway down the
hall when one of the staff doctors emerged from a
patient's room, heading right for me. I thought of
lowering my head, stooping to pick up an invisible
penny from the floor, maybe even ducking into a
nearby room, but I did none of those things.
Instead I gave the young doctor a shy smile,
preparing to tell him how much better I was
feeling, thank him so much for asking. But the
vacant smile he offered in return announced
he had no idea who I was, that I was as
faceless to him in my street clothes as I was in
my nurse's uniform. I could have been anyone,
I realized.
  In fact, I was no one.
  Myra Wylie was lying in bed staring at the
ceiling when I pushed open the door to her room and
stepped inside. "Please go away," she said
without looking to see who it was.
  "Myra, it's me, Terry."
  "Terry?" She turned her cheek to me,
smiled with her eyes.
  "How are you today?" I walked to her side,
grasped the bruised hand she extended toward me.
  "They told me you were sick."
  "I was. I'm feeling much better now."
  "Me too. Now that you're here."
  "Has the doctor been in to see you yet?"
  "He was here a little while ago. He poked and
prodded, lectured me about eating more if I want
to keep up my strength."
  "He's right."
  "I know. I just don't seem to have much of an
appetite these days."
  "Not even for a piece of marzipan?" I
produced a small candied apple from the pocket
of my navy pants. "I stopped at the bakery
on my way over."
  "In this rain?"
  "It's not so bad."
  "You're a darling girl."
  I opened the wrapping, broke the small
piece of candy into two pieces, placed one on
the tip of her tongue, enjoyed the pleasure that
filled her eyes. "I saw Josh today," I
said.
  Immediately her eyes darkened, like the sky. "Josh
was here?"
  "No. I drove to Coral Gables."
  "You went to Coral Gables?"
  "To his house." I deposited the remaining
piece of marzipan on her tongue.
  "To his house? Why?"
  "I wanted to see him."
  "Is there something wrong? Something the doctors
haven't told me?"
  "No," I reassured her quickly, as I'd
reassured her son only hours ago. "This
wasn't about you. It was about me."
  Concern swam through the milkiness of her eyes.
"Are you all right?"
  "I'm fine. I just needed to talk to Josh."
  Myra looked puzzled. She waited for me
to continue.
  "He told me he's back with his wife."
  "Yes."
  "He says you're not very happy about it."
  "I'm his mother. If that's what he wants, then
I'm happy."
  "It seems it is."
  "I'm just an old worrywart, I guess.
I don't want to see him get hurt again."
  "He's a big boy."
  "Do they ever really grow up?" she asked.
  "How long have you known?"
  "I think I've always known they'd get back
together. He never stopped loving her, even after the
divorce. The minute she started making
reconciliation noises, I knew it was only a
matter of time." Myra twisted her head from side
to side, no longer able to find a comfortable position.
  "Here, let me fluff that up for you."
  "Thank you, darling." She smiled, lifted her
head, allowed me to extricate one of the meager
pillows from behind her head.
  "I wish you'd told me," I said, kneading it
with my fingers.
  "I wanted to. But I felt a bit
foolish after the things I'd said about her. I hope
you understand."
  "It would have saved me a lot of
embarrassment."
  "I'm sorry, dear. I didn't think it would
be a big deal."
  "I drove all the way down there, made a
complete fool of myself." A sound, halfway between
a laugh and a cry, escaped my lips. "How could
you let me do that?"
  "I'm so sorry, dear. I had no idea.
Please forgive me."
  I smiled, smoothed several fine strands of
hair away from her forehead. "I forgive you."
  Then I lowered the pillow I was holding to her
face and held it over her nose and mouth until
she stopped breathing.



  It's such a strange sensation, killing another
person.
  Myra Wylie was surprisingly strong for
someone so frail. She fought me with a determination that
was stunning in its ferocity, her long, skeletal
arms flailing blindly toward me, gnarled and
brittle fingers clawing helplessly toward my
throat, the muscles in her neck warring with the
pillow in my hands as her desperate lungs
screamed silently for air. Such stubborn
tenacity, the instinct to survive in the face of
certain, even longed-for, death, caught me
temporarily off-guard, and I almost lost my
grip. Myra seized that split second's
hesitation with all the strength left in her, twisting
her head wildly from side to side and kicking
frantically at her sheets.
  I quickly refocused, pressing down harder on
the pillow, patiently watching as her feet
twitched to an almost graceful stop beneath the tightly
tucked hospital corners of her narrow bed. I
listened to her last desperate intake of breath and
smelled the pungent odor of urine as it leaked from
her body. Then I counted slowly to one hundred
and waited for the unmistakable stillness of death
to overwhelm her. Only then did I remove the
pillow from her face, fluffing it out before returning
it to behind her head, careful to arrange her hair the
way she liked it. It was damp with the sweat of her
exertion, and I blew gently on the matted strands
at her forehead in an effort to dry them, watching as
Myra's thin eyelashes fluttered girlishly in
my warm breath, as if she were flirting with me.
  Watery blue eyes stared up at me in
frozen disbelief, and I closed them with my
lips, my hands trembling toward the exaggerated,
open oval of her mouth, contorted in a way
to suggest that, even now, she was still trying to suck
air into her withered, broken frame. My fingers
quickly molded her lips into a more pleasing
shape, as if I were an artist working with fast-drying
clay. Then I stood back and observed my
handiwork. She reminded me of one of those floats
people buy for their pool, stretched out and waiting to be
inflated. Still, I was satisfied that Myra
looked peaceful, even happy, as if she'd
simply slipped away from life in the middle of a
pleasant dream.
  "Good-bye, Myra," I told her from the
door. "Sleep well."
  I proceeded briskly down the hall toward the
exit, confident no one would notice me. I
even smiled at a young man on his way to visit
his father, the blank look I received in return
reassuring me I was still invisible--a ghost
haunting the hallowed hospital halls, as
insubstantial and fleeting as a whisper in the
wind.
  How did I feel?
  Energized, relieved, possibly a little sad.
I'd always liked and admired Myra Wylie,
considered her a friend. Until she'd betrayed me,
abused the many kindnesses I'd shown her. Until
I realized she was no better than any of the
others who'd abused and betrayed me over the
years, and that, like those others, she was the author of
her own misfortune, responsible for, and deserving
of, her fate.
  Not that I enjoyed being the minister of that fate.
The truth is that I've never liked watching people
die, never really gotten used to it, no matter
how many times I've borne witness. Maybe
that's what makes me such a good nurse, the fact
that I genuinely care about people, that I want nothing
but the best for everyone. The idea of taking a life
is genuinely abhorrent to me. As a nurse,
I've been trained to do everything in my power
to sustain life. Although, some might argue, why
sustain a life void of purpose, a life that
is increasingly more parasitic than human?
  Besides, whom am I kidding? Nurses have no
power. Even doctors, whose exalted egos we
stroke daily and whose daily mistakes we're
constantly covering up, have no real power when it
comes to matters of life and death. We're not the
caregivers we claim to be. We're
care-takers. Janitors, really--that's all
we are--looking after the leftover detritus of
all the people who've exceeded their "best before"
dates.
  Lance was right.
  I pictured Alison's ex-husband, if
that's who he truly was, tall, slim-hipped,
irredeemably handsome, and wondered if he was
really gone. Or was he still in Delray,
squatting among the obscene appendages of an
overgrown screw palm, biding his time, waiting for
just the right moment to leap out at me from the darkness?
  Time's up, I thought with a smile.
  I walked calmly down the four flights of
stairs to the exit, grateful to see the rain had
stopped, and that the storm clouds that had carpeted the
sky all day had given way to the cautiously
optimistic sun of twilight. Happy hour,
I thought, checking my watch as I climbed into my
car, debating whether to stop on my way home for a
celebratory drink, deciding that it was still too
early to celebrate, that much still required my
attention. It was important that I be fully
alert for the night ahead, that I not let down my
guard in any way.
  A siren was wailing as I turned my car into the
rush-hour traffic along Jog Road, and I
watched an ambulance speed by on the outside
shoulder, probably on its way to the Delray
Medical Center. I wondered how long it would be
before one of the nurses looked in on Myra,
checked her vital signs, and realized she was
dead. I wondered if anyone would call me
to relay the sad news. She was my patient after
all. Where's my Terry? she would say, the
first words out of her mouth every morning, as if I
weren't entitled to a few hours away from her
side, as if I weren't entitled to a life of
my own.
  Where's my Terry? Where's my Terry?
  Everyone always thought it was so cute.
  "Here's your Terry," I said now, gripping the
steering wheel as if it were a pillow, pushing on it
with all my strength, hearing the loud blast of the
horn as it spun out into the traffic, then crashed
into the dying afternoon. Instantly, half a dozen other
horns began polluting the air with their mindless
bleating. Like lambs to the slaughter, I thought,
smiling at the motorist in the car ahead of mine as
he extended the middle finger of his right hand into the
air without even bothering to turn around.
