The solution came to Elena. The hourglass was not for Frances. The hourglass was for Marissa. That would make the gift okay. The gift was not for the client.

  Chapter 16

  Felicianna seethed after Elena left with the hourglass. The hourglass that would no doubt end up in Frances Dourne's greedy, hypocritical, greasy fingers. Elena thought Felicianna was no better than the trinkets at a dollar store. Fine.

  The look in Elena's eyes had broken Felicianna's heart. If only Elena would give her a shot. Why? Why did the world work like this? Why did people such as Felicianna, people who worked hard, paid taxes, fought for equality, get stomped on by homophobic, Bible-thumping conservatives? Get their girls stolen by such people?

  When did Elena get so stupid? Maybe Isaiah was not the only one who had been brain dead. Frances Dourne, really? She was the best Elena could do? That closeted, frightened little blonde bimbo beaver of God?

  Felicianna’s insides twisted. She did not like being shut out of her best friend’s life. This best friend whom she had found with a knife in a bathtub. This best friend whom she had stayed in bed with many nights, holding her as she cried, as they both cried about Isaiah, this best friend who could make a bad day turn into a great day by merit of a little smile or a caress from her eyes.

  This best friend whose briefcase Felicianna had broken into. This best friend whom she had investigated. This best friend whom maybe she did not know anymore.

  This best friend she could not talk to.

  Felicianna must be misreading the situation. Elena did not know Frances Dourne. Certainly had not bought an hourglass for her. Felicianna was being paranoid, protective. Still.

  Maybe Elena did know Frances. Maybe Elena saw something worthwhile in Frances. I hope you rot in hell and never see your child again. Felicianna never should’ve said these words. Maybe she would pay a little visit to GIC. Meet Frances again. Figure out what Elena saw in her. Or maybe she should leave the damn thing alone and move on with her life.

  *****

  Darren brought flowers, calla lilies.

  Give them to Jan, Elena’s mind said, but her mouth grinned. "For me? Oh, Darren." The lilies were lovely. Purplish-pink, healthy and tall. Give them to Jan. To the woman you love. To the woman you're going to marry.

  For a second, she thought he was reading her mind. He pulled his teeth back. He looked like a wolf, feral and angry. She found his hand, covered it with hers. "Thank you, sweetie."

  He searched her eyes. She had not planned the sweetie. Mistake. "We have something special, don't we?" he asked.

  I'm a prostitute, and you're my client.

  "Of course we have something special. But don't fall for me."

  "I'm not." He dropped the lilies into a trash can. "Let me see the dildos."

  *****

  Elena turned on her phone as soon as Darren left. A new appointment was on her calendar. Room 245, three o’clock booking. B89z. The z meant this was probably going to be a one-off. If she wanted, Elena could call Amanda and ask about names and information, but she usually did not bother to with the z’s.

  The client was a woman who did not give her name, but she looked like a Barbara. She appeared to be in her early sixties and was about a hundred pounds overweight. She was adorable, a grandmotherly type.

  "Why, you're a little slip of a thing," she cooed to Elena. "You look like my daughter-in-law."

  They made small talk, and eventually Elena put the client at enough ease that she could reveal the purpose of the appointment. "Barbara" wanted to wear a diaper, be tied up and whipped.

  Looks were deceiving, but Elena had learned that long ago.

  *****

  Elena knocked on Frances’s door. She would hold off on giving Frances the hourglass. Shirts and earrings were enough for one night. Frances answered in a red terrycloth robe. And with a smile. Her hair was up. No glasses, so her contacts must be in.

  Elena followed Frances to her bedroom and laid the shirts side by side on the bed. "I suggest gray pants. Black or brown will be too much. Hard edges."

  Frances selected a pair from her closet. Pinstripe. Actually not half bad. "Turn around while I get dressed," Frances said.

  Elena went to the corner where Frances’s desk was. On it were a folded MacBook, her Mickey Mouse watch, and her cellphones. The personal/work one was off. The Marissa one was on. "Your watch is cute. Why Mickey?" Why the bland business suits with the Mickey watch?

