Elena grabbed her keys.

  "Elena, dear?"

  "Yeah?"

  Brenda's gaze held a keenness. "Is Felicianna okay?"

  "As far as I know. Why?"

  "Didn't you go to her last night?"

  "No. Someone else. No one you know."

  Brenda bit her lip and looked back to the TV. She would not pursue the matter further. She was discreet and allowed Elena her own life.

  Except Brenda asked another question. "Are you seeing someone?"

  "Seeing someone?" Elena echoed stupidly.

  "Dating someone."

  "No."

  Brenda nodded slowly. "You don't tell me a lot of things. I accept that. I understand. But I'd like to know if you were seeing someone. It would make me happy if you're happy."

  "Where is this coming from?"

  "I worry about you. More than you know. My daughter gets a phone call and goes out at two or three in the morning. And not for the first time."

  "See you later, Ma."

  "Think it's her? Marissa?"

  "The FBI says she probably is."

  "Poor child. Marissa or not, they need to find that girl. You hear her voice? She’s lonely. She’s scared."

  So is her mother.

  *****

  Frances called the prostitute--her work cell--at two o’clock. Got voice mail. Did that mean the prostitute was with a client? Frances felt no stirrings of jealousy and was relieved. But sadness tinged her, real life intruding on the dream world she was concocting for the two of them. We’re not lovers, never will be. But Frances was all right. She called the booking agent and scheduled a six o’clock at the Howard Johnson that night. Not at the penthouse, no way. Media circus.

  The agent made her smile. "Good luck with your daughter," the woman whispered.

  Frances’s throat hurt, and by the time she left to meet the prostitute, her voice was going. She had no idea how she had gotten through the day.

  That was a lie.

  She knew how. By pretending the prostitute was with her. By replaying their kisses, her own fingers inside the prostitute’s wetness, the trueness of the prostitute’s orgasm.

  The prostitute had the board game Battleship set up when Frances arrived. No, no, no. Frances wanted to strip naked, crawl into bed and not think.

  But she sat at the table.

  "Been a long day for you," the prostitute said. "I thought Battleship would be good. Won't tax your brain too much."

  Frances rubbed her throat. "Can’t talk much."

  "Want a massage?"

  "That would be nice. In a few minutes." Frances closed her eyes. Mommy! Me fly. Look bird! Shining brown eyes. "Have a good day?" Frances asked, keeping her eyes closed.

  "I drove to Fort Scott Park in Arlington. I walked and looked around. Have you been there?"

  Frances poked her eyes open. "No."

  "In the back seat of a car at that park was the first time I had sex with a guy. The last time too, until I got this job. I had sex with him to make sure I was gay. I was eighteen and stupid. You don’t need to have sex to know you’re gay. Or that you’re not gay."

  "That’s true." Where was the prostitute going with this?

  "Fort Scott looks like a good place to spread ashes. Fitting place. I’m going to be cremated when I die."

  "You won’t die for a long time."

  The prostitute managed a wan smile. "Let's hope not."

  Frances got up. She tugged the prostitute to the bed and outlined the tips of her breasts through her shirt and bra. The prostitute’s nipples responded. So did her breathing. Frances almost said: I wish I could help you. She did not dare verbalize her thought. She did not want to scare the prostitute away. "I’m glad to see you again," Frances said. "You’re keeping me sane."

  "Mmm."

  Frances kissed the prostitute's neck. They began to make love.

  No penetration for either of them. Or kissing on the lips. Never the mouth again.

  *****

  "Good day?" Timothy asked.

  "I got an A on my algebra test," Victoria replied. And Markie promised me the phone’s taken care of.

  He patted her leg. "That’s my girl." The drive home was slow. They were stuck behind a wheezing truck. Her dad had not been drinking. He was alert, his clothes clean. "I tidied up today," he said. "Threw out all the bottles."

  He had picked her up on time, too. Oddly, he had not been mad yesterday about her hair. He took a picture of it. "You'll look back on this and cringe," he said with a wink. He had grilled her about the pot but seemed to believe her when she said she had not known about it.