  Why should he turn around? What was there to see?
I was invisible.
  There would be no autopsy. There was no
need. Myra's death had been expected, even
anticipated. It was long overdue. There was
nothing remotely surprising or suspicious about
it. An eighty-seven-year-old woman with both
cancer and heart disease--her death would be considered a
blessing. The nurses would acknowledge her passing
with a collective nod of their heads and a brief
notation in their charts. The doctors would record
the time of death and move on to the next cadaver-
in-waiting. Josh Wylie would quietly
arrange for his mother's burial. A few weeks from
now, he might even send the staff an arrangement
of flowers in appreciation of the excellent care his
mother had received during her stay at Mission Care.
Soon a new patient would occupy Myra's
bed. After eighty-seven years, it would be as if
she'd never existed.
  An old song by the Beatles--She loves
you, yeah, yeah, yeah!--came on the radio, and
I sang along loudly with it, surprised
to discover I knew all the words. This made me
feel strangely exhilarated, even elated. The
Beatles were followed by Neil Diamond, then
Elton John. "Sweet Caroline,"
"Goodbye Yellow Brick Road." Long a
devotee of golden oldies, I knew every word,
every beat, every pause. "Soldier boy!" I
belted out along with the Shirelles. "Oh, my
little soldier boy! Bum bum bum bum bum.
I'll--be--true--to--you."
  I'm not sure why I decided not to park in my
driveway, why I chose to drive past my
house, circle back around the block instead, and
park around the corner. Was I looking for Lance's
car? If so, I didn't see it. Was it
possible he was really gone? That I was truly
safe? I scoffed at my own na@ivet`e,
rechecking the street before getting out of my car and
continuing briskly on foot, careful to stay in the
shadows of the growing darkness, the hovering palm
fronds above my head shaking in the wind, like
giant castanets.
  When I reached Seventh Avenue, I slowed
my pace, hunched my shoulders, lowered my
gaze, approached my house as if I were about
to pass it by, then turned with seeming nonchalance
at the last possible second and hurried up the
path to the front door, my key already secreted
in my hand. I pushed open the door, locking it
immediately behind me, then ran to the living
room window, my heart thumping against my chest,
perspiration from my forehead forming a small puddle
on the glass as I pressed my flesh against it,
my eyes racing up and down the quiet street.
Was anyone watching?
  "It's okay," I said out loud. "You're
okay." I nodded, as if to reassure myself
further, ignoring the toppled Christmas tree and
shattered ornaments as I walked into the kitchen,
listening to the crunch of broken china heads beneath my
feet as I approached the back door, my
total focus on the small cottage behind my
house.
  The lights in the cottage were on, which meant
Alison was probably home. Undoubtedly
waiting for my car to turn into the driveway, so that
she could put the final phase of her plan
into operation. "Listen to me," I said with a laugh.
"Final phase of her plan," I repeated, this
time out loud, and laughed again at the sound of it.
  I sank into a kitchen chair and surveyed the
mess of broken women's heads coating the
floor. My mother's pride and joy. "What's the
matter, girls? PMS got you down?" I
kicked at the shards with my feet, watching the
jagged pieces skate across the floor and
collide with other fragments--an ear here, a bow
there, an upturned collar, a wayward hand. "I
don't know what you have to complain about, ladies. You
already had big holes in your heads." I pushed
myself off my chair and swept the mess into the center
of the room, first with my hands, then with a broom.
  It took the better part of half an hour
to gather together and dispose of all the women--I was
working in the dark, remember--but ultimately I
threw the whole mess into the garbage bin under the
sink, then went over the entire floor with a
Dustbuster, and then again with a damp cloth. When I
was finished, I was starving, so I made myself a
sandwich of leftover roast beef, then washed it
down with a tall glass of skim milk.
  Women need their calcium, I remember
thinking. Even invisible ones like me.
  I returned to the window, stared through the deepening
veil of night at the tiny cottage that had once
been my home. A home for wayward girls,
I thought, picturing first Erica and then Alison.
What was the matter with me that I was drawn to such
people? Where was my judgment, my common sense? Why
was I constantly putting myself in such
danger? Hadn't experience taught me anything
at all?
  My mother's silent scorn leaked through the ceiling
from the upstairs bedroom, like battery acid from a
car engine, and I felt it burning a hole in the
top of my scalp.
  Another stupid woman with a gaping hole in her
head, I thought, pulling at my hair as my
mother's voice whispered in my ear, You never
learn. You belong in the garbage with the others.
  A sudden movement caught my eye, and I
flattened my back against the wall just as Alison
pulled back her living room curtain to stare
outside. She peered toward the driveway, her
face full of worry. Wondering where I am,
I realized. Wondering when I'm coming home.
  She lingered at the window for several long
seconds, then backed away, the curtains hiding
her continuing vigil. I had to be careful, keep
to the corners, not let her know I was home until
I had everything in place. There was still so much to be
done.
  I pushed myself toward the kitchen counter, reached
for the shelves, began gathering together the ingredients
I would need: Duncan Hines yellow cake
mix, a small box of instant chocolate
pudding, a cup of Crisco oil, a package of
chopped walnuts, a quarter cup of chocolate
chippets, four eggs, and a cup of sour cream from
the fridge. Terry's magic chocolate cake.
My mother's favorite. I hadn't made it in
years.
  Not since the night she died.
  Terry! I could still hear her yelling at me from
upstairs, her voice strong despite the stroke
that had rendered her body useless.
  I'll be up in a minute, Mother.
  Now!
  I'm coming.
  What's taking you so long?
  I'll be right up.
  I stirred the ingredients together in a large
bowl, dropping the eggs onto the top of the cake
mix, instant pudding, Crisco, and sour cream,
then mixing them in by hand so that I wouldn't make any
noise. There was always the chance that Alison might
sneak out of the cottage without my noticing, hear the
whir of an electric mixer, interrupt me before
I was ready. I couldn't take that chance. I
watched the yolks of the eggs separate from
the whites and spill across the light brown of the
pudding. Then I wove my spatula through the mix,
producing vibrant yellow swirls, like paint
on a canvas. Creating my own masterpiece.
  Still life.
  Terry, for God's sake, what are you doing
down there?
  I'm almost done.
  I need the bedpan. I can't hold it any
longer.
  I'll be right there.
  I folded the chopped nuts and the chocolate
chippets into the rest of the mix, then ran my index
finger along the top of the bowl, lifting a large
gob of batter to my mouth and greedily sucking it
from my fingertip. Then I did it again, this time using
two fingers. A loud groan inadvertently
escaped my throat as I slowly manipulated
my fingers in and out of my mouth.
  What are you doing down there? my mother cried.
  When I was a little girl, I used to watch my
mother in the kitchen. She was always baking something, and
I often pleaded with her to let me help. Of
course, she always refused, told me I'd
only make a mess. But one afternoon when she was out,
I decided to surprise her by making a cake of
my own. I gathered up the necessary ingredients and
mixed them together, careful to beat out all the lumps,
just as I'd watched her do week after week. Then
I baked the whole thing for an hour at 350
degrees.
  When my mother came home, I presented her with
my beautiful chocolate cake. She surveyed
the neat countertop, checked the floor for
spillage, then silently sat down at the table
and waited to be served. With great pride, I cut
into the cake and produced a perfect slice, then
watched eagerly as my mother raised her fork to her
lips. I waited for her words of praise, the
tap on the top of my head that told me she was
pleased. Instead, I recoiled in horror as her
face began collapsing in on itself, her cheeks
hollowing, disappearing into the sides of her mouth as
she spit the cake into the air, shouting, What have
you done, you stupid girl? What have you done?
  What I'd done was use bitter chocolate
instead of sweet. A careless mistake no
doubt, but I was only nine or ten, and surely
the look on my mother's face, the knowledge that she'd been
right about me all along, was punishment
enough.
  Except that it wasn't. And I knew it. It
was never enough.
  Even now I can feel my body tense as I
waited for the blow to strike the side of my face,
the blow that would send my head spinning and my ears
ringing. But the blow never came. Instead came an
eerie calm, a misplaced smile. My mother
simply pointed to the chair beside her and instructed
me to sit down. Then she took the knife and cut
into my cake, producing a perfect piece
similar to the one I'd cut for her, pushed it
toward me, and waited for me to take a bite.
  I can still feel my hands shaking as I pushed the
cake into my mouth. Instantly, the bitter taste
settled on my tongue, combining with the bitter salt
of my tears as they fell down my cheeks and ran
between my lips.
  She made me eat the entire cake.
