Not Frances's fault, Elena reminded herself.

  Felicianna's fault. And Elena's own.

  Still.

  Elena had a choice. She could continue her pattern since Isaiah's death, run from her issues, take the easy road. Or she could fight for herself and Frances.

  I love her, Elena continued writing. I love her very much, and that's not one bit practical, is it?

  Elena’s brain told her to end right there. Her heart kept writing, and when she finished, she reviewed the statement and smiled. Her frustration was gone.

  I was supposed to start back at my old job the Monday after Thanksgiving. Not anymore.

  I was supposed to have a life as a private citizen, where no one knows my business. I'm supposed to be an out, proud, gay woman. Instead, I'm the newest target for many gays. A traitor, turncoat, a Benedict Arnold. The world knows me as a prostitute. A whore. People will never look at me the same again. I will always be dirty to them. Tainted.

  I can't go out for a frappuccino because the press is all around me. Their flashes are blinding, their questions deafening. My family looks at me like I'm insane when I say I love Frances Dourne. Last night on Skype my sister Sarah asked why. Why I love Frances Dourne. I couldn't tell Sarah then, because I was still hoping I'd magically fall out of love.

  It isn't happening.

  I love Frances because she helped me feel again. She gave me my life back. She gave me a chance, and I gave her a chance. Because we click. Because we feel right together. Because she's not perfect. She opened herself up to me, opened her heart to me. She placed her trust in me. Because I just do.

  My sister asked: "Does she make you happy? Because you can't be happy. You barely could take Mom home from the doctor!"

  I did not know how to answer Sarah.

  I know the answer now. My life may be in shambles, but I have confidence. I'll find another job. The media will go away eventually.

  What won't go away is "what if." What if I had given my love for Frances a chance?

  Practical to love her? No, not at all, but I love her, I love Frances Dourne, and if she'll have me, I want her.

  *****

  Brenda was setting the table when Elena returned.

  "Ma, read this."

  Brenda took the paper and read. Her chin trembled. At last, she said: "Good for you, Elena dear. You deserve to be happy."

  Chapter 36

  Frances was not sure how much longer she could tolerate Ryan Philpott. He was agonizing. His voice was high and squeaky, and he liked to talk about birds. Frances had nothing against birds or bird watchers. She did have something against bird watchers mumbling for thirty minutes about the red-headed woodpecker. During a pause, Nora, Randy Germain's wife, pulled Frances aside.

  "I'm real sorry," Nora said. "He was Randy's idea. I didn't know he was coming."

  "It's okay."

  "Randy's having a hard time. A lot of people are. You're their idol. If you could be gay, they could be too. It's scary."

  "I know."

  Nora touched Frances's shoulder. "For what it's worth, you did the right thing."

  "Really?"

  "I'll be honest with you. I never liked GIC. Randy was the one who wanted to try it. I wanted to save our marriage, so I supported him."

  "Are you two doing okay?"

  Nora grinned. "We're great."

  "He really is straight, huh? Straight enough."

  "Yes," Nora said carefully. "I believe so."

  *****

  Friday morning, Timothy was passed out on the couch before eleven o'clock. Were the rest of Victoria's days going to be like this, on the couch with her passed-out father? She needed to deliver a wake-up call. She had watched him drive the truck countless times. Handling the gas, brakes and clutch would be tricky. What if her father woke up and caught her practicing? Or caught her stuck in the middle of their long driveway, unable to get the stalled engine going?

  Well, if it happened, it happened.

  She finagled the keys to the truck from his pocket. He had one hundred dollars in his wallet, and she jammed the bills in a sandwich bag. She stuffed peanut butter, jelly and a loaf of bread into a plastic bag. She knew a few other spots where he kept money, and she collected another five hundred dollars, for a total of six hundred. It wasn't like she was leaving him without resources. He had a motorcycle in the shed. Other cash hidden throughout the place.

  Victoria kissed her father’s temple, her heart hammering. "Goodbye, Daddy," she whispered.

  Skk-skkk.

  She left a note:

  Daddy, I've gone to Little Rock. I don’t know where to after that, but I’ll be okay. Please don't call the cops. I want a break. I will be back when the money runs out. I have six hundred dollars. I love you.

  -Vic

  She clambered into the truck. Maybe she would visit San Diego. Victoria felt like she knew the place already from Markie’s stories, but she wanted to see the La Jolla cove and cliffs for herself. She wanted to see the harbor seals play. Speaking of Markie. Victoria would call her friend before Monday, make sure Markie did not call the hotline on her behalf after Victoria did not show up for school next week.