  The wheezing truck turned off the road, and ten minutes later, Victoria followed her father inside their cabin.

  "I taped some things earlier," he said. Casually. "On the TV."

  "Oh."

  "Let’s see." He pressed play. The TV/VCR combination was decent. Old, but decent.

  Victoria saw little Marissa in a pink tutu. Little Marissa shrieking on her father’s back.

  "She's beautiful. I'm not, not so much." Victoria’s own voice played with the images.

  Her heart froze. Oh my God. He was going to kill her. "Daddy," she said, anxious to explain before he hurt her.

  He stared at the TV as if he were seeing the images for the first time. He stared at Frances Dourne, his maybe-wife, staring back at him.

  He didn’t seem angry at the sight of her. Sad, more than anything. Beaten down.

  Don’t panic, Vic, she told herself. She had not thought through the ramifications of her call. "Daddy. I didn't--I didn't mean--I didn't think it would get this far."

  "What did you think would happen?"

  "I don't know," she said miserably. "I wanted to tell her I was okay."

  "She's not your mother. You're disrupting her life for nothing."

  "I wish she were my mother."

  He drooped. "I’m stopping drinking. No more. I promise. I'm sorry I haven't done right by you. It's the alcohol. I'm stopping."

  It's not the alcohol. You were worse before the alcohol! I never had freedom, but when you pass out now, I’m free.

  "Come on," he said. "Let's finish cleaning this place up then we'll get ourselves dinner in Little Rock. What do you say? No ketchup on our hamburgers."

  "Okay."

  Timothy pulled Victoria in for a bear hug. "Don't say you're not beautiful. You're beautiful."

  "I'm plain." But the green hair helps. A lot.

  He kept his arms around her. "You're not plain, Vic."

  "I want to look like Frances."

  "Your mother was a late bloomer," Timothy said. "You probably will be, too."

  "Frances was a late bloomer. I read it in her memoir."

  "Was she? That’s interesting."

  *****

  They had dinner near the Capitol. Timothy talked about Susan, the woman he claimed was Victoria’s mother. He had not much discussed her before, saying it hurt too much. Now his words stang her, hurt her, because he sounded like he was telling the truth. "She used to paint butterflies. Not that she was good. Oh, I’d tell her she was. But she wasn’t." He sipped from his water. "Tell you something, Vic. I loved your mother. As a man loves a woman. Only woman I’ve loved in that way, only woman I’ll ever love in that way. When she died…" Tears welled in his eyes. "Please don’t betray the memory of your mother like this. Not by replacing her with Frances Dourne."

  "Oh," she said weakly. My mother is dead. I’m nobody.

  After dinner, he drove to a police station. Told her to get out, if she wanted. To go in, tell the cops she was the one who made the call.

  "I’m not stopping you," he said. "You’re not my prisoner. Absolutely not." His voice was confident, but fear lurked in his eyes.

  She got out of the truck. He’s bluffing. She walked to the front door of the police station. Brought her hand to the handle, felt its metallic coolness. She returned to the truck, to the driver’s side. Timothy opened his door, and she said: "I just want to know, Daddy. I don’t want to live with her or anything. You did the right thing. I just want to know. Is she my mother?"

  "No," he said, and she got back in. If Frances was not her mother, Victoria did not want to know.

  Hope was everything.

  *****

  Elena arched her back, her hips and her need rising to meet Frances’s tongue. She forgot they were using a dental dam. Forgot about Marissa, about ten-minute limits, about fake orgasms. Frances’s tongue was warm, gentle, and demanding. Masterful, too.

  They needed each other. Nothing wrong with coming together. Elena turned her brain off and surrendered to Frances.

  *****

  An hour later, Elena rolled out of bed. "I can't believe it's already time for you to go," Frances said.

  I wish I didn’t have to go.

  "Tonight?" Frances asked. "Stay here tonight with me, all night? Like in my letter. If that suits."