  Only when I was sick and vomiting on the
floor did she stop, and only then to make me
clean it up.
  Terry, for God's sake, what are you doing
down there?
  Coming, Mother.
  I glanced back at the cottage, then
preset the oven to 350 degrees and lightly
greased a large Bundt pan. I poured the
batter inside it, then added my secret
ingredient.
  What on earth took you so long? I need the
bedpan.
  It's right beside you. No need to get so
upset.
  I've been calling you for forty-five
minutes.
  I'm sorry. I was baking you a cake.
  What kind of cake?
  It's chocolate. Your favorite.
  When the oven reached 350 degrees, I put
the cake inside, then licked the bowl free of
whatever batter remained. "You never let me
lick the bowl, did you, Mother?" The best part,
I've always thought. "I always missed out on the
best part."
  I know you blame me.
  I don't blame you.
  Yes, you do. You blame me for the way your
life has turned out, for the fact you never married
or had children. That whole episode with
Roger Stillman. ...
  That was a long time ago, Mother. I've let
it go.
  Have you? Have you really?
  I nodded, cut her a large slice of cake,
pressed a forkful to her lips.
  You know that everything I did, I did for your
benefit.
  I know that. Of course I know that.
  I didn't mean to be cruel.
  I know.
  It's the way I was raised. My mother was the
same with me.
  You were a good mother.
  I made a lot of mistakes.
  We all make mistakes.
  Can you forgive me?
  Of course I forgive you. I kissed the
flaky, dry skin of her forehead. You're my
mother. I love you.
  She whispered something unintelligible, maybe
"I love you," maybe not. Whatever it was, I
knew it was a lie. Everything she said was a
goddamn lie. She didn't love me. She
wasn't sorry about anything except that she was the
one in that bed, and not me. I pushed another forkful
of cake into her stupid, eager mouth.
  My reveries were interrupted by a loud knocking
and I raced to the kitchen door. A man was standing
outside the cottage, his back to me. Suddenly
Alison opened her door, the light from inside the
cottage throwing a spotlight on the now
familiar figure.
  "K.c.!" Alison exclaimed as his
profile came clearly into view. "Come in."
She cast a furtive glance around the cottage
before ushering him inside and closing the door.
  Look at the lowlife you've allowed into my
home, I heard my mother hiss.
  "My home," I corrected her now. "You
died, remember?"
  With the help of Terry's magic chocolate
cake and a favorite pillow.
  "Taste buds failed you that time, didn't they,
Mother?" Whoever said that Percodan and chocolate
pudding didn't mix?
  I smelled the aroma of freshly baking cake,
glanced at the oven, then back to the cottage in
time to see the door reopen, and Alison step
outside behind K.c. "Terry should be
home soon," she was saying. "I can't be gone
long."
  I ran through the kitchen to the front of the house,
watched through the living room window as Alison and
K.c. marched purposefully down the front
path to the street, then turned the corner, their arms
brushing up against one another as they walked. were
they going to meet Lance and Denise? How long before
they'd be back? And would Erica's biker friend be with
them?
  I wasted no more time. Clutching the spare key
to the cottage between my fingers, and carefully sliding
the foot-long butcher knife with its tapered
two-inch blade from its wooden slot, I opened
the back door and stepped into a night redolent with
whispers and lies.



  I'm not sure what I was looking for, or what
exactly I thought I'd find.
  Maybe I was checking to make sure Lance was
really gone. Or maybe I was looking for
Alison's journal, something I could take to the
police, point to as proof positive that my
life was at risk. I don't know. As I
stood in the middle of the brightly lit living room,
my hands trembling, my knees all but knocking
together, I had absolutely no thought in my head
as to what to do next.
  I had no idea how long Alison and
K.c. would be gone. And how did I know Lance
wasn't hiding in the bedroom, watching and waiting
for my next stupid move? Hadn't I parked
my car around the block to avoid discovery?
Couldn't he have done exactly the same thing?
  Except there was no sign of him anywhere: no
rumpled clothing strewn carelessly on the floor;
no wayward creases in the furniture where he
might have sat; no stray masculine smells
permeating the air, disturbing the scent of baby
powder and strawberries. I tiptoed toward the
bedroom, the handle of the large butcher knife
clutched tightly in the palm of my hand, the
blade protruding from my body like the thorn of a
giant rose.
  But nothing in the bedroom indicated Lance might
still be in residence. No shirts in the drawers,
no suitcase in the closet, no shaving kit in
the medicine cabinet. I even checked
under the bed. "Nothing," I said to the reflection that
flickered at me from the long, sharp blade of the
knife. Was it possible he was really gone, that
he'd taken off with Denise, just as Alison had
claimed?
  If so, then why was K.c. still around? What was
his connection to Alison?
  I laid the knife across the top of the white
wicker dresser, watched it wobble against the uneven
surface as I rifled through each drawer. But the
drawers were mostly empty--a few push-up
bras from Victoria's Secret, half a
dozen pairs of panties, several uncomfortable-
looking thongs, and a pair of yellow cotton
pajamas decorated with images from I Love
Lucy.
  Where was her journal? Surely that would tell
me something.
  Only after searching through every drawer several times
did I spot the damn thing sitting on the night
table beside the bed. "Stupid," I said in my mother's
voice. "It was right there the whole time. Open your
eyes." I marched to the nightstand, grabbed the
journal, turned swiftly to its final entry.
  Everything's falling apart, I read.
  As if on cue, a series of loud bangs, like
small explosions, erupted from the street,
followed by an even louder voice, then more banging.
"Terry!" the voice shouted. "Terry, I know
you're in there. Terry, please! Open the door!"
  I dropped the journal onto the bed, raced
to the side window, watched as Alison came
running around the side of my house from the front
to the back door, K.c. at her heels.
  "Terry!" she persisted, banging repeatedly
on my back door with her open palm. "Terry,
please. Open up. We have to talk."
  "She's not there," K.c. said.
  "She is there. Terry, please. Open the
door."
  Suddenly Alison was vaulting toward the
cottage. Had she seen me watching from the window?
I spun around in helpless circles, knowing there was
nowhere for me to go.
  I was trapped.
  I ran toward the closet, noting only at the
last second the journal I'd carelessly
dropped on Alison's bed. I hurried
back, scooped it up, and returned it to its
rightful place on the nightstand, then
scrambled across the bed toward the closet, bringing the
door closed after me just as Alison's key
turned in the front lock.
  It was then, my fingers tightly curled around the
doorknob, that I realized I'd left the
knife--the foot-long behemoth with its tapered
two-inch blade--lying on top of the dresser.
Stupid, stupid girl! my mother whispered in
my ear. She's not likely to miss that, is
she?
  "Maybe it wasn't her car," K.c. was
saying from the next room. "There are lots of
black Nissans."
  "It was her car," Alison insisted, confusion
bracketing her words. "Why would she park it around
the block and not in the driveway?"
  "Maybe she's visiting a friend."
  "She doesn't have any friends. I'm the only
friend she's got."
  "Doesn't that strike you as strange?"
  There followed a long pause in which we all
seemed to be holding our breath.
  "What are you talking about?" Alison asked.
  I heard the shuffling sounds of two wary people
walking around in circles. How long before one of
them stepped into the bedroom, saw the knife? How
long before Alison checked the closet for
bogeymen?
  "Look, Alison, there are some things I have
to tell you."
  "What kind of things?"
  Another pause, this one even longer than the
first. "I haven't been very honest with you."
  "Welcome to the club," Alison muttered.
"Listen, on second thought, I don't think
I'm up for this discussion right now."
  "No--you need to hear me out."
  "I need to pee."
  Dear God, I thought, as I shot from the
closet like a yo-yo on a string. I grabbed the
knife, the blade slicing across my palm as my
fingers closed around it. Then I leaped back
inside the closet, the door closing after me just as
Alison entered the room.
  I stuffed my wounded hand inside my mouth,
sucked at the steady stream of blood issuing from
my palm, and tried not to cry out. From the
bathroom, I heard Alison grumbling as she
relieved herself. "What in the world is going on
here?" she kept repeating over and over.
"What in the world is going on?"
  Alison flushed the toilet, washed her hands,
and reentered the bedroom, then stopped, as if not
sure of her next move. Or had something
suspicious caught her eye? A drop of
blood on the dresser? A suspicious
footprint in the carpet? Was her journal lying
wrong-side up? I raised my knife, steeled
my body for her approach.
  "Alison?" K.c. called from the living
room. "Are you all right?"
  "That depends." A pronounced sigh of
resignation. "What is it you want to tell me?"
  K.c.'s voice drew closer. I felt
him standing in the doorway. "Maybe you should sit
down."
  Alison obediently plopped down on her
bed. "I'm liking this less and less."
  "For starters, my name isn't K.c."
