Nicholas scarfed down his pie. "Gotta run soon," he said. "I'm meeting with patients at Thomas Memorial. Photo op. Want to come, Franny? How about it, Elena? They'd rather look at two beautiful women than this boring politician."

  "We have to be going soon. Something I need to say first." Frances took a last look around the table. Nicholas was licking his lips, probably thinking their mother had outdone herself with the pie--because she had. Christopher was texting under the table and pretending to listen to his grandfather's mumblings about his next sermon. Madeleine and Hannah stifled yawns. Frances latched onto a cardinal outside--a jarring smack of red against the brown leaves and brown sky. Shouldn’t the cardinal be south? Did cardinals migrate? Perhaps not. Frances’s mother picked at the pie. "Elena" was--Frances stopped herself from looking at her prostitute lover, afraid her courage would vanish.

  She thought of Nathaniel again, this child of her brother's who never had a spot at the table. After her announcement, she doubted she would have a spot.

  "I'm gay," Frances said.

  She must have whispered the words, because everyone went on as normal. Frances did not even detect tensing from the prostitute.

  "I'm gay," she said--louder. Focusing on the cardinal. He went still, cocked his head, and looked right into her eyes.

  She felt the prostitute's leg press into hers--showing her support. Frances felt a tear, and then two, leak. Tears left over from yesterday. The prostitute would not bowl with her. Would not--well, she might. If Frances did not push her away, did not sabotage them.

  Christopher's eyes went wide, and--wait. His texting. What if he leaked the news early, what if--Frances stopped herself. What was meant to happen would happen.

  Her mother got up and walked off. Frances heard water run in the kitchen, and her mother returned with a wet washcloth. She scrubbed at an old stain on the curtains behind the table.

  The cardinal flew off.

  "Frances." Her sister-in-law's voice was sympathetic. "Are you--you're sure?"

  "Yes."

  Frances mustered the courage to meet her father's gaze. He was a statue, unblinking. Disgusted. She found Nicholas. He stared and stared at her, horror and betrayal in his expression. He had sacrificed his son for his political future. He would surely do the same where his sister was concerned. Denounce her in public after she came out. So he could be re-elected.

  "I'm coming out to everyone," Frances continued. "But I wanted to tell you first."

  "The stain isn't coming out!" her mother mewled.

  "Forget the stain. I'm coming out. I'm your daughter."

  Nicholas stood. "You better go, Frances."

  I'm not Franny anymore.

  "Nicholas." Hannah touched his leg.

  "Don't be silly, Frances," her mother said. "You're not one of these people. We cured you."

  Her father hooked a finger at the prostitute. "You got your claws into her?"

  "No, sir. I'm very proud of her."

  "Proud of her?" He snorted. "You're one of these people, aren't you?"

  "I support her. I hope you will, too."

  "Do you know what happened to me at camp?" Frances asked.

  Her father's lips set in a grim line. "They did what they had to. You kept insisting you loved that girl."

  A tremor started in Frances's stomach and funneled its way to the corners of her body. They knew. They had known, damn them.

  "What?" Nicholas asked. "What happened at camp?"

  "I was beaten and raped."

  His jaw dropped. "You're lying."

  "I'm not lying. Come here. Feel my back, feel my scars."

  Nicholas swiveled his gaze toward their father. "Is that true?"

  "Honestly, Frances," her mother said. "You're stronger than this. You're disappointing us."

  "You're disappointing me."

  Her phone rang. The Marissa phone, playing a merry game of Pac Man. Wouldn’t be news. People called many times a day now. This was another update to say they had no updates.

  "Answer the phone," Nicholas said.

  "Not here." Frances held her hand out for the prostitute. "Let's go."

  *****

  Frances, her expression unreadable, her hands white fists around the steering wheel, pulled into a park. A sign proclaimed it the Roadside Park. It overlooked the Kanawha River and was on the other side of what passed for St. Albans's downtown. Elena's car was the only one in the lot.

  "Should be called Riverside Park," Elena commented. To break the chill silence.

  Frances walked to a picnic shelter. She sat ramrod straight atop a table and spoke into the Marissa phone for less than a minute. After Frances put the phone away, Elena got out. She stood beside her car, drawing comfort from the coolness of the air. Vehicles passed by, but the beating of American flags against their metal poles muffled the drone of the cars.

  Elena went to Frances. Frances was crying, and Elena slipped Frances's glasses off. She kissed the saltiness of Frances’s tears.

  "Did your dad really die when you were four?"

  "Yes, he did." Elena directed her attention to the river and to the houses and boats fronting the other side. She thought of Isaiah, as she did every time she encountered a body of water. Sunlight glittered off the river, and the scene was beautifully depressing.

  "What was the Marissa call about?"

  "About the lack of updates."

  "Mmm."

  "Say something," Frances urged.

  "I don't know what to say. You did good. Great. They--they--I don't know. I'm proud of you. Hope you know that."

  "I’m going to come out tomorrow morning. I won’t get as many cameras, but I’ll get it done with." Frances laughed. "Give people something to talk about at church."

  For a second, Elena saw herself at Frances’s side at the coming out. Elena replayed images of embarrassed, scorned wives next to their straying husbands. These women made her squeamish. She was not going to be one of these women, she was not going to stand with Frances Dourne. And she hated herself for it.

  "I wish I could be with you," Elena said.

  "No, you don’t. That’s okay. I made my bed myself. I am coming out alone. You’ve done more than enough."

  "Tomorrow night, we’ll celebrate at HoJo. I’ll bring something better than sheet cake and punch. I’ll surprise you."

  Frances smiled wanly. "And then I suppose we say goodbye. We wish each other well in our new lives."

  "Can I stay with you tonight? I don’t want to be anywhere else."

  Frances searched Elena's eyes. "I would love that. We should be okay at the penthouse. The media’s gone away. For now."

  "I wish--I wish…"

  "What?"

  Elena shook her head. "Wish so many things. Wish I could show you my place. Show you some things. Tell you some things, before it’s too late and you go away."

  "You could when we get back to town."

  "My mother lives with me. She’ll be home. She usually is."

  An incredulous look. "You live with your mother?"

  Elena watched cars travel over a bridge spanning the river. She wanted to trust someone, someone who would understand, and that someone was Frances.

  Elena mimicked slashing her wrists. "Mom moved in with me after. To keep an eye on me."

  "You--but--you don't have scars."

  "My best friend caught me in time."

  "Ah."

  Elena rubbed the base of her neck. I'm in public with Frances Dourne. She almost glanced back toward the parking lot.

  "Let's pretend you're taking me to your place," Frances said. "What are we doing?"

  "Hmm. I suppose I'm telling you about the condo building. It's the former Yale Steam Laundry, which used to wash White House linens. So-so neighborhood, but on the rise. Good investment."

  "More of an investment than a home?"

  "I suppose. I don't know."

  "What floor are we on?"

  "Third."

  "Okay, so we walk to your unit. You try the door. Is it locked or unlocked?"

  "Locked, so I let us in with my key. I call for my mother. No reply. She must be napping in her bedroom. So, we're in the living room. There are books, lots and lots of books. The bookcase spans one wall, floor to ceiling. A ladder rests against the case."

  "Wow. I'm tempted to climb it and explore."

  Elena could not help but chuckle. She was tempted to climb Frances and explore her. The image of Frances making love to her, true love, with kissing, of breasts like apples and nipples like candy, implanted itself in Elena's mind.

  Elena cast her eyes downward. "The floor is wooden," she said. "Laminate, actually. It's shiny but has a few scratches. The place is pretty clean, thanks to my mother."

  "You have a lot of books," Frances said.

  "I love reading. I suppose at this point, I'll pluck a book at random. Let's see. Bill Clinton's My Life. I love all sorts of fiction, but my favorites are biographies and autobiographies. People are fascinating."

  "Are you a Clinton fan?"

  "Sure. I'm a fan of most anyone. All people have their strengths and weaknesses."

  "Is my book on the shelf?"

  "Right now, it's in my briefcase. So, I take your hand." Elena clasped her hand over Frances's. "I show you my bedroom, get my briefcase out, maybe you sign my book."

  "I'd sign it something like: 'Thank you for helping me write my next book.' "

  Elena grinned. "And then we'd go down the hallway. I'd show you my mother's door. Remind you to be quiet because she's napping. Near her door is the office. There's a desk. And a clock. Recognize the clock?"

  A wide grin, a light in Frances's eyes. "You picked the perfect spot for it."

  "I knew right away where it would go. Next to the clock is a framed photo of a boy with tousled red curls and blue eyes. He was my son. His name was Isaiah."

  "Isaiah."

  "I liked being his mother. I did. I liked being a mom. But I can understand how you didn't exactly like--I mean… I would wonder sometimes what my life would be like if I had never gotten pregnant. I never thought I would find out." Elena exposed one of her wrists. "Some people tattoo names, and I wanted scars to feel closer to Isaiah. The bracelets did okay. They helped me feel closer to him than the sand did."

  "Can I feel your wrist?"

  "Yes."

  Frances ran her fingers over the nonexistent scar, and her heat prickled Elena's skin.

  "He drowned three years ago while I was reading a book on the beach. That's why I tried to kill myself. My son died because I was engrossed in a book. Mother of the Year, right? His hair and his skin tasted of salt and seaweed, and I'll have to live with that taste the rest of my life.

  "And why I became a call girl, okay. About three months before Isaiah died, I was planning a party for a client. She took me out to lunch to thank me. She said I had the perfect look for an escort and that I could be making so much more money. I told her thanks but no thanks. I have nothing against sex. Sex is nothing to be ashamed of. Just wasn't the job for me. She gave me her card anyway. I didn't remember what I did with it. Isaiah was brain dead for five days. I kept him hooked up to machines, hoping, praying for a miracle. When I got it through my thick skull that wasn't going to happen, Kevin and I told the doctors to disconnect him, donate his organs, save lives, all that jazz. I went home, got into the bathtub, and began to slit my wrist.

  "My best friend Felicianna found me. I was back in the hospital for a while. On the crazies ward. When I got home, for some reason, I remembered the card. I turned the place upside down looking for it. I found it in a book packed away in a box. I didn't want to think anymore. Didn't want to be a party planner anymore. This would be easy money, and I could pay off bills and give my mother what she deserved, and best of all, I could do it without feeling anything. I looked in the mirror. My hair was stringy, and I had circles the size of Jupiter under my eyes. I waited two weeks, until I looked better, and called the madam. At that point, I realized I'd had the woman's phone number and email address in my clients contact list. I hadn't needed the damn business card in the first place." Elena chuckled. "I told her what happened, about Isaiah's death and me being in the hospital. She said not to worry, I was perfect, and I passed the background check and psych exam. She put me right to work. Eleven months later, I was blowing the king of England." Elena paused. "Have I answered all the questions in your letter?"

  "The king? Wow. Albert?"

  Elena looked away. "Your brother will come around. He needs time."

  "Perhaps you're right."

  *****

  Ten minutes later, they had not moved. The beating of the flags was soothing. Frances looked into the prostitute's eyes and kissed her wrists.

  Isaiah.

  Drowned.

  Albert X.

  The jealousy came slowly, creeping over Frances. Not a raging jealousy, but jealousy nonetheless. Frances wanted this woman. Wanted her to herself. But Frances was not sure she was ready for a relationship. "I’m sorry I was an idiot yesterday."

  The prostitute smiled, and the sunlight played with the flecks in her eyes. She leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek. "I wouldn’t have let you leave, Frances."

  A gray car with an orange door rolled into the parking lot. Parked a few spots from the prostitute's car. A man and a boy got out. Frances nudged the prostitute. "We better go."

  "Guess so." The prostitute did not budge, though.

  "People shouldn't see us together."

  "I know."

  "Does your mom eventually wake up from the nap she's having at your condo?"

  "Sure."

  "What does she look like?" The man and boy descended a staircase and ambled along the river.

  "Her hair is going white. She’s wearing a sweat suit. Sleep lines etch her face. She looks more like my grandmother than mother. I say, uh, I suppose I say: 'There you are. We were on our way out, but I’d like you to meet a client of mine. Ma, this is Frances Dourne. Frances, this is Brenda, my mother."

  "Is that really her name?"

  "Yes, and my son's name was really Isaiah."

  "And your name, is it really Elena?"