  Elena pulled her hair in a ponytail. The walls felt claustrophobic again, and she wished for her mother’s acid reflux yammering. "I should call the service. What time should I leave in the morning?"

  "Maybe six o'clock? I can’t sleep in. Marissa stuff."

  Elena nodded briskly, professional again. "I hate to do this. I really do. But it's policy. Do you have the money already? Hold on." She opened the calculator on her phone. "You haven't paid for tonight yet, so that's four thousand and five hundred dollars--from six p.m. to six a.m."

  "I have three thousand."

  Elena did mental calculations. "I'll have to leave at two a.m."

  "I'll take that."

  "I would stay until six. Really, I would. But the service uses drivers to keep tabs on our hours, and--"

  "No need to explain anything. You deserve to get paid for the work you put in. I'll give you your tip next time, when I have more cash."

  Elena was glad Frances averted her gaze. They were above this. Money discussions. Haggling. Whatever. Three thousand dollars would sustain a family for a couple of months, maybe more. Here Frances was, blowing it in less than half a day. On a call girl.

  Elena pretended to make her call. "I can’t," she said when she returned to Frances. "I have a new booking. A VIP, very VIP. It can't be reassigned."

  The lines around Frances’s eyes tightened. Maybe she sensed the lie, or maybe it was reality setting in. That she was only a client.

  A client Elena didn’t think she could stay the night with, because then she would kiss Frances again. For much longer than ten minutes.

  "I'm sorry," Elena said.

  "Don't be. I'm not a porcelain doll." Frances chuckled. "There are other nights."

  "Yeah. Yeah." Elena bit her lip. "Uh. Anyway. Well."

  "Well," Frances said. She smiled. Not understanding.

  Elena waited.

  "Oh, crap." Frances jumped out of bed. "The money. Right." She handed over an envelope. "That's the entire three thousand. Have a good evening. See you later."

  "Three thousand?"

  "For last night," Frances explained. "Rather, for this morning. At the penthouse."

  Elena sighed. "Right." She ran her finger over the envelope. Frances's envelopes were heavy. Fancy. "I don't want money for this morning."

  "Take it."

  "The meeting didn't go on the calendar, so the service doesn't--"

  "More money for you to keep."

  "Okay, okay." Elena offered a smile. "Bye, Frances." Elena reached in to hug the other woman. Ended up kissing her, a split-second brush on the mouth. "You're great in bed," Elena said. "I promise."

  Chapter 24

  Brenda was reading the Sports section when Elena got home. "Hey, Ma." Elena flopped into the chair opposite the couch.

  "Good party?"

  "Ordinary. Boring. I was glad to get out of there." Why did I kiss Frances on the mouth again? So what if the kiss was a fleeting nothing? A mouth kiss was a mouth kiss, and completely unprofessional.

  "Felicianna loves you."

  Elena raised her gaze to her mother's. "I know."

  "You don't feel the same."

  "No. Wish I did."

  Brenda picked up the front page of the newspaper. "You should start seeing someone. Start dating."

  "I will."

  Brenda nodded. "Good. You have a big heart, dear. So much love to give."

  Elena settled deeper into the chair. "All the more love for you if I'm not dating anyone."

  Brenda laughed. "Do you want to see the personals?"

  "Nah. Hey, uh, is there news on Marissa Dourne?" Elena knew there were no updates, but she needed to talk about Frances.

  "I don't believe so. That poor girl."

  "What do you think about Frances Dourne?"

  Brenda folded the newspaper and laid it at her side. She arranged her hands in her lap. Brenda was the type of person who chose her replies deliberately. She tried to think and say the best about people. Kevin, for example. "Frances Dourne is a beautiful and striking woman, or would be, if she did not dress like she was my age."

  "Yes."

  "She loves her daughter, that's obvious."

  "Mmm."

  "I don't like her," Brenda said. "I never have. She's a bad Christian. I don't like her presuming to represent us. She's ignorant and misguided."