  "It isn't," Alison said, more statement than
question.
  "It's Charlie. Charlie Kentish."
  Charlie Kentish? Where had I heard that name
before?
  "Charlie Kentish," Alison repeated, as
if thinking the same thing. "Not K.c., short for
Kenneth Charles."
  "No."
  "No wonder nobody ever calls you that," she
observed wryly, and I almost laughed. "I
don't understand," she continued in almost the same
breath. "Why would you lie about your name?"
  "Because I didn't know if I could trust you."
  "Why wouldn't you trust me?"
  I felt him shrug. "I'm not sure where
to start." Another shrug, perhaps a shake of his
head.
  "Then maybe you shouldn't bother." Alison
jumped to her feet. I felt her moving around,
pacing back and forth in front of the bed. "Maybe
it's not important who you really are or what you
have to tell me. Maybe you should just leave, so that you
can get on with your life, whose ever it is, and
I'll get on with mine, and we can all live
happily ever after. Don't you think that's a good
idea?"
  "Only if you come with me."
  "Come with you?"
  "You're in danger if you stay here."
  "I'm in danger?" Alison
laughed. "Are you completely nuts?"
  "Please listen to me--"
  "No," Alison said resolutely. "You're
starting to scare me, and I want you to leave."
  "It's not me you have to worry about."
  "Listen, K.c., or Charlie, or whoever the
hell you really are--"
  "I'm Charlie Kentish."
  Charlie Kentish, I repeated. Why was that
name so damn familiar?
  "I don't want to have this conversation. If you
don't leave, I'm going to call the police."
  "Erica Hollander is my fianc@ee."
  "What?"
  "The woman who used to live here."
  "I know who Erica Hollander is."
  So that's where I knew the name. Of course.
Charlie Kentish. Erica's fianc`e, the one
she was always going on about. Charlie this. Charlie
that. Charlie's so handsome. Charlie's so smart.
Charlie's got this great job in Japan for a
year. Charlie and I are getting married as soon
as he comes home.
  "Your precious fianc@ee ran out on Terry
in the middle of the night, owing several months'
rent," Alison said.
  "She didn't go anywhere."
  "What do you mean?"
  "I mean, she didn't go anywhere," he
repeated, as if that explained everything.
  "I don't understand. What are you saying?"
  "I was hoping you could tell me."
  "Tell you what? I don't have a clue what
you're talking about."
  "Maybe if you'd stop pacing for two minutes
and sit down ..."
  "I don't want to sit down."
  "Please. Just hear me out."
  "And then you'll leave?"
  "If that's what you want."
  I heard the bed squeak as Alison resumed
her former position. "I'm listening," she said in a
tone that indicated she'd rather not be.
  "Erica and I had been living together for about six
months when I got this great job offer to work in
Japan for a year. We decided I should go, and
she'd stay here, move into a cheaper apartment, and
we'd save our money so we could get married as
soon as I got home."
  "I thought you were from Texas."
  "Originally, yes. I moved here after
college."
  "Okay, so off you went to Japan," Alison
said, getting back on track.
  "And Erica e-mailed me about finding this great
little place, a small cottage behind a house
belonging to a nurse. She was thrilled."
  "I'm sure she was."
  "Everything seemed perfect. I'd get these
glowing E-mails telling me how wonderful
Terry was, how she was always inviting Erica over
for dinner, doing little things for her. Erica's mother
died a couple of years ago, and her father had
remarried and moved to Arizona, so I guess she
was just really grateful to have someone like Terry in her
life."
  "So she could take advantage of her."
  "Erica wasn't like that. She was the
sweetest--" His voice cracked, threatened
to break. "Then things started to change."
  "What do you mean? What things?"
  "The letters stopped being so positive. Erica
wrote that Terry was starting to behave strangely,
that she seemed fixated on some biker Erica
once said hello to in a restaurant, that she was
getting paranoid."
  "Paranoid? In what way?"
  "She never went into detail. She just said that
Terry was starting to make her feel uncomfortable,
that she was afraid she might have to start looking for
another place."
  "So she skipped out in the middle of the night."
  "No. I was due back in a few months.
We decided she might as well stay put
until I got back to Delray and we could
look for a place together. But then, the E-mails
suddenly stopped. I tried calling her cell
phone, but no one ever answered. That's when I
started calling Terry. She told me Erica had
moved out."
  "You didn't believe her?"
  "It seemed odd that Erica would move out without
telling me, let alone go anywhere without leaving a
forwarding address."
  "Terry told me she was hanging out with a bad
crowd."
  "No."
  "That she met someone else."
  "I don't believe it."
  "Things like that happen every day."
  "I'm sure they do. But that's not what happened
here."
  "Did you check with her employer?"
  "Erica didn't have a regular employer.
She worked for Kelly Services. They hadn't
heard from her in weeks."
  "Did you go to the police?"
  "I called them from Japan. There wasn't much
they could do long-distance. They contacted Terry.
She gave them the same story she gave me."
  "Which you can't accept."
  "Because it isn't true."
  "Did you go to the police when you got back
home?"
  "As soon as I got off the plane. They
reacted pretty much the same way you are now.
"She found somebody else, buddy. Move
on.""
  "But you can't."
  "Not till I find out what happened to her."
  "And you think Terry is somehow involved? That
I'm involved?"
  "I thought that in the beginning."
  "The beginning?"
  "When you first moved in."
  I could almost feel the quizzical look on
Alison's face.
  "I'd been watching the house for about a month
at that point," K.c. explained. "After you
moved in, I started following you. You got a
job at that gallery, and I started hanging around.
I almost had a heart attack when I saw you
wearing Erica's necklace. I gave her that
necklace."
  "I found it under the bed," Alison protested.
  "I believe you. But in the beginning, I
didn't know what to think. I had to find out the
extent of your involvement, how much you knew. I
tried flirting with you, but you weren't interested, so
I hit on Denise, convinced her to let me tag
along for Thanksgiving dinner. I realized
pretty quickly that you had nothing to do with Erica's
disappearance. But the more I got to know Terry, the more
convinced I became she did."
  "And why is that?"
  "Because there's something very weird about that lady."
  "Don't be ridiculous."
  "I've been watching her for months, phoning
her, following her in my car, trying to spook her,
anything to get her to slip up. And she's
starting to crack. I can feel it."
  So it hadn't been my imagination. Someone had
been watching me. And not just today. K.c. was the
shifting shadow outside my window, the anonymous,
yet strangely familiar, voice on my
telephone. That subtle Texas twang he
couldn't quite disguise--how had I failed
to recognize it before now?
  "You've been harassing her for months,"
Alison stated, "and you're surprised she's
acting strangely?"
  "Terry knows what happened to Erica. Damn
it, she's responsible."
  "Are you finished? Because if you're finished, then
it's time for you to leave."
  "Haven't you heard anything I've said?"
  "You haven't said anything," Alison shot
back. "Your girlfriend pulled a disappearing act.
I'm sorry. I know being dumped is a hard thing
to accept. But what you're suggesting is
outrageous. And I've heard quite enough, thank you.
I want you to go now."
  There was a second's silence, then the sound of
feet shuffling reluctantly toward the front
door.
  "Wait!" Alison called out, and I held
my breath, inched forward, leaned my head against the
closet door. "You should have this." She walked
around the side of the bed, pulled open the drawer of the
nightstand. "You said you gave it to her. You should have it
back."
  I pictured Alison walking toward him,
Erica's thin gold necklace dangling from her
fingertips.
  "Come with me," he urged. "It's not safe for
you to stay here."
  "Don't worry about me," she told him
flatly. "I'll be fine."
  I heard the front door open as I crept
out of the closet and inched along the side of the
dresser, my palm leaving a bloody trail on
the white wicker as I balanced against it.
  "Be careful," the man calling himself K.c.
warned the young woman who called herself Alison
Simms.
  And then he was gone.



                 27

  I don't know how long I stood there, my
breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my mouth,
my hand pulsating with pain as I pressed the handle
of the knife against my torn flesh, like a branding
iron. Could I really use this knife against
Alison, even in self-defense?
  "What the hell is going on here?" Alison
demanded suddenly, and I lunged forward in
response, my arm instinctively arcing into the
air, while blood from my palm streaked down my
arm, as if someone had outlined the path of one of my
veins in red ink.
  But Alison hadn't been speaking to me, and she
was already out the door and on her way to the main house
when I emerged from the shadows, her anguished,
unanswered question vibrating against the still air, like
smoke from a discarded cigarette. "Terry!" I
heard her shouting, as once more she pounded on my
kitchen door. "Terry, open the door. I know
you're in there."
  I watched as she backed away from the door,
her head tilted toward my bedroom. "Terry!"
she shouted, her voice targeting my window like a
well-aimed stone, before she gave up in defeat.
