She hung up and breathed in an anxious sigh. What she was going to talk to Frances about, she had no freaking idea.

  *****

  About ten minutes before the king was set to arrive, Elena, Cindi and Jacqueline headed into a bathroom to warm up. Warming up was common with group work. Going in cold was awkward. They were putting on a performance, and like any quality performance, needed to practice. They needed to get used to the feel of one another. They kept their clothes on, but Jacqueline put her arms around Cindi. Their kiss was convincing, lots of tongue.

  "Looks good," Elena said. Albert X liked tongue.

  Cindi snaked her hands up Jacqueline's skirt and necked her. Jacqueline moaned, too loud, too theatrically.

  "Tone it down," Elena suggested.

  "He likes the moans," Jacqueline protested.

  "Not that loud."

  "He wears hearing aids now," Jacqueline argued. "The louder the better."

  Elena could see the dollar signs in Jacqueline's eyes. Last year, the king had tipped each of them five thousand. "Fine," Elena said. She was not in the mood to debate.

  Cindi kissed her next, and Elena squeezed her eyes shut. Frances. Frances. The kiss was not a lover's, not sweet, but smothering, rough and wet. What the king liked.

  "Loosen up, Elena," Jacqueline said. "You're stiff."

  "You two warm up. I'll watch."

  "What's wrong?" Jacqueline asked.

  "Got a lot on my mind."

  Cindi took Elena in her arms again, kissed her neck, licked it. Nibbled her earlobe. Whispered: "Can you do this?"

  "Yes." But I'm quitting. Tonight. She would go out with a bang. The king of England as her last client. Could not get better than that.

  "Jackie, let us talk for a minute," Cindi said.

  A glower. "Fine." Jacqueline left the bathroom.

  "You're rigid as a--" Cindi laughed. "As a penis. Jackie's right. You gotta loosen up."

  "I'm done. After tonight. Time to quit."

  "Done? Because of that client?"

  "Because of a lot of things."

  Cindi nodded.

  "Don't worry. I'll do my job. I won't cost you and Jackie tip money."

  Cindi tucked a strand of Elena's hair behind her ear. "I know you won't. What's she like?"

  "She's…" What to say? She's great? That conveyed nothing. She's sweet? She helps me feel again? "She's…it doesn't matter. We're not going to be together."

  "Is she married?"

  "Yes." Technically.

  "Stay with me tonight," Cindi said. "Mark can sleep in the other bedroom. I'll get your mind off her. We can watch cheese ball movies and fuck and I'll show you a neat little trick to make you come really--"

  "Thanks, but no."

  Cindi winked and kissed Elena quickly on the mouth. "Offer's open anytime." She opened the bathroom door and called for Jacqueline.

  *****

  "Hello, girls." Albert Reginald Charles William Louis X greeted them with a twinkle in his eyes. His voice had a unique, gravelly force.

  "Your Majesty," Elena, Cindi and Jacqueline chorused. They curtsied in unison.

  The king brought a finger to his chin. "Let's see." He studied each of them and pointed a finger. "Elena. Cindi. Jacqueline."

  For the king of England, you used your real names. Professional courtesy.

  "Yes, sir," they replied.

  "What a great memory you have," Cindi added.

  He laughed. "In my line of work, you got to exercise the gray cells." He stifled a yawn. "I'm bloody bushed, girls."

  "What can we do for you, sir?" Jacqueline asked.

  "I'm old," he said flatly. "Three girls? What was I thinking? What did we do last year?"

  Elena looked into his face as Jacqueline answered. His eyes were becoming rheumy with old age, and she thought about her own mother. Pictured Brenda with the king. Funny.

  Albert yawned again, the yawn bringing tears. "Sounds good. Let's do that again."

  Albert showed them into his bedroom. Like the year before, he changed into pajamas, blue pinstripes. He got into bed, removed his hearing aids and arched his eyebrows expectantly.

  Elena, standing at the foot of the bed, put her arms around Jacqueline. They kissed, and Jacqueline moaned. Way too loudly. Hurt Elena's ears. Great. But the king did not have his hearing aids in, so--

  "Hey. Hey." Cindi poked them. "Look. He's asleep."