  The prostitute gave her a sad smile. Sad-mysterious, the smile from the photo album. "Do you want my name to be Elena?"

  "I--I don’t know." Fantasies were easier to deal with than reality.

  "Okay. Okay."

  Frances pictured the prostitute's mother. The woman’s brows would be furrowed. Frances would approach Brenda and hold her hand out. "Your daughter has told me many good things about you."

  The mother would glance toward the living room, where the TV was, as if Frances had just stepped from it. More furrowed brows. "You're Frances Dourne," she would say slowly.

  Frances would want to crawl away. Why had she waited, why the hell had she waited to come out? Why hadn't she come out as soon as she saw Nathaniel's body and knew she was ready? "Yes, ma'am. I'm Frances Dourne."

  "Why are you here?"

  "I’m planning a party for her," the prostitute would say. "We’re picking up a few things."

  Brenda’s eyes were round, and her expression spoke for her. She knew her daughter was a prostitute. How could she not? Perhaps the prostitute did not want to acknowledge it, but her mother knew. Always had. And she was thinking: You're screwing my daughter, my beautiful, innocent daughter. You two-faced hypocrite. I was feeling sorry for you before, but now I see you for who you are. You don't deserve your child back.

  Frances would be unable to say more. Anything would sound blank, hollow.

  "Why would you do that to her?" Brenda would ask. "Play with her emotions?"

  "It’s not what it looks like."

  Frances shook herself out of her reverie. "Your mother knows," Frances said. "She knows what you do."

  "Maybe," the prostitute acknowledged.

  Another car entered the parking lot.

  "All right," the prostitute said with a sigh. "Let's hit the road."

  Chapter 29

  Elena drove first and stopped in Morgantown for gas and snacks. Frances used the bathroom, and Elena checked her phone. Felicianna had left a message.

  "Hey, babe," the message went. "We haven't talked for a while." Well, no, Elena added, not since I found out you trapped me with a PI. "Anyway, I remembered you were looking at hourglasses. A local artist brought some in. They're amazing, if you're interested. I’ll be at the store all day. They'll go fast." Click.

  Elena put the phone up. She was not interested in hourglasses. Marissa had her gift. But she did need to see Felicianna and resolve how they betrayed each other. It could wait. Her focus was Frances, only Frances.

  *****

  Elena watched from Frances's bed as Frances set her clothes out. Frances was naked, too, except for her necklace. Elena admired her flat stomach, the ripeness of her breasts, the curve of her butt. Am I crazy to let her go?

  Frances seemed ready for the morning. During the drive back from West Virginia, she made the arrangements for her press conference. Nine a.m., at GIC. Frances had hinted lightly that it was a coming-out announcement, so Elena was sure plenty of press would show.

  Elena was having second thoughts about Frances’s hair. "Maybe you should leave your hair down tomorrow."

  "Why?"

  "I’m remembering our first night at HoJo. With your hair down. You were beautiful. I can’t believe that was only, what, four weeks ago?"

  Frances smiled, but her eyes held a lethal calmness. No doubt masking turmoil about the day ahead. "What’s your coming-out story?"

  Elena grimaced. "You have a few minutes?"

  "All the time for you."

  "I was nearly nine months pregnant. Surprised I hadn't popped already. Two days before my due date, my mom was picking me up from UVa to take me home for the summer. She had no idea I was pregnant. I hadn't seen her since winter break. I was five to six months then but not showing too bad. Freshman 15 and loose clothes, all that. I agonized during winter break about telling her. In the end, I couldn't. She'd worked so hard to see I got in a good school, and I knew she wouldn't let me be in Charlottesville, alone and pregnant without family. She'd disrupt her life and move to be with me. So…" Elena laughed. "My mom drove an ugly brown station wagon named Chocolate. She parked. Got out. I was on the sidewalk, suitcase at my side. She looked me over. She asked, calm as could be: 'Are you going to have a baby, dear?' I burst into tears. I said yes, I was, I was due very soon, in two days actually. I told her not to worry, I'd taken care of everything. I had a 4.0 GPA. I was transferring to George Mason, where I could commute. I told her I was leaning toward keeping the baby but was still thinking about adoption. Bottom line, I told her everything would be fine."