What now? I wondered, swallowing what little air
I could find, holding it hostage against my
lungs.
  Alison stood very still for what seemed an
excruciatingly long time. Weighing her options,
I thought. Just like me. Ultimately she decided
to give it one last try, turning on her heels
and running around the side of the house to the front.
Only then did I push open the cottage door
and creep into the night, a sudden breeze
scratching at my neck, like the tongue of a cat.
As Alison banged on the front door, I was
opening the back.
  In the next instant, I was inside my
kitchen, the aroma of freshly baked chocolate
cake settling about my head, like a bridal
veil. I slid the bloody knife back into its
triangular wooden holder, then wrapped my
bleeding palm inside a dishcloth as Alison
returned to the back door, her eyes widening with
shock as I flipped on the light and opened the
door to let her in.
  "Terry! What's going on? Where have you been?
I've been so worried."
  "I was taking a nap," I answered
sleepily, in a voice not quite my own. Hell,
K.c. wasn't the only one capable of disguising
his voice.
  "Are you all right?"
  "I'm fine." I waved my hand into the air, as
if to dismiss her concerns.
  "My God, what happened to your hand?"
  I glanced at my injured arm, as if seeing it
for the first time. Blood had already soaked through the thin,
cotton towel. "I cut it. It's nothing."
  "It's not nothing. Let me have a look at
it." She unwrapped the towel before I could
protest further. "Oh, my God! This is
awful. Maybe we should go to the hospital."
  "Alison, it's just a little cut."
  "It's not just a little cut. You might need
stitches." She pulled me toward the sink, ran
the cold water, guided my hand under the steady
stream. "How long has it been bleeding like this?"
  "Not long." I winced as the water hit my
palm, pushing the blood aside, and exposing the
fragile white line of my wound. My wounded
lifeline, I thought, as blood continued to wash
across the inside of my hand.
  "What's that smell?" Alison looked toward
the stove.
  "Terry's magic chocolate cake," I said
with a shrug.
  Confusion brought her eyebrows together at the
bridge of her nose. "I don't understand. When
did you have time to bake? I've been waiting for you
for hours. When did you get back? And what's
your car doing parked around the corner?" The questions were
coming faster now, out of her mouth as soon as they
entered her head, one piled on top of the other, like
pancakes. Alison shut off the water, grabbed
a handful of paper towels from the roll on the
wall, and pressed the absorbent white towels
into my cupped hand. "Tell me what's going on,
Terry."
  I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts
together, to give order to my lies. "There's not that
much to tell."
  "Start with when you left here. Where did you go?"
Alison prompted. She didn't have to say any
more. She didn't have to mention the aborted kiss.
  I noted a small red circle metastasizing
in the middle of the white paper towels, like
menstrual blood, I thought, watching it grow
wider and darker, reach toward the edges.
"I'm so embarrassed about what happened," I
whispered as she led me to a chair. "I don't
know what came over me."
  "It was all my fault," Alison
interjected immediately, sitting down beside me. "I
obviously gave you the wrong impression."
  "I've never done anything like that before in my
life."
  "I know. You were just upset about Josh."
  "Yes," I agreed, thinking this was probably
true. "Anyway, I'm not sure where I went
after I left here. I was pretty confused, so I
just drove around for a while, tried to clear my
head."
  "And you parked around the corner because you didn't
want me to know you were back," Alison stated
quietly, traces of guilt bracketing her
words.
  "I was feeling pretty shaky. I thought it was
best if we didn't see each other right away."
  "I was so worried about you."
  "I'm sorry."
  "Don't be."
  I looked around the room. It felt so bare,
so empty, without the women watching. "Baking's
always been a kind of therapy for me," I continued,
glancing from the shelves to the oven. "So, I
decided, why not bake a cake? I don't know.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Isn't that
what they say?"
  She nodded. "Seems like they're always saying
something."
  I smiled. "You like chocolate cake, don't
you?"
  Her turn to smile. "Is that a rhetorical
question?"
  I patted her hand. It felt ice-cold.
"It should be ready in a few minutes."
  "Is that how you cut your hand? Baking?"
  "It was stupid," I began, the lie wiggling
around the tip of my tongue, like a worm on a
fisherman's hook. "I was reaching for something in a
drawer, and I sliced it on a small paring
knife."
  Alison clutched her own hand in sympathy.
"Ooh, that hurts."
  "It's a bit better now." I glanced back
at the oven, smiled. "Cake should be ready.
Feel like a piece?"
  "Don't you have to let it cool off for a
while?"
  "No. It's best fresh out of the oven." I
rose from my seat, walked to the stove, opened the
oven door with my left hand. A gust of heat
rolled toward me like an ocean wave as I bent
forward and inhaled the rich chocolate perfume. I
reached for my oven mitts on the counter.
  "I'll do it," Alison offered immediately,
sliding her hands inside the waiting pink mitts,
then gingerly transferring the cake to a nearby
trivet. "This looks as good as it smells. Should
I make some coffee?"
  "Coffee sounds wonderful."
  "You sit. Keep that hand still. Raise it above
your heart." She rolled her eyes. "Listen
to me--you're the nurse, and I'm telling you what
to do." She shook her head, laughed with what I
recognized was relief--relief that I seemed
to have a reasonable explanation for everything, relief
that I seemed no longer angry with her, relief
that things seemed back to normal.
  Seemed, I thought, sitting back in my
chair. Good word.
  I smiled as I watched Alison prepare the
coffee. It was amazing how comfortable she was in my
kitchen, among my things. She knew without asking
that I kept the coffee in the freezer and the sugar in
the cupboard to the left of the sink. "There's whipped
cream in the fridge," I told her as she
measured out the coffee and poured the water into the
back of the coffeemaker.
  "You're amazing," she said. "You're always
prepared for everything."
  "Sometimes it pays to be prepared."
  "I wish I was more like that." Alison leaned
against the counter. "I've always acted more on
impulse."
  "That can be pretty dangerous."
  "Tell me about it." There was a moment's
silence. Alison glanced at the floor, then at
the empty shelves, an impish grin spreading
across her face. "Smashing all those heads was a
pretty impulsive thing to do."
  I laughed. "I guess it was."
  "Maybe we're more alike than you think."
  "Maybe." Our eyes locked, and for a moment,
neither of us moved, as if we were daring each other
to be the first to look away. Of course I was the
one to blink first. "What say we have some of that
cake?"
  "You stay right where you are. Keep that hand up.
I'll do everything." Alison removed two
small plates from the cupboard, along with two
sets of cups and saucers, and set them on the
table beside several paper napkins, the sugar, and the
bowl of whipped cream. Then she returned to the
counter and reached for a knife. "Remember the first
day I was here, and I grabbed the wrong knife,"
she said, pulling the giant butcher knife from its
wooden block as my breath froze in my
throat, "and you said, "Whoa! Overkill,
don't you think?"' Whoa!" she repeated now,
staring with openmouthed wonder at the blood-encrusted
blade. "What's this? Is this blood?" Her
focus shifted to the shaft of the knife. "And it
looks like there's blood on the handle too." She
stared at her palm.
  "More like blood on the brain," I said, rising
quickly from my chair and removing the knife from her
hands, then dropping it into the sink and running hot
water over it. "It's not blood," I told
her.
  "What is it?"
  "Just a stubborn case of strawberry jam."
  "Jam? On the handle?"
  "Are you going to cut me a piece of cake,
or what?" I asked impatiently.
  Alison grabbed another knife and proceeded
to slice into the warm cake. "Oh, no, it's
starting to crumble. You're sure it's not too soon
to do this?"
  "The timing is perfect," I said as she slid
a large piece of cake onto a plate.
"Give me one half that size."
  "You're sure?"
  "I can always come back for more."
  "Don't count on it." Alison returned
to her seat and eagerly stuffed a heaping forkful of
cake into her mouth.
  I watched the crumbs form a dark outline around
her lips. Like a clown's mouth, I thought, as she
licked the errant crumbs into her mouth with the flick
of her tongue. A snake's tongue, I thought,
watching her swallow.
  "This is absolutely the best cake you have ever
made. The best." She swallowed another forkful.
"Will you teach me how to bake one day?"
  "It's really very easy."
  "Don't worry. I'll find a way to make
it difficult." Alison laughed
self-consciously, quickly finishing what was left
on her plate. "This is so yummy delicious.
Why aren't you eating?"
  "Thought I'd wait for the coffee."
  Alison glanced at the coffeemaker.
"Looks like it'll be a few more minutes. "A
watched kettle never boils,"" she reminded
me, looking away. "You told me that."
  "Do you remember everything I say?"
  "I try to."
  "Why?" I asked, genuinely curious.
  "Because I think you're smart. Because I admire
you." Alison hesitated, as if there was more she
wanted to say, then obviously thought better of it.