  Well, maybe Elena would not go out with a bang, per se. Thank God.

  *****

  When Elena got home, she called Branaugh Party Planning & Catering. Her former boss was Betsy Branaugh, a sweet, gracious, matronly woman. She was a night owl, and eleven o'clock was early to her.

  "Elena! How nice to hear from you. Please tell me you're coming back."

  Elena laughed. Every time she and Betsy talked, Betsy tried to persuade her to rejoin the fold. "Yes, Betsy. I'm coming back. Is the Monday after Thanksgiving okay?"

  Betsy whooped. "Yesterday's better, but I'll take your deal."

  Chapter 27

  Frances wore a gray newsboy cap and a thick scarf. She also wore her glasses, and her hair was down. She almost turned back to the parking lot as she walked toward the Howard Johnson room. She was not sure she was ready to handle whatever the prostitute threw her way. Excitement and anxiety had bubbled inside Frances since she played the prostitute's message, but now she was all anxiety.

  Because.

  Because this was a personal meeting. Don't bring money. Frances had brought money, anyway. She had missed the prostitute, no question. The heat of them together, their nakedness, their laughs. Frances had wanted to call all week.

  The prostitute wore a green sweater and tan corduroys. And a tentative smile. I missed you, Frances thought. Very much.

  The prostitute's smile gave way to a relieved: "Frances. You're here."

  "Of course I'm here."

  "Cute hat."

  "Thanks." Uncomfortable silence.

  The prostitute sighed. Wrung her hands. "I'll get to the point. I know you're busy, but I wanted to tell you in person. I quit the service. I'm a party planner again."

  The words ricocheted off Frances's brain. She could not absorb them yet, but she smiled feebly. "Quit? Wow." The words began to sink in, hard and painful.

  Quit.

  Party planner.

  Shit. No. You quit? No more us?

  The prostitute grinned, a happy, dancing smile, and Frances felt alone, very alone. "I start the Monday after Thanksgiving back at my old job. I miss it. I miss my life."

  Frances pretended her knees were not shaky and that she did not want to cry. "Why did you quit?"

  "No one reason in particular. Remember last time we were here? I was having a bad day."

  "I remember." We kissed. You let me inside you. You told me your real name. Maybe.

  "I don't even want to say it, it's so stupid. Two of my friends, one of them my best friend, hired a PI. He posed as one of my clients. They trapped me. My own best friend. She was worried about me. She knew I'd been lying to her. And, I don't know. My best friend couldn't tell me. How did she and I get to this point? How did I get to this point? I'm tired of hiding."

  "Right. All right. Wow. Congratulations. Well, we should cel--thanks for telling me in person. Appreciate it." She pasted on a nonchalant smile. "Guess this is goodbye, then." She would need to get out soon, very soon, to avoid crying in front of the prostitute.

  I’m dumped. Great. Dumped. And quite possibly in love. No, not in love. She could not be in love with a person whose name she was unsure of. A person she had known less than a month. In that instant, Frances wanted to offer the prostitute all her money. Her penthouse. If only the prostitute would promise to stay. All the prostitute had done for her, the prostitute's smile, her touches, her kisses. Her lovemaking. The prostitute might be the only friend she had in the world.

  Except the prostitute was not her friend. Or lover. Never had been.

  Frances cleared her throat. "Do I owe you any money?"

  The prostitute reached for Frances.

  "No," Frances said. "Don’t touch me." Wetness stirred in her eyes, and she blinked her tears back.

  "Frances." Urgent tones. "I think you misunderstand. I--no. No. I said this all wrong. I'm not abandoning you. I will still help you. You can continue to pay me. We'll arrange everything through my personal cell. No more business cell, no more booking agent. Listen for the really good news. Pay me half of what you usually do. There isn’t a service anymore to take half. And you don't need to tip."