  Elena's chest was heavy. "Okay."

  "What do you think, dear?"

  "Yeah. Same," Elena mumbled.

  "Did this morning remind you of Isaiah?"

  "Sort of. Remember I went out about noon? I went to Fort Scott Park. I want to spread the sand there. I'm thinking tomorrow. Do you want to come?"

  "Ask Isaiah's father. If he can't go, I will."

  Elena crossed to her mother, sat, and covered her hand. "I love you."

  "I dreamed about Isaiah last night," Brenda said softly.

  "Yeah?"

  "The dream made no sense. He was a baby, and we lived in a mansion. There were ducks all around. You know how dreams are."

  Elena felt tears coming, hard and fast. She wiped furiously, but to no avail. "I'm sorry," she muttered.

  Brenda wrapped her arms around Elena. "Don't be."

  "I want Frances to have a happy ending. Is that awful of me? I think she's changing."

  Brenda tightened her hold on Elena. "I hope she is, dear. But I'm afraid people like her never change."

  *****

  "Good bye, Isaiah," Elena murmured the next morning. She was back at the park, where, in Kevin's car on a midnight summer many years ago, Isaiah was conceived.

  Kevin's car pulled into the parking lot. Not the same car as before, of course. Same color, though. Cherry red. He got out, threw her a grin. Pecked her on the cheek. She could not wait to be rid of him. After they spread the sand, she would never need to see him again.

  They seemed to be the only visitors, thanks to the biting wind. Good. Elena did not want people around when she was saying goodbye to her child. The park looked different than it had when she was in high school. More modern, more colorful, inviting. It had been remodeled in 2005.

  Kevin studied the Fort Scott historical marker. "Historical Site, Defenses of Washington, 1861-1865" it began. It went on to say that Fort Scott was named for General Winfield Scott and was built to guard the south flank of the defenses of Washington. Elena liked that. Like the fort would protect Isaiah. She also liked the idea that children and laughter and life would surround his remains.

  Kevin took her in his arms, and she wished he was Frances.

  "You would have been a good father."

  "You were a good mother. It could have happened to anyone. He would want you to live your life."

  She cleared her throat. Not going to cry. "Do you want another child someday?"

  "Yeah. Do you?"

  "I do." For a strange, absurd moment, Elena iamgined asking Kevin to climb into the back seat of his car again and help her make another child. Wouldn’t work, anyway, because of the birth control.

  "Where do you want to go?" Kevin asked.

  "A path shows the remnants of the fort. There would be nice."

  They joined hands for the walk to the path, and Kevin carried the urn in his other hand. The wind slashed at Elena’s cheeks. A welcome pain.

  Goodbye, Isaiah.

  Elena wished she could upright his hourglass and start his life again. This time the sand would fall slow and steady. He would outlive her.

  I want you here, Frances. This doesn't feel right without you.

  "I love you," Kevin said.

  "Okay."

  "Isaiah, uh, he told me I ought to ask you on a date. Do right by you and marry you."

  Elena sighed. "So that’s what this has been about." You telling me you love me, that claptrap.

  Kevin swallowed. Looked at her with earnest eyes. "I don’t have a ring, but will you marry me, Elena?"

  "Kevin. Kevin, sweetie." She gave him a fierce hug. "We’re going to move on with our lives. You will meet someone and have your new kids. Do right by her and them. Love them the best you can. That's how you should honor our son."

  Kevin's gaze turned hurt, then took on a menacing glimmer. "Isaiah would be ashamed of you. His mom a whore."

  A fury Elena had never experienced welled inside her. "You love me. I believe it. But you hate me, too. More than you love me. You said at the hospital it wasn't my fault and that you didn't blame me. Obviously you do. I killed your son. Come on. Say that! Say that instead of calling me a whore!"

  Kevin removed the lid from the urn. "Fine," he whispered. "You killed him. But I do love you, Elena. I do. I know you're not a whore, and I'm sorry I said that."