"Can I have another piece? I can't wait for the
coffee."
  "Be my guest. Try it with some whipped
cream."
  Alison cut herself another, even larger
slice of cake, then spooned a large dollop
of the whipped cream on top of it. "This is
heaven," she enthused, filling her mouth.
"Absolute heaven. You have to taste this." She
extended her fork toward me.
  I shook my head, pointed toward the coffee.
  "You have such willpower."
  "It won't be long now." I watched as she
wolfed down the second piece of cake. A
human Garburetor, I thought, with something
approaching awe. "Ready for thirds?"
  "Are you kidding? One more piece and it won't be
just the china heads exploding around here." She
hesitated. "Although maybe I have room for one more
very tiny piece. With my coffee." She laughed.
She lowered her gaze to her lap, closed her
eyes. "I'll miss this," she whispered, her
body swaying.
  I leaned forward, wondering if she was about
to fall, thinking that even a strong sedative like
Percodan needs more than a few minutes to work
its magic.
  Instead of falling over, Alison bolted
upright in her chair, her eyes popping open, as
if she'd just awakened from a bad dream. "Please
don't make me leave."
  "What?"
  "I know you said you've already rented out the
cottage to someone at work, but I'm really praying
you'll change your mind and give me another chance.
I promise I won't mess up this
time. I'll do everything you say. I'll follow
all your rules. I won't screw up again.
Honest."
  She sounded so sincere that I almost found myself
believing her. In spite of everything, I realized
I wanted to believe her. "What about Lance?"
  "Lance? That's over. Lance is gone."
  "How do I know he won't come back?"
  "Because I give you my solemn vow."
  "You lied to me before."
  "I know. And I'm so sorry. It was stupid.
I was stupid. Stupid to think Lance would ever
change, that things would be any different this time."
  "What about the next time?"
  "There won't be a next time. Lance knows he
went too far, that he crossed the line when he
came on to you."
  "Why am I any different than anyone
else?"
  She paused, looked up, then down, as if
searching for just the right words. "Because he knew how
important you are to me."
  "And what makes me so important?"
  Another pause. "You just are." Alison
jumped to her feet, then grabbed for the table.
  "Alison? Are you all right?"
  "Yeah. I just got a little dizzy there for a
minute. I guess I must have moved too fast."
  "Are you still dizzy?"
  She shook her head slowly, as if she
wasn't sure. "I think I'm okay now.
Kind of scary though."
  "Have some coffee. Coffee's a good antidote
to dizziness."
  "It is?"
  "I'm the nurse, remember?"
  She smiled. "Two cups of coffee coming right
up." She poured the freshly brewed coffee
into each cup, then added three heaping spoonfuls of
sugar and a large dollop of whipped cream to hers.
  "Cheers." I clicked my cup against hers.
  "To us."
  "To us," I agreed, watching as she took a
long sip.
  She made a face, lowered the cup to its
saucer. "Kind of bitter."
  I took a sip from my own cup. "Tastes
fine to me."
  "I think I made it too strong."
  "Maybe you need more sugar," I
teased.
  Alison added a fourth spoonful, took
another sip. "No. Still not quite right." She brought
her hand to her head.
  "Alison, are you okay?"
  "I don't know. I feel a little strange."
  "Drink some more coffee. It'll help."
  Alison did as she was told, throwing back the
coffee as if it were a glass of tequila, then
taking a long, deep breath. "Is it warm in
here?"
  "Not really."
  "Oh, God. I hope I'm not getting a
migraine."
  "Is this how they usually start?"
  "No. Usually I get this kind of tunnel-
vision thing going, and then this horrible headache
takes over."
  "I have some more of those pills." I got up from
my chair and pretended to fish around in a drawer.
"Why don't you take a couple? Strike a
preemptive blow." I handed her two little white
pills, returned the bottle of Percodan to the
drawer.
  She took the pills without even bothering
to examine them. "So, what do you think?" she
asked, pushing her hair away from her forehead.
  I noticed she was beginning to perspire. "I
think you'll start to feel better soon."
  "No. I mean about me staying."
  "You can stay as long as you like."
  Tears immediately appeared in the corners of each
eye. "Really? You mean that?"
  "Absolutely."
  "You're not kicking me out?"
  "How could I? This is your home."
  Alison brought her hands to her mouth, muffled a
gasp of pure joy. "Oh, thank you. Thank you
so much. You won't be sorry. I promise you."
  "But no more lies."
  "I promise I'll never lie to you again."
  "Good. Because lies destroy trust, and without
trust ..."
  "You're right. Of course you're right." She
ran her hand through her hair, rolled her neck from
side to side, wet her lips with her tongue.
  "Are you all right, Alison? Would you like to lie
down?"
  "No. I'll be okay."
  "What was K.c. doing here before?" I
asked, slipping the question in casually as her eyes
struggled to stay focused.
  "What?"
  "No more lies, Alison. You promised."
  "No more lies," she whispered.
  "What was K.c. doing here?"
  She shook her head, then raised her hands to her
temples, as if to steady her head, prevent it from
rolling off altogether. "His name isn't K.c."
  "It isn't?"
  "No. It's Charlie. Charlie something-or-
other. I don't remember. He was Erica
Hollander's fianc`e."
  "Erica's fianc`e? What was he doing here?"
  "I don't know." Alison's eyes struggled
to find my face. "He was talking crazy."
  "What did he say?"
  "Nothing that made any sense." She laughed,
but the weak sound wobbled, then died in her throat.
"He says that she didn't run off, that she never
went anywhere. He has this ridiculous idea that
you know where she is."
  "Maybe it's not such a ridiculous idea."
  "What? What are you saying?"
  "Maybe I do know where she is."
  "Do you?" Alison tried to stand up, stumbled,
collapsed back in the chair.
  "I really think you'd be much more comfortable lying
down. Why don't we go into the living room?" I
helped Alison to her feet, lifting one long,
slender arm over my shoulder, and guiding her from the
kitchen, her feet shuffling along the floor, like
whispers from a crowd.
  "What happened to the Christmas tree?" she
asked as we entered the living room.
  "It had a little accident." I directed her
to the sofa and sat down beside her, lifting her feet
into my lap.
  "Are you going to give me a pedicure?" she
asked with a smile that refused to settle.
  "Maybe later."
  "I feel so strange. Maybe it's the
pills."
  "And the cake," I said, removing her sandals,
massaging her bare feet the way I knew she
liked. "And the coffee."
  She regarded me quizzically.
  "I believe you had four spoonfuls of sugar
this time. Not a good idea, Alison. They say
sugar's poison for your system."
  "I don't understand." For the first time, a look of
fear flashed through Alison's beautiful green
eyes. "What are you talking about?"
  "You thought you had me, didn't you, Alison?
You thought all you had to do was smile and pay me a
few stupid compliments, and I'd fall under your
magic spell all over again. Except it
didn't work. This time I'm the one with all the
magic: Terry's magic chocolate cake;
Terry's magic sugar; Terry's magic
pills."
  "What are you talking about? What have you done
to me?"
  "Who are you?" I demanded.
  "What!"
  "Who are you?"
  "You know who I am. I'm Alison."
  "Alison Simms?" I didn't give her
a chance to answer. "I doubt that. There is no
Alison Simms." I watched her flinch, as
if I'd raised my hand to strike her. "Just like
there's no K.c."
  "But I didn't know about K.c. I didn't
know--"
  "Just like there's no Rita Bishop."
  She rubbed her mouth, her neck, her hair.
"Who?"
  "Your friend from Chicago. The one you were looking for
at Mission Care when you just happened to stumble across
my notice."
  "Oh, God."
  "Let's play our little game. Three words
to describe Alison."
  "Terry, please. You don't understand."
  "Let's see. Oh, I know: liar, liar,
liar."
  "But I haven't lied. Please, I haven't
lied."
  "You've done nothing but lie since the moment
I met you. I read your journal, Alison."
  "You read my journal? But then you know--"
  "I know you're coming here was no accident. I know
you and Lance have been plotting for months to get rid
of me."
  "Get rid of you? No!" Alison swung
her legs off my lap, tried to get up, only
half-succeeded before her knees gave out and she
teetered to the floor. "Oh, God. What's
happening to me?"
  "Who are you, Alison? Who are you
really?"
  "Please help me."
  "The Lord helps those who help themselves," I
said coldly, in my mother's voice.
  "It's all a huge misunderstanding. Please.
Take me to the hospital. I promise I'll
tell you everything as soon as I feel better."
  "Tell me now." I pushed her back on the
sofa, watching her disappear into the deep,
down-filled cushions, their pretty pink and
mauve flowers threatening to swallow her whole. I
settled into the striped Queen Anne chair
directly across from her and waited. "The truth,"
I warned her. "Don't leave anything out."