  Frances had said she would not end up like Randy, an emotional wreck, a shattered shell of a person, practically living in the gutter, and she was not going to. She would not be weak. Would not become addicted to a prostitute, dependent on a prostitute. She would face herself, her demons and her family alone. "I’m not going to keep you in prostitution. We ought to celebrate your quitting. I’ll order a pizza to be delivered or something. And then we say goodbye."

  "No, that’s not what I--" The prostitute took a shaky breath. "Frances. Don’t do this. Please."

  Frances shook her head. "You know what? I'm ready to get a life, too. My brother's in West Virginia already. I’ll leave right now, and I'll come out tomorrow to my family. Get it over with." Smile. Turn. Exit gracefully. "Here’s, uh…" Frances opened her briefcase and got an envelope.

  The prostitute stared at it. Then at Frances. All traces of her merriment had vanished. "Frances. I could--I’ll go with you."

  No. Why drag this out? She would cry in the car, sure. Probably cry for half the drive. Heck, all of the drive. But then she would be all right. The prostitute would be fine, too. Perfectly fine. She probably was fine already. Acting again.

  Frances laid the envelope on the bed. She held out her hand. "Thank you for--" Words were inadequate. "For everything."

  "Okay," the prostitute said. Slowly. Numbly. "Okay. Are you--you’re not keeping me in prostitution, you know. I’m--oh hell." She took Frances’s hand. Shook it. "Your letter asked if I'd like you if you were not paying me. You asked if we could have become friends."

  "We're not friends. Or going to be."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Fine. Want to go bowling, say, next Friday? After I come out to the public? With cameras in our faces, with flashes blinding you? People looking at you weird? Reporters yelling questions? And when the pictures and videos go public, answering questions from your family and friends about why you were with me?"

  The prostitute let go of Frances’s hand. "I said I would go to West Virginia with you. Please let me do that. That was part of our agreement. Frances, I don’t want to be in prostitution any longer than I have to be, believe me. We go to West Virginia tonight, come back tomorrow. And then that’s it. Okay? But I’m going with you. I promised I would. I don’t break my promises."

  Weariness pressed down on Frances. Infiltrated every nook, every crack, of her body. She no longer had the strength to debate, to argue.

  "Get the envelope. It’s yours," Frances said. "And we’ll go."

  The prostitute smiled. "To West Virginia?"

  "Yes. To West Virginia."

  *****

  The prostitute's car was a red Nissan Altima Coupe. Fit her. She took the wheel first, her hair long and vibrant. "I'm so nervous and excited for you," she said. "I can't imagine how you're feeling."

  While the prostitute drove, Frances called Nicholas and her parents. They arranged to have lunch at the parents' house tomorrow. Frances had not been home since Easter. Whenever she visited, she stayed in a hotel. She never wanted to spend another night in the house she grew up in. St. Albans depressed her. The skies were perpetually gray, drab and overcast, especially in the fall and winter. There was nothing vibrant about the town. The people, houses and schools were downtrodden. Frances was so glad she had escaped.

  In Morgantown, West Virginia, Frances took over the driving. At two a.m., she rolled up to the Travelodge in Dunbar, right outside Charleston. The motel was about twenty minutes from her parents' house. St. Albans was so small it had no decent motels.

  The prostitute was asleep, and Frances stole a kiss on her cheek. "Be right back," she murmured. "I'll check us in."

  The clerk at the front desk mumbled that check-out time was eleven a.m. and was that okay with her.

  "Yes."

  He did not recognize her until he saw the name on her credit card. "Frances Dourne?" He squinted up. "Good golly! I went to high school with your parents." He shook her hand. "Jack Davidson."

  She went through the usual photo and autograph, and then returned to the car. "We're here," she whispered.

  "Let's sleep naked," the prostitute murmured.

  *****

  Elena awoke in Frances's arms. Sun streamed through the drawn curtains, and Frances's hair was like a halo around her. Elena's heart hurt.

  She did not want to lose Frances. Had come too close yesterday. She craned her neck and checked the clock. Ten a.m. She nuzzled Frances's neck and earlobe.

  "That feels good." Frances intensified her grip on Elena.