  "My nephew Christopher gave it to me. Okay, turn around."

  Frances wore the long-sleeved, deep blue shirt. Their eyes met, and while Elena’s voice said: "That’s the one," she was afraid her gaze said much more.

  "I think these earrings." Frances indicated a pair of cobalt blue ball studs. She stuck them in. "Do they look okay?"

  "Your hair’s too tight. Get a few strands loose."

  Loosened hair and a pair of shoes later, Frances inspected herself in the full-length mirror next to her desk. "Not bad."

  "Not bad? How about pretty damn amazing?"

  Frances rolled her eyes but could not conceal a smile.

  "Really. I could look at you all night."

  "Thanks. Thanks. Well, uh…okay." Frances got a video camera. "How about a dress rehearsal?"

  *****

  Frances took a deep breath, and her gaze slipped to her hands. "Should I wear nail polish? When I come out, I mean."

  "White or clear, sure."

  "Okay, push play."

  Elena pressed the red button. "We're in business."

  Frances nodded. "Here we go." A pause. "Good morning. I hope everyone's had a great weekend." Frances smiled widely, a smile that crinkled her eyes, but that mirrored a certain somberness in her gaze.

  Oh, yeah. Shit. How did she do that? Perfect. The next few sentences came fluidly, and she continued: "I'm going to keep this speech short and sweet, because when you come down to it, I only have three words to say."

  Here it comes.

  Slight flutter of Frances's eyelashes. "I am gay," she said, her voice strong and self-assured. "I am gay, and there is nothing wrong with me."

  *****

  "I need a new bra," Frances said, pausing the recording on her computer. She had changed back into her terrycloth robe. "I need to practice again."

  "No. Look, don’t overanalyze." Elena wished she could make Frances understand. "This tape is great. You know why? Because it’s unrehearsed. It’s from your heart. Your soul shines through. Don’t beat that away. You over-rehearse, you’re going to come off as a robot."

  Frances frowned. "I suppose."

  "Come with me." Elena led Frances to the bed. Eased her onto it. Kissed both her cheeks. "Please believe me. It’s perfect."

  "What are you doing?"

  "What I should’ve done instead of playing Scrabble." Elena moved her hand under the robe. She skimmed Frances’s hips and thighs. Frances arched, and wetness puddled between Elena’s own legs. She freed Frances’s breasts. Perfection. Protection.

  "Be right back," Elena said. She returned a moment later and found the rhythm Frances needed.

  Chapter 17

  Time to get back on the bus, time to return to school.

  Already.

  Victoria was going to miss the Capitol. The building was the biggest she had been in. Arkansas did not seem worthy of such a handsome, stately building. Of course, as Victoria reminded herself, much of her knowledge about the state was concentrated to her home, barely larger than a shack but, thankfully, with plumbing.

  In the summers, mosquitoes the size of pears.

  Rains and flooding so bad the shack might as well be a boat.

  Winters so cold and severe she and her dad sometimes got a hotel room.

  The lack of plows that kept her road inaccessible for weeks at a time.

  This Capitol was a different Arkansas.

  Last week, after she issued her ultimatum, her father pulled over the truck. "Exactly who do you think you are?" he demanded.

  She was not able to say at first, because she saw in his eyes that she wrong, she was not Marissa Dourne, she was Victoria Cove, plain, boring Victoria Cove, and he was eccentric Timothy Cove. Plus something far back in his stare, something primitive, scared her. The thought that he might hurt her, tie her, strike her, whatever, occurred for the first time. His temper was not the physical kind.

  Now it might become physical.

  "Who do you think you are?" he repeated.

  She closed her eyes. "Marissa Dourne."

  She heard laughter. And more laughter. She opened her eyes. His belly shook. "You crazy girl."

  Of course he would deny it. But like this? His reaction seemed so…genuine.

  "You're not Marissa Dourne."

  "Then who am I?"