  "Can I have a glass of water?" Alison
asked.
  "Later. After you tell me."
  Tears fell the length of Alison's face.
Her color was ashen, a once vibrant
photograph fading before my eyes. "I don't
know where to start."
  "Start with who you really are. Start with your name."
  "It's Alison."
  "Not Simms," I said matter-of-factly.
  "Not Simms," she repeated dully.
"Sinukoff." A sudden spark of interest.
"Does that name mean anything to you?"
  "Should it?"
  She shrugged. "I wasn't sure if it would
or not."
  "It doesn't."
  "I didn't know if it would. I had to be
sure."
  "Sure of what?"
  "I didn't want to make another
mistake."
  "What are you talking about? What kind of
mistake?"
  Alison's head rolled back across her
shoulders, swayed precariously, as if it might
fall off. "I'm so tired."
  "Why did you come to Florida, Alison?"
I demanded. "What were you after?"
  "I came to find you."
  "I know that. What I don't know is why.
I'm not rich. I'm not famous. I have nothing that
could possibly interest you."
  She steadied her head, concentrated all her
attention on my face. "You have everything," she said
simply.
  "I'm afraid you'll have to explain that one."
  Her eyes fluttered to a close, and for a moment
I thought she might have succumbed to all the
sedatives in her system, but then she started
to speak, slowly at first, and with obvious effort, as
if trying to keep track of her words, as one thought
merged with another, and one word slurred into the next.
"I'd been looking for you for a while without any
luck. I decided to hire a private
detective. The first one didn't work out, so I
hired someone else. He said you were working in a
hospital in Delray. So I went there to see
for myself. That's when I saw your notice at the
nurses' station. I couldn't believe my luck.
I made up the story about Rita Bishop. I
thought it would give us a chance to get to know one
another before ..."
  "Before what?"
  "Before I told you."
  "Told me what, for God's sake?"
  "Don't you know?"
  "Know what?"
  "I don't understand. You said you read my
journal."
  "Know what?" I repeated, my voice a low
roar, like the sound of an approaching wave.
  Her eyes locked on mine, snapped
into focus, as if seeing me for the first time. "That
you're my mother."
  For an instant I didn't know whether to laugh
or cry, so I did both, the strangled sound
emerging from my mouth foreign even to my own ears.
I jumped to my feet, began pacing back and forth
in front of her. "What are you talking about?
That's impossible. What are you talking about?"
  "I'm your daughter," she said, fresh tears
forming in her eyes.
  "You're crazy! Your mother lives in
Chicago."
  "I'm not from Chicago. I'm from
Baltimore, like you."
  "You're lying!"
  "I was adopted as an infant by John and
Carole Sinukoff. Did you know them?"
  I shook my head vigorously, distant
images flashing through my mind like a strobe light.
I shielded my eyes, struggled to keep
unwanted memories at bay.
  "They already had a son, but they couldn't have any
more children, and they wanted a daughter, so they picked
me. A mistake," she acknowledged, licking at
her lips. "I was this awful kid. Pretty much
like I told you. I never felt I belonged. I
was so different from everyone else. And it didn't
help that my perfect older brother kept
reminding me I wasn't really part of the family.
One Christmas when he came home from Brown,
he told me that my real mother was a fourteen-year-
old slut who couldn't keep her legs together."
  "Oh, God."
  "I kicked him where it counts. He certainly
didn't have any trouble keeping .his legs together after
that." She attempted a laugh, wheezed instead.
  "But what you're saying is impossible," I
told her, my head spinning as much as hers.
Images of the past snuck through decades-old
defenses to assault my brain: Roger
Stillman clumsily pushing his way inside me
in the backseat of his car; my frantic eyes
checking my underwear every day after that for signs of a
period that stubbornly refused to come; my child's
belly growing more distended every day, no matter how
baggy the clothes I wore. "It's impossible,"
I repeated, more forcefully this time, trying in vain
to frighten the images away. "Do the math. I'm
forty. You're twenty-eight. That would have made me
twelve--"
  "I'm not twenty-eight. I'm twenty-five.
I'll be twenty-six ..."
  On February 9, I mouthed silently as
she spoke the words out loud. I covered my ears
with my hands in an effort to block out her voice.
When had it gotten so loud, so strong?
  "I was afraid if I told you my real
age, you might figure everything out before you had the
chance to get to know me. And I didn't know how
you'd feel about having me back in your life. I
wanted so much for you to like me. No, that's a lie,"
she said, correcting herself. "I wanted more than
that. I wanted you to love me. So you wouldn't be
able to give me up again."
  I sank back into the Queen Anne chair.
She was crazy, of course. Even if some of what
she said was true, it was impossible for her to be my
daughter. She was so tall, so beautiful. Just like
Roger Stillman, I thought. "It's not true,"
I insisted. "I'm sorry. You've
made a mistake."
  "No. Not this time. The first detective I
hired found some woman in Hagerstown he thought was
you. I got so excited, I went to see her, but
it turned out he was wrong. Then I found you.
Lance said I was crazy to come all the way down
here, that I was only going to get hurt again, but I
had to see you. And the minute I did, the minute
I talked to you, I knew I was right. Even before
you told me about Roger Stillman, I knew you
were my mother."
  "Well, I'm sorry, but you're wrong."
  "I'm not wrong. You know I'm not."
  "The only thing I know is that you're a stupid,
stupid girl!" I heard myself shout.
  My mother's voiced bounced off the walls.
  You're a stupid, stupid girl!
  "No, please don't say that."
  How could you do this? How could you let some
ridiculous boy stick his awful thing inside you?
  I'll take care of the baby, Mommy. I
promise I'll take good care of it.
  Don't think for one minute that I'm going
to allow a bastard child into this house. I'll drown it
in a basin, just like I drowned those damn
kittens!
  "Terry," Alison was whispering. "Terry,
I'm not feeling very well."
  I moved swiftly to her side, wrapped her
in my arms. "It's all right, Alison.
Don't worry. You won't throw up. I know
how much you hate throwing up."
  "Please take me to the hospital."
  "Later, sweetheart. After you've had a little
nap."
  "I don't want to fall asleep."
  "Ssh. Don't fight it, darling. It'll all
be over soon."
  "No! Oh, God, no! Please. You have
to help me."
  We heard the noise at the same moment, our
heads twisting in unison toward the kitchen door.
Pounding, yelling, ringing. "Alison!" a voice
bellowed over the cacophony of sounds.
"Alison, are you in there?"
  "K.c.!" Alison exclaimed, her voice
scarcely audible. "I'm here. Oh, God,
help me! I'm in here."
  "Terry!" K.c. hollered. "Terry, open
this door right now or I'm calling the
police."
  "Just a minute," I called back calmly,
gently extricating myself from Alison's side,
hearing her groan as she toppled over, too
drugged to move. I walked quickly to the back
door. "I'm coming. Hold your horses."
  "Where is she?" K.c. pushed roughly past
me into the house. "What have you done with her?"
  "Who are we talking about?" I asked him
pleasantly. "Erica? Or Alison?"
  But K.c. was already in the living room.
"Alison! My God! What has that lunatic
done to you?"
  I reached into the sink and carefully removed the
butcher knife from the white enamel basin. It
fit comfortably into the center of my hand, as if it
belonged there. I squeezed it, felt it damp
against my tender skin as the cut reopened in my
palm. Then I returned to the living room,
watching from behind the dying branches of the Christmas
tree as K.c. struggled to lift Alison to her
feet.
  "Can you walk?"
  "I don't think so."
  "Put your arms around my neck. I'll carry
you."
  How can I describe what happened next?
  It was as if I'd been handed the starring role in
a play. No, not a play. More like a ballet,
full of grand gestures and exaggerated mime,
each move carefully planned and choreographed.
As Alison raised her arms, so did I. As
K.c. was bending to scoop her up, I was
swooping down. As he took the first of several
awkward steps, I was flying across the room with
savage grace. As Alison was resting her head
against K.c.'s shoulder, I was plunging the
foot-long blade into his back with such force the
handle snapped off in my hands.
  K.c. staggered forward, Alison dropping from
his arms and landing with a dull thud on the floor.
K.c. spun around in a sloppy pirouette, his
hands losing their graceful rhythm and flailing about
for the blade that was buried deep in his back. The
growing swell of Alison's screams filled the
air, like a third-rate orchestra, as K.c.
balanced on his toes, his arms extended toward
me, as if asking me to join him for one final
twirl around the room. I declined his silent
invitation, taking a step back as he
fell forward, his disbelieving eyes glazing over
with the approach of imminent death. He hit the
floor, the top of his head just missing the base of the
overturned tree.