  "It's ten. Better get up soon if you want to shower. I probably will."

  Frances kept her eyes closed.

  Elena studied the eyelids of the odd eyes that fascinated her. The pink, full lips she wanted to kiss. The game of pretend was getting old. She mustered a smile and brushed her lips against Frances's cheek. "We could shower together." How did I get here? How did we get here, and so fast? Frances, am I falling in love with you and how do I stop before we get hurt?

  Frances's eyes fluttered open, revealing their beautiful blue. "Together? That would be nice."

  "Then let’s get up, sleepyhead." They had not kissed on the mouth since last week, and Elena did not dare try a kiss again. Let Frances do it.

  "I have to pee first," Frances said.

  Elena grinned. "We can do that together too, if you want. I'll show you how."

  Chapter 28

  Frances drove past Lakewood Elementary School. Her parents' house, the house she and Nicholas had grown up in, was just past the train tracks, less than a minute's drive from the school. The house was a split-level on a hilly yard. She wanted back in the hotel room, in the security of the prostitute. Instead, she pulled the car into the driveway. She felt again the prostitute atop her on the toilet. Frances looking into the prostitute's eyes. Frances's shy bladder, her temptation to giggle, then finally, the flow.

  Crazy stuff they got up to together, and Frances could not help but wonder how much more would lay in store for them if…if only. If only this was real life.

  The prostitute squeezed her hand. "How you feeling? You ready?"

  "As ready as I'll be. Are you Jan or Elena today?"

  The prostitute's eyes narrowed, but before she could reply, Frances’s father bounded out of the house. Despite being eighty-three, he moved easily. He drew Frances in for a hug, and she went stiff, as she often did with him.

  "Frannie Bean. You need to eat more!"

  She squirmed out of his grasp. "This is my friend."

  "Elena," she said, shaking his hand. "Very pleased to meet you, sir."

  Frances's mother hovered in the doorway. A perfunctory hug, another introduction for "Elena."

  *****

  Congressman Nicholas Wellington was friendlier than Elena expected. He asked her questions. Joked with her. Obviously thought the world of his sister. He looked at Frances with a fond affection that he did not bestow on his wife, Hannah. Hannah was friendly enough. Maybe victim of one too many facelifts. She had a robotic, mannequin-like face that did not match the wrinkles and veins on her hands. Their children, Christopher, fifteen, and Madeleine, seventeen, were polite.

  Despite Nicholas’s questions, most of the conversation revolved around Marissa. The hotline call.

  "I still don't understand why you gave that child to Daniel," Frances's mother said. "So she was crying. So what?"

  Anger flushed Frances's face. "We are not discussing this again."

  Frances's mother shook her head. "I just don't understand," she muttered under her breath.

  Frances kept sending tight smiles in her brother's direction. Nicholas was probably the family member Frances was most afraid of losing. She likely had distanced herself emotionally from her parents long ago. They had to have some inkling of the goings-on at camp.

  Nicholas asked Elena during the salad course about her parents. "My father died when I was four. Bar fight gone bad. My mom raised me and my two sisters by herself. They're older than I am, my sisters."

  Frances threw her a questioning gaze. Elena squeezed her knee. Yes, it’s true.

  "Family's important," Nicholas said.

  "Mmm."

  "You married?"

  "No."

  "Divorced?"

  "No, never been married."

  He winked. "You'll find the right guy. When you stop looking, that's when you'll meet him."

  Elena forced a grin.

  "Not all women want to be married, Daddy," his daughter said.

  "Er--right. I was being polite, sweetheart. Forgive me, Elena."

  Madeleine flashed Elena a smile. "Daddy's old-fashioned. I love him, anyway."

  Elena took pity on Nicholas. "You're right, though. About finding someone when you're not looking. That's when it happens." That's how I met your sister, after all.

  *****

  Frances kept waiting for the bombshell to explode from her mouth. It did not come during the soup and salad. Or during the main course--roast beef, potatoes and carrots. Nor during the dessert of peanut butter pie.

  Frances had said the words: "I'm gay" every damn minute of the meal. But in her mind.