  "You don't want to be Marissa Dourne. Frances Dourne is…she's…"

  "What was she like when you met her?"

  He grinned. "I knew her once, actually. A long time ago."

  "When? Where?"

  Timothy frowned. "You're Victoria Cove, my daughter. Your mother died in a fire when you were a baby. Put these nightmares out of your head, eh?"

  "If I'm not Marissa Dourne, why do you keep me like a prisoner?"

  "I'm sorry you feel that way, honey."

  She went in for the kill, damn the consequences. Let him hit her. "You have a picture of my mother, your wife. It’s the only thing in your safe!"

  Anger flushed his cheeks. "You been going through my--"

  "Daddy."

  He was silent for a long minute. Turned the engine off. "Fine. I'll tell you, but then we never speak of this again."

  "Okay."

  "We were at Camp Meadow Woods together. We, uh…it wasn't a good camp, Vic. I was made to have sex with her. She was the first woman I…" He shrugged. "Stupid sentimentality, I guess. That's why I have the picture of her. Not because she's your mother. You crazy girl."

  He let her go on the trip, anyway.

  First the class toured the grounds of the Capitol. Victoria passed the Memorial Fountain and the Arkansas Medal of Honor Memorial. She felt more than ever that she was Marissa Dourne. Maybe yearned, desired, more than felt. The logical part of her said to listen to her father, that she was not the kidnapped girl. The events, the resemblances, were mere coincidence. His explanation made perfect, dismaying sense.

  No harm in dreaming though, no harm in daring hope her life had greater significance than as the daughter of some gay Arkansas redneck who had a recent predilection for hitting the bottle.

  Marissa Dourne had no birthmarks, no identifying marks. No nothing. If only Victoria could remember her life from before she was three. If she were Marissa, wouldn't she remember something? The trauma of being three years old--two, actually, Marissa had never made it to her third birthday party--and then never seeing her mother again--would leave some sort of imprint. Right?

  Maybe she did remember something.

  She’d had a recurring dream since she was little. Had not in months, until the night before. Maybe it was not a dream, but a memory. She could not believe she had forgotten about it.

  At lunch, McDonald's on Broadway Street near the Capitol, Markie dug out the memoir. Victoria never kept it on her, never took it home, in fear her father would find it.

  She looked at Daniel Dourne's picture again, at his eyes. The eyes she swore were her father's.

  "I had a dream last night," she told Markie. "I was little. A woman was holding me. Outside. It was nighttime and cold. I remember the moon and the cold most of all. Not the woman. But she was crying. Her crying made me cry."

  "That’s intense."

  "I’ve had that dream since I was little. It might explain the deja vu I got when I saw Frances’s picture. If something happens to me, if I disappear, call the hotline. Tell them everything. My name. My address. Give them my picture."

  "What do you think he might do?"

  "I have no idea."

  *****

  Frances sat at her desk at Gay Is a Choice. Another late night. Paperwork to soothe the horny mind. That morning, Frances had awoken at four. Hopped onto her treadmill for a brisk run. Then got back into bed. Among the smells and memories of the prostitute, she masturbated and came, came, came.

  Ugh. This idea to stay late was not working. Frances was unable to concentrate on the stacks of papers requiring her signature. Why didn’t she just call the service? Or the prostitute’s work phone directly? Schedule another appointment? Have more fun?

  Because it still felt wrong. Enjoying sex still felt wrong. But she was getting better, lessening the mental block, yes, she was. She was letting herself masturbate more, and that was huge.

  In any case, she needed to back off and not spend so much time with the prostitute. They had been together Sunday, Monday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Frances had seen the other prostitute once a week, sometimes twice a week. She had planned the same with this one.

  Randy Germain stuck his head in. "I’m out of here. See you tomorrow."

  The prostitute's agency also had call boys, and Randy had come to Gay Is a Choice for counseling after his wife busted his extracurricular activities. So, in a way, Randy Germain was responsible for Frances meeting the prostitute. Randy had a natural-born ability for public relations and had stayed on to do outreach and counseling. That was five years ago, and apparently Randy and his wife had been happy since. But he worked long hours. Like her. Longer hours, actually.

  Frances remembered sitting at this same desk five years ago. Working on her business plans for the two new organizations. Continually peeking at the phone number on Randy’s "release of burden." One of GIC’s things was for people to type or write how they had sinned. Once the sins were on paper, the person was clean and free to begin anew. Something like that. Every year, GIC had a huge bonfire and burned the papers.

  "Randy?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Are you happy? Truly happy, I mean. You love your wife?" You don’t miss or crave dick?

  He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah. What’s this about?"

  "I’m not sure."

  "You happy, Frances?"

  "Not really. But I’m getting there."

  "Shall I pray with you?"

  "No, Randy." She injected lightness in her voice. "Get the heck out of here. Tell Nora I said hi."

  After he left, Frances signed more papers. She retrieved a key and opened a drawer. She drew out Randy’s "release of burden." Fifty typed pages, single spaced. More like an autobiography.

  Frances turned to page 23, and her heart, like it had five years ago, thrummed guiltily.

  I met Joseph at a fund-raiser. One of Nora’s museum galas. I never minded going. Plenty of eye candy. Anyway, I knew right away that Joseph was queer. I winked at him. He winked back.

  We excused ourselves to the bathroom five minutes apart.

  Frances skipped to page 28, after Joseph had broken up with Randy because Randy refused to leave his wife.

  I missed Joseph. Some days it was like an elephant reared up and--

  Frances skipped to page 29. Here it came. The payoff. The number. I saw Joseph about a month after we broke up. He gave me a number. (202) 858-5555. Told me to call it and ask for "Gabriel."

  Joseph was a male prostitute now. I could not believe it.

  I was happy, so happy. He wanted to see me again, he wanted to see me again!

  As long as I had money.

  Frances had taken two years to dial that number. She had been so nervous, a wreck. Don’t need to meet in person, don’t need to see pictures, sight unseen is fine. Nice orangey fake-tan prostitute she had ended up with, right?

  Frances turned her shredder on and ran Randy’s burden through, a few pages at a time. "Sorry," she whispered. "Sorry I didn’t burn you."

  She turned back to paperwork. Her hormones were out of whack. Her heart, too. Dear God, the prostitute was good. She did this thing with her tongue. And she did this impaling look with her eyes. Made Frances feel like the world was only her and the prostitute. The prostitute made fucking resemble lovemaking. Frances wanted to make the prostitute come tonight. For real.

  Wanted.

  Would not. Was not deluded enough to try.

  Frances checked the time. Ten p.m. She decided she did not care. She dialed a few florists. None open. She would stop at a grocery store. No more gifts. She would get roses, anyway. Getting them did not mean she had to give them. They’re for me. They’ll liven the place up.

  She called the booking agent. "Could I see her? At midnight until two? Tonight. My place."

  "Of course. Have a good evening."

  "Goodbye." Shit. Shit.

  Frances Marie Dourne, get your gay head on straight.

  "She's a prostitute," Frances muttered. "She's doing her job. She wants you to fall for her. So you'll give her more clocks and money and little gifts and…ugh." Frances rubbed her temples. She signed a few papers, adding an extra oomph to the end of her signature. Remember, she has other clients. She's screwing other people. All her clients are probably in love with her. Don't let her screw you out of your money and your sanity.

  But.

  But.

  She kissed me back. She looks at me in that way that…

  Stop. She does this with all her clients. It’s her shtick. But what if…

  "Franny."

  She looked up.

  Nicholas was slumped against the doorway. His suit was wrinkled, as if he had slept in it all weekend.

  "Nicholas!"

  "I told Hannah," he said. His wife. "About the affair and about Nathaniel."

  Oh boy. She coaxed him to the loveseat. "Sweetie, Hannah will come around. It’s a shock. Give her time."

  He sniffled and wiped the back of his hand across his nose. "She forgave me."