  It took a few seconds for me to realize that
Alison had stopped screaming, that she was no
longer sprawled carelessly across the floor, that she
had somehow managed to gather whatever strength she still
possessed and was making a desperate scramble for the
front door. That she actually succeeded in
getting it open and was halfway down the front
steps before I caught up to her is a great
tribute to her strength and determination.
  The instinct for survival, the will to live, is
an amazing thing.
  I remembered having had similar thoughts about
Myra Wylie. Only Erica Hollander had
gone quietly, dozing off within minutes of finishing
the late-night snack I'd prepared. The
pillow I'd subsequently held over her
nose and mouth had brought only token resistance.
  "No!" Alison was screaming as I reached for
her arm.
  "Alison, please. Don't make a
scene."
  "No! Don't touch me! Leave me alone!"
  "Come back inside, Alison." I grabbed
her elbow, dug my fingers into her flesh.
  "No!" she screamed again, wresting her arm
away from me with such force I almost lost my
balance. She made it halfway to the street before
her legs simply gave out, and she collapsed like
the proverbial rag doll. Even then, she
refused to give up, crawling on her hands and
knees toward the sidewalk.
  It was then we heard the barking, followed immediately
by the click of high heels on pavement.
Bettye McCoy and her two lunatic dogs,
I realized, trying to drag Alison to her
feet.
  "Help me!" Alison cried as the third
Mrs. McCoy wiggled around the corner in a
pair of leopard-print capri pants. "Help
me!"
  But Alison's cries were drowned out by the
angry yapping of the dogs.
  "It's okay," I called to the aging Alice
in Wonderland. "She's just had a bit too much
to drink."
  Bettye McCoy tossed her
overly teased blond mane disdainfully over her
shoulder and gathered the two dogs into her arms before
crossing the street and walking briskly in the
opposite direction.
  "No, please!" Alison called after her.
"You have to help me! Help me!"
  "You really need to sleep this off," I said
loudly, in case anyone was listening.
  "Please," Alison begged the now empty
street. "Please, don't go."
  "I'm right here, baby," I told her,
gathering her into my arms, guiding her toward the
house. "I'm not going anywhere."
  When we reached the door, she stopped fighting.
Whether it was the drugs or the realization that such
struggles were useless, I don't know. She
simply sighed and went limp in my arms. I
carried her across the threshold, as a new husband
lovingly transports his bride.
  Do they even do that anymore? I don't know.
I doubt I'll ever have the opportunity to find
out. It's too late for me, just as it was too
late for Alison. And it's too bad, because I
think I would have made a fine wife. That's all
I ever really wanted. To love someone, to be
loved in return, to make a home, have a
family. A child on whom I could lavish all the
tenderness I'd been denied. A daughter.
  I've always wanted a daughter.
  I carried Alison to the sofa, cradled her in
my arms. "Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra," I
sang tenderly. "Too-ra-loo-ra-lie ..."
  Alison raised her eyes slowly to mine.
Her mouth opened. Whispers filled the air. I
think I heard the word Mommy.



  Of course, I don't believe for a minute that
Alison was my child.
  She probably heard about how I'd disgraced
my family from the Sinukoffs. The name sounds
vaguely familiar. Perhaps they were neighbors.
Perhaps not. Baltimore's a big city. You can't
know everyone, despite my mother's assertion that the
whole town knew about my condition, that she was a
laughingstock, too ashamed ever to show her face in
public again.
  That's why we moved to Florida. Not because my
father's job demanded it. Because of me.
  I stayed in school until my condition became
too obvious to ignore, then I was asked
to leave. Nothing happened to Roger Stillman.
My shame was his badge of honor, and he was
allowed to remain in school and graduate with his
classmates.
  I endured almost twenty hours of labor before
my mother let my father drive me to the hospital.
It was another ten hours before the baby--weighing in
at an impressive eight pounds, seven ounces
--was born. I never got the chance to hold her.
Never even got the chance to see her. My mother
made sure of that.
  Of course she was right. What else could she have
done? I was only fourteen years old, after
all, a baby myself. What did I know of
life, of looking after another human being? It was
a ridiculous notion, one I'm sure I would have
lived to regret.
  And yet, maybe not. Would I have been such a
bad mother? I've often wondered. I'd
secretly loved that little baby growing inside me
from the first minute I felt her moving around. I
talked to her when no one was home, sang to her when
we were alone in my room, assuring her that I would
never lose my temper with her, never hit her or
disparage her in any way, that I would shower her with
kisses, assure her each and every day how very much
she was loved. "I'll take care of you," I
promised her when no one was listening. Instead, she
was pulled from my body and banished from my side
before her sweet little face had time to register, and
I spent my whole life taking care of other people
instead.
  Of course Alison wasn't my child.
  She'd undoubtedly heard about "the fourteen-
year-old slut who couldn't keep her legs
together" from someone back in Baltimore,
possibly even her older brother, as she'd
claimed. Then she and her friends had concocted this
elaborate scenario, determined to insinuate
themselves into my life. I wanted you to like me.
No. I wanted you to love me, Alison
herself had admitted shortly before she died.
  I miss her terribly, of course, think of
her often, and always with great affection, even love.
So maybe Alison got what she came for after
all.
  She didn't suffer. She simply fell
asleep in my arms. The rest was easy.
There were so many drugs in her system, I doubt
she was even aware of the pillow I held against her
face for the better part of two minutes. Later,
I dressed her in her pretty blue sundress
--the one she had been wearing the first day we met--
and then buried her in the garden beside Erica. The
flowers are especially lush in that corner of the
yard, and I think she would have approved.
  K.c. was a different story. I'd never
killed a man before, never used a knife, never
had to resort to such brutality. It took days
for the vibrations to stop echoing through my hand, weeks
till I was finally able to scrub all the blood from
my living room floor. Of course, I had
to get rid of the rug. It was ruined. Alison was
right--a white rug in the living room hadn't
proved very practical. At any rate, it was
time for a change.
  I didn't want K.c. polluting my
garden, so I waited until the middle of the
night, then bundled him into the trunk of my car and
drove all the way to the Everglades, where I
tossed him into a slime-covered swamp. It
seemed fitting, and I'm sure the alligators
appreciated my efforts.
  It's been three months since Alison
died. The season is almost over. Every day there are
fewer cars on the roads, fewer tourists prowling
the streets. It's easier to get into restaurants
now. There are shorter lines at the movies.
Bettye McCoy still walks her two lunatic
dogs down the street several times a day, and
occasionally one breaks away from her, makes a
beeline for my backyard. I've erected a
small fence to keep them out. Hopefully, that will
suffice. Should one of those mangy mutts manage
to get into my yard again, I won't be chasing it out
with anything as gentle as a broom.
  Occasionally, I wonder what would happen if
Lance and Denise came back, looking for
Alison. But so far, there's been no sign of
either of them, so maybe Alison was telling the
truth about their taking off together, about her relationship
with her ex-husband being over once and for all. I
hope so. Still, I can't let down my guard.
  My job at the hospital continues much as it
always has. Myra's bed has been filled by an
elderly gentleman with advanced Parkinson's.
I take very good care of him. His family think
I'm the greatest thing since sliced
bread.
  Incidentally, I was right about Josh. He did
send flowers to the staff several weeks after his
mother's funeral. Actually, the flowers were from both
him and his wife. The note thanked everyone on the
ward. No one was singled out for special mention.
  The journal he gave me has proved
useful, however. It's nice to have somewhere to record
my thoughts, as I'm doing now. A place to set
the record straight.
  And who knows? Maybe one day I'll find
true love. Just because Josh proved both weak and
unworthy doesn't mean there isn't someone out there
who's right for me. It's not too late. I'm
only forty. I'm still reasonably attractive.
I could meet someone tomorrow, get married, have the
family I've always craved. Many women over
forty are having babies. It could happen. I'm
praying it does.
  And that's about it. Life goes on, as they
say.
  Who are they anyway? I can hear
Alison ask, her voice never very far from my
ear.
  I turn around, look the other way. She's
right beside me.
  Describe your life since I went
away, she whispers playfully. Three
words.
  "Uneventful," I reply obediently.
"Unexciting." I survey the empty shelves
that line the kitchen walls, thinking that perhaps the time
has come to start rebuilding my collection.
"Lonely," I admit, choking back tears.
  I stare out my back window at the small,
empty cottage behind my house. It has been
unoccupied for three months now and is starting
to look a little neglected. It needs someone as much
as I do. Someone who will love it and take care of
it, who will show it the love and respect it
deserves. After the debacles with Erica and
Alison, I'm not sure such a person even
exists. But maybe it's time to find out. Maybe
it's time to bury the whispers and lies of the past,
time to start afresh.
  "Afresh," I repeat out loud in Alison's
voice, deciding to place an ad in the weekend
paper. "Good word."
               THE END