"Why are you smiling like that?"

  "I don't know, Ma. Can't I smile?"

  Brenda’s expression was skeptical.

  Frances’s words: Your mother knows.

  "I’m not sure I buy it," Brenda said.

  Elena froze. "What?"

  "That child was kidnapped. She was taken from her backwards, homophobic mother."

  Elena felt the hollow at her neck pulsate and deepen. "What is your point?"

  "She gets a call from her daughter and then, only then, comes out? Right. As soon as Marissa is back--if she comes back--Frances Dourne is going right back into the closet."

  "No, Ma. No."

  "What's going on?"

  Elena wanted to tell her mother, to shout: I love Frances Dourne, she's a good person, and I'm proud to know her.

  "Elena?"

  "Frances is--she planned this long before Marissa called. Frances is gay, and she is sorry for what she has done. She’s not going back in the closet. Period."

  "You know this how?"

  "You asked if I was seeing someone. The answer is yes. I’m seeing Frances Dourne."

  Brenda actually laughed.

  "You asked where I went one night about two weeks ago. Do you remember what you were watching on TV the morning after that?"

  The merriment drained from Brenda's gaze. "The news of Marissa’s call."

  "That’s right. I went to be with Frances. She was in shock. You see the necklace she wears all the time? The hourglass? I gave it to her."

  Brenda forced a smile. "She said she was not seeing anyone."

  "We’re going to talk tonight." Elena folded her hands in her lap. "Frances says you must know what I’ve been up to the past two years. Do you?"

  A terse nod. "More or less."

  "Okay."

  "So many times I wanted to--I don’t know. At first, I was glad you were working again. When I thought you were at your party planning job again. Then all the calls, the timing…" Brenda shook her head. "I knew something was off."

  "I wish you had said something."

  "I thought you wouldn’t want me to."

  Elena sighed. "That, too."

  "Frances said she was not seeing a prostitute."

  "She lied. To protect me." Elena rose and grabbed her coat. "I have to get out of here, Ma. I’ll be back later."

  *****

  Elena went to Fort Scott Park. Isaiah's pile was gone. Already. She sat on a swing, and when she was finished feeling sorry for herself, she left a message on Frances's phone. "You did perfect. I am so lucky to know you." I love you.

  Okay. She had a celebration to plan. A celebration without sheet cake and punch. Preparations had been lingering in the back of her mind for the past few days, but she had no idea what she should bring or what she should do. She would see Felicianna first. Get that thorn resolved.

  *****

  Felicianna was showing a customer the store's selection of antique coins and maps. Elena found the hourglasses and traced their edges, some rough, some smooth. She turned the hourglasses upside down and studied how the sand fell. Their falls were elegant.

  "Elena. Hey. Like them?"

  "They're exquisite."

  "Twenty-five percent off for you."

  "No, that's all right. Thanks, though." Elena surveyed the store. Empty. "We need to talk."

  "Yeah, we do." Felicanna flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

  Elena wet her lips. "I'm sorry you didn't know me anymore. I'm sorry I lied to you and that you felt the need to hire a PI. I wanted a place to myself. A little cave to myself."

  Felicianna blinked. Turned pale. "Elena--"

  Elena held her hand up. "Stop. Don't. There's nothing you can say that--just don't. Okay?"

  Felicianna swallowed and nodded.

  "I'm done. I've quit. I start back with Betsy after Thanksgiving."

  "Good."

  "I love you. I do. We have been through so much together. You saved my life. But…" Elena sighed. "It's time to say goodbye."

  Felicianna's expression turned stricken. "Why?"

  Elena met her gaze. She wondered what was playing through Felicianna's mind. Perhaps the first time they met, when Elena and four-year-old Isaiah entered another antiques store and met a cute, helpful clerk. The clerk's nervous gaze, her pink cheeks. The way their eyes met and their secret smile.

  Their trips, to amusement parks, to the beach, to museums. Felicianna shaking her before she could cut farther into her wrist. Their first kiss, two nights after Elena was back home from her suicide attempt. The luminous glow in Felicianna's body as they had sex, the dread in Elena's own heart.

  Felicianna's hopeful gaze that said: "I love you, Elena," and Elena's non-answers.

  Elena's mind spun with ways to explain the end of their relationship. Clarity remained elusive. "You betrayed me. You crossed a line," she said, but that was not the reason. Not entirely. As long as she remained friends with Felicianna, she was providing an opportunity for Felicianna to hope.

  Felicianna reached into her pocket and came out with her iPhone. "Will you stop texting, goddammit," she muttered.

  Across from Elena was a porcelain doll. His eyes were creepy, stuffed dead-deer creepy.

  Felicanna replaced her phone. "Will you answer me one question? With the truth."

  "Yes."

  "Please, please don't lie like you have been doing. I will believe your answer, whatever it is."

  "What is your question?"

  Felicianna's face turned angry. "Are you fucking Frances Dourne? Or were you?"

  What the hell?

  "Felicianna," was all Elena could say.

  "How did she brainwash you? Is she that good in bed, Elena? Or did she dangle enough money in front of you and--oh! I know. She fed you some sob story about missing Marissa, and you bit it, hooker, line and sinker."

  "Shut up."

  "We would have been good together, Elena, you and I."

  "No. Never."

  "Why her? There must be a reason you accepted her. Why not me? I love you, Elena. I love you. We would be so, so good together. But you won't give us a chance!"

  "I don't know what to say."

  "The truth."

  "Why do you think I'm seeing Frances Dourne? Is that what Darren told you?"

  "He didn't have to tell me anything. You made it clear."

  "Me?"

  "Tabs in her memoir. Highlights. Analyzing it. Giving her your necklace. Buying her a damn $300 hourglass!"

  "I did no such--"

  "Don't lie! You owe me honesty."

  Elena faltered in the silence that engulfed them. Tabs. Highlights. Oh, hell. She had been careful to keep the memoir in her briefcase after she started the tabs and highlights. "You broke into my briefcase."

  "How could you screw her?"

  Elena shifted her focus back to the porcelain doll. She ought to drop it. The sound of it shattering would be comforting. "Frances came out this morning. Did you know that?"

  "Came out where?"

  "The closet! She called a press conference and came out."

  "Uh-huh."

  Elena stared into the doll's eyes. "I have been working with her, yes."

  "Working with her how?"

  "Fine. I’ve been screwing her."

  Felicianna slumped. "Why?"

  Elena took a deep breath. "I understand you were worried about me, but you shouldn't have gone into my briefcase."

  "I know," Felicianna muttered. "I'm very sorry."

  Elena considered a quick hug but settled for an awkward pat. "Take care of yourself." She left Antiques by Anna and her best friend. Former best friend.

  *****

  Felicianna kept the store closed after Elena left. She locked herself in her office. Cried a little. Checked the news on her computer, saw the headlines about Frances Dourne coming out.

  She played the coming-out video on her computer. She perked up at the end.

  A rumor has been floating the past few years that you saw a prostitute. True?

  Yes. I did three years ago, for a few months. I left the experience more demoralized than ever.

  And you haven’t been to another?

  Intense, honest-looking blue eyes. No, sir. I have not. I am done hiding.

  What a crock of shit. Frances was still hiding. And Elena was helping her do it. How could Elena not see that Frances was using her, brainwashing her? Frances was only coming out to get her child back and was playing on Elena's guilt about Isaiah's death.

  Felicianna ran a finger over her iPhone. No one had been texting her earlier. Part of her hoped the recording would be clear enough. Part of her hoped not. She was done babying Elena. If Elena was going to be Frances's Dourne's co-conspirator, fine. But Felicianna wasn't going to be part of the cozy little gang.

  Chapter 32

  Elena became aware of a ringringring, her cellphone. She raised a bleary eye toward the caller ID and the time. Natalie, her eldest sister, two-thirty p.m. "Hey, Nat."

  She was calling to confirm Thanksgiving plans at Elena's condo. She and her family would be traveling from Rochester, New York, and would arrive Wednesday night.

  A few seconds after the call with Natalie, the phone rang again. The number was unfamiliar, but Elena answered. Maybe Frances was calling from another phone.

  "Hello," said a calm, deep male voice. "My name is Matt Lord. I run the website called--"

  "I know who you are." Matt Lord made a living on gossip and from exposing celebrities and secrets.

  "Am I speaking to Elena Marie Elise?"

  Hang up.

  He must have interpreted her silence as a yes. "Did you give Frances Dourne that charming hourglass necklace?"

  The question caught her off guard.

  "Ms. Elise?"

  "No comment."

  "Are you a prostitute servicing Frances Dourne, or were you recently?"

  Now this was what she expected; nevertheless, a vise squeezed her lungs. "I have no comment. Goodbye." She hung up.

  How? How? Shit. Shit. Shit! It couldn't have been her mother. So who? Felicianna? She wouldn't.

  Elena found her mother in the living room. "If anyone calls about me, or about me and Frances, tell them no comment. Including Natalie and Sarah. Okay?"

  "They’re your sisters."

  "For now. Just for now, until I know what’s going on."

  Elena retreated to her bedroom and left a frantic message with Frances. These years of friendship with Felicianna. Didn't they count for anything?

  The police might come for Elena. Jail.

  Elena shivered. One step at a time. The police probably would not bother to investigate. For one thing, they did not know the jurisdictions where the sex had taken place--the alleged sex.

  But if the public outrage was high enough…

  In Virginia, where Frances lived, and one of the locations where she had paid for sex with Elena, being a prostitute was a Class 1 misdemeanor, with jail for up to twelve months and/or a fine of up to $2,500.

  Paying for sex was a Class 4 felony, with imprisonment for two years to ten years and a fine of up to $100,000. Marissa’s going to be found, and both her parents will go to jail.

  Calm down. Elena knew from orientation that the chances of her being arrested were basically nil. If worst came to worst, all she had to do was drop hints about the VIPs the agency had serviced. But these thoughts were cold comfort at the moment.

  She pictured public hysteria, moral outrage and prosecutors from Maryland and Virginia slapping her and Frances with a laundry list of charges.

  What about the IRS? Lying about her job on tax returns, although she had been careful to exactly record her earnings and submit the proper taxes?

  Thank God Frances had not let her come this morning.

  Jail.

  Record.

  Frances, Frances, Frances.

  I love you.

  Felicianna, how could you?

  Marissa.

  Mom.

  Me.

  Fantasy world. Real world.

  Elena could contact one of the lawyers the agency kept on call, but she liked the guy who helped her with the police after Isaiah’s death. She called him at home.

  *****

  Barry Blackmun, a religion reporter from The Washington Post, was polite. He was a graying, bespectacled man. Frances had granted him a private interview. She knew him from previous interviews and that he would do his best to present the story fairly.

  "That's a beautiful necklace," he asked at the beginning of the interview. "Where did you get it?"

  "From a friend."

  The interview went well, until he paused at her office door on his way out. "Are you absolutely sure you saw one prostitute?"

  "Yes."

  Barry flexed his fists. "I like you. Your coming out was sincere."

  "It was."

  "I'm going to give you a heads up. Do you know who Matt Lord is?"

  Uh-oh. Frances kept her expression neutral. "Yes."

  "Is that necklace really from a friend? Or from a prostitute?"

  How the heck could he know that? "No comment."

  After Barry left, Frances loaded Matt’s website, The Matt Lord Report. Nothing yet.

  Yet.

  Frances called the prostitute. "We have a problem," Frances said.

  "It’s my fault. Someone I thought was my friend is not." The prostitute’s voice was strangely calm. Bordering on numbness.

  "Care to elaborate?"

  "No."

  "What do they have on us?" Frances asked.

  "I’m not sure."

  "We are at a point early enough that we can control how the news comes out. We can spin it the best way possible."

  "I called my lawyer. He said to admit to nothing. He also said I don’t have anything to worry about. The police can’t get us. They have to have names, locations, dates, times, witnesses, proof. The less we say, the better."

  "It will be fine. It will."

  "What about your doormen? What if they run their mouths?"

  "You visited me at my home. No one knows what we did inside. No one can. Only you and I know. We didn’t have sex. Okay? I paid you for one reason, one reason only. You helped me plan my coming out. Your lawyer is right. The police can’t get us because you and I won’t turn on each other. That’s the only way the cops can get us."

  "What happens if we tell the truth?"

  "I’m thinking an e-mailed statement to the media."

  "How would it go?"

  "I’m opening Microsoft Word."

  "Don’t! Don’t type anything."

  Frances closed the computer program. "I won’t. Uh…okay." She leaned back in her chair. "Okay, all right. This morning when I came out, I was not forthright about if I was seeing a prostitute. I promised her that I would not bring her into my mess. I was seeking help coming out, and she has been a true friend. Unfortunately, events have conspired that…uh. She has nothing to do with…please respect her privacy and direct your questions and concerns to me."

  "Do we have to use the word prostitute?"

  "What else can we say?"

  "I don’t know. Forget it. Leave it alone. Keep denying or saying no comment."

  "What about tonight? Howard Johnson?"

  "My lawyer said not to have contact with you. I shouldn’t be having this conversation."

  Frances’s throat closed up. "I see."

  "Frances, I…I really…"

  You’re dumped. Ta-ta. Tears welled in her eyes. "No HoJo. No bowling. Got it."

  "Frances, are you crying?"

  "We were going to talk and find a way to be together. We can still. I know we can."

  "Your world has opened up. You can meet so many people. I’m part of your old life. It’s best this way. Best you get a fresh start."

  "That's crap."

  "I have to go," the prostitute said.

  Elena. Elena. Her name is Elena. Frances realized her hands were trembling. "Elena," Frances said slowly. "Elena. I will be at our place tonight. Come if you can. At least call."

  "I fell for you. I did."

  "I know," Frances whispered. "Take care. Goodbye."

  *****

  At six o’clock, Frances got the room key from the front desk clerk. She did not care if he recognized her, and he didn’t. She let herself in the room. She set the sheet cake--chocolate, with chocolate frosting--and the ginger ale on the table. She did not let herself cry. With an unerring precision, she cut the cake into twelve squares.

  It read: Happy brithday!

  She had gotten it for seventy-five percent off. She went to get ice from the ice machine. She mixed ice and ginger ale into a Howard Johnson cup. She ate a piece of cake. She flicked the TV on and shuffled the deck of cards. Spider solitaire.

  Traditional media was not carrying the news about Elena. Not yet, anyway. Nor was Matt Lord’s website. Maybe Frances would get lucky, and Matt would let it go.

  No way.

  He had called her soon after she hung up with Elena. Urged Frances to comment. Said he had Elena on tape confessing to servicing Frances. He probably wasn't going to run the tape, he said, but it was enough confirmation for him to go with the story. Frances had asked if the tape of this so-called admission was made legally, with Elena’s knowledge and consent. Matt Lord did not answer. After Frances hung up, she called her lawyer.

  Frances quit her game of solitaire and booted up her MacBook. She connected to the Internet, to Matt Lord’s website. There it was, time stamped five minutes ago: FRANCES DOURNE LIED ABOUT PROSTITUTE, SAYS CALL GIRL’S BEST FRIEND

  Elena Marie Elise. That was her name, and she was grinning at the beach, in a yellow bikini. She was with her son, he was eight years old then, and he was beautiful. Frances’s stomach clenched tight. Never going to see you again…

  Elena Marie Elise. So she really had not lied about her name.

  The knowledge of the name twisted and turned inside Frances.

  Elena. Oh, Elena.

  Frances could take no pleasure from the name. She swallowed hard and bit back tears. This was her coming-out celebration, damn it. She ate another piece of cake, and then another. She played solitaire and won.