  San Diego it probably was. She would look at the atlas later, after she got a good start. She would not be free until she figured out how to get the truck going.

  *****

  So good, so far, Victoria thought. She had pushed the seat in so she could see okay and reach the pedals okay. Also she had gotten the windshield wipers working. She only needed five tries before the truck lurched and got lively.

  She drove about five miles per hour. She was a new driver, and add to that the monsoon-like rain. Once in a while, the rain let up, and she could see better. She kept her eye on the time, and thirty minutes after she left, she was not even halfway to Little Rock.

  Finally, she pulled in front of the Capitol. It was peaceful. Not many people were around the day after Thanksgiving. Victoria stayed in the truck and listened to the thuwmp thuwmp of the rain. She gazed at the Capitol. Was her father stirring awake now? Was he wondering where she was, where his keys were, where the cash from his wallet was?

  When he saw the note and realized she was not coming back for a while, would he go to the police, against her wishes?

  Or would he do absolutely nothing, let her have her break, and hope she returned to the cabin as promised? Because she would. She definitely would. Do nothing, Daddy. I will be back. I promise. I need time away, that’s all. To figure out how to help you. And myself.

  "San Diego?" she whispered to the Capitol.

  Maybe she ought to see another capitol instead. The United States Capitol, near where Frances lived. Frances was not her mother, but that was okay. Victoria would stop being a silly princess wanna-be. Maybe she would meet Frances someday, work for one of her new organizations. Of course, by that time, the organizations would not be new. Victoria would need to go to college. Frances would be like fifty when Victoria graduated. They would have a good laugh over Victoria’s adolescent fantasies.

  She consulted the atlas. She needed to take I-20 and I-10 West to San Diego.

  Victoria rarely prayed. Her father scoffed at God. But now she put her hands together and said: "Dear God, please take care of my father. And take care of my mother in heaven. Tell her I wish I had a picture of her and that I miss her, even though I don’t know her. Take care of Frances and Daniel and Marissa, and Sally Dourne, and Jupiter Enid and Elena and Kevin and Isaiah in heaven."

  Chapter 37

  Elena parallel parked near the penthouse building Friday night. Calling was no use; Frances's voice mail was eternally full. She probably was not checking the phone anymore, and Elena did not want to call GIC. From her vantage point in the car, Elena could see a couple of photographers outside the building. This was it. She would be photographed. Indisputably linking herself to Frances.

  "Here we go," Elena whispered, and slid out of her car. She was head over heels in love, and she would let herself enjoy it.

  *****

  Frances was dusting more hourglasses when the doorman buzzed up. "You have a visitor. Your party planner, ma’am."

  Frances stared at the buzzer. Party planner? Surely he doesn't mean...

  "Who?" she said dumbly.

  "Ms. Elise, ma'am."

  "Ms. Elise," Frances repeated. She ignored the leaping in her stomach, refused to let the words take root. "Ms. Elise. Right. Let her up."

  Frances raced to the bathroom to look herself over. Elena was here. Why?

  To get the stuffed envelope she left Sunday morning?

  To get the necklace?

  Both?

  Or to…

  Frances did not dare let herself hope. After the harassment Elena and her mother had suffered, surely Elena was not here for a reunion.

  The doorbell rang. Frances kept the necklace on but got the envelope from her nightstand.

  Elena was lovelier than before, if that was possible. Her hair was down, and she wore low-slung yellow dress pants--a color Frances had never seen on dress pants, but they worked on her, they absolutely did--black heels, and a long-sleeved tight black shirt. She had no doubt planned for the photographers.

  "Frances." Elena smiled cautiously, but Frances saw tenderness in her eyes, in her expression. Yearning. Longing. Or perhaps Frances was projecting her own wants.

  Frances held the envelope out. "Do you want the necklace back too?"

  "Oh, Frances. No money, no necklace."

  A knot rose in Frances's throat. "Why are you here?"

  "Because I want to be. So we can have the talk we never did. Is that okay?"

  Yes, yes, so okay, you have no idea. "Does your lawyer know?"

  "Yes. He's smart enough to deal with it. I want to be with you."

  "Why me?"

  "We're--we're--all right. Maybe I shouldn't say this because it's early, maybe too strong, but, Frances, I am in love with you. Very much in love with you. Is it practical to love you? Well, no. But a year from now, or thirty years from now, I don't want to be wondering: 'What if I had given my love for you a chance?' I love you, and if you'll have me, I want you. No catch. I just want to be with you. You're worth it. You really are. We're worth it."

  Frances was too stunned to say anything.

  "Frances?"

  Her heart hammered. And here it is. The big moment. The "L" word. Frances was awful with relationships. With telling people she loved them. This woman, for whatever reason, was in love with her. Frances remembered all the times Daniel had told her he loved her, and her tight smiles, her occasional, quick: "Love you too" replies. She had never divorced him, had never pursued a divorce in absentia. The practical reason was that as long as she was married, at least on paper, she would not have to worry too much about finding men to date to keep up appearances. The emotional reason was because her husband had loved her, and she had loved him, in her own way. She had done wrong by him. By remaining his wife, perhaps she was telling him she loved him. As much as she could. And that she knew she had done wrong.

  Now Elena, expression fretful, was looking at her. "Frances," Elena ventured. "You don’t have to--"

  "I'm not good at saying 'I love you.' "

  "I told you it was too early. That's not my point--"

  Frances pressed a finger to Elena's lips. She would commit to Elena. Fully. She would not fail Elena like she failed Daniel. "Wait, wait. Let me finish. I’m not good at saying ‘I love you.’ I said it maybe a handful of times to Daniel. Handful of times to Marissa. No one else. But I love you, Elena, I do. And I’ll probably be saying it every five minutes because I’ll explode otherwise." Frances wrapped her arms around Elena. Elena, strong and substantial and soft and womanly, burrowed into her. Elena kissed her neck and started crying, but that was all right. It was good crying.

  *****

  They made love, again and again, and laughed and kissed. About midnight, they worked on a statement for the media, pending the approval of Elena’s lawyer. Perhaps something simple issued from Frances such as: Elena Marie Elise and I are in a relationship. We request the courtesy of our privacy.

  They would not get privacy, of course not, but they had to put it in there.

  "Elena Marie Elise," Frances said. "I am so glad your name is not Jill Smith. Or Jane Jones."

  *****

  Elena spent part of Saturday in Frances’s new offices--a small, one-floor space. Each organization would take half the space. Elena and Frances walked around the offices, discussing names, decorations and other ideas.

  "I’m thinking a combined grand opening in mid-January," Frances said. "I’d like a bash. An opening-night party." A twinkle appeared in her eyes. "But I don’t know any party planners. Do you?"

  Elena giggled. "You serious?"

  "Serious as mud."

  Elena jumped into Frances's arms and kissed her. Yep. She would be fine. She would make many contacts planning this party, would meet many people at the party. She would drum up enough business to keep her going for quite a bit.

  *****

  Victoria checked herself in the bathroom mirror Sunday morning. Not bad. No lines on her face, no circles under her eyes. She looked like she’d had a good night’s sleep. She probably had; she did not remember waking up any during the night. She squeezed the toothpaste tube and brushed her teeth. Approaching sirens bleated--an ambulance, probably.

  She was at Thomas Memorial Hospital right outside St. Albans, West Virginia. She’d spent the night sleeping in the truck in the hospital parking lot. She’d started toward San Diego on Friday but changed her mind. She wanted to hear Francis Wellington preach. She wanted to see the town where Frances grew up. Maybe the house where Frances grew up, too. No, Frances was not her mother, the Wellingtons were not her family, but for three months, she believed maybe they were. A little, irrational part of her continued to hope. Besides, she wanted to look in the eyes of a man who sent his daughter away for one year.

  Time to go. It was ten forty-five. The church was about fifteen minutes away. She had called Thrasher Independent Baptist on Saturday. Francis held his sermon at eleven. She wanted to be a few minutes late. Hang out in the back, unseen. Green hair was not appropriate for church.

  The Thrasher Independent Baptist parking lot was full, but Victoria found a spot on the street. The church was a long grayish building with three crosses on the front. Boring. Her first time in church, and the building was like this. Didn't stop her from taking a picture with the disposable camera she bought Friday at a Seven-Eleven.

  She crept into the building. The doors to the sanctuary were propped open, and Victoria stayed by them. The choir was singing a hymn, their voices lifting and falling together. Victoria surveyed the pews. Pretty full. She wondered if Nicholas Wellington and his family were there. Where did Frances’s mother sit? She must go to services, right?

  Francis Wellington stood at the front, beaming at the choir. She took a long look at him. She felt as if she were living a movie. A person, and a town, she had read about, and seen on TV, were in the flesh now. Pretty cool.

  "That was beautiful," Francis said. "Thank you." He turned to the pulpit. His gaze roved over the congregation, and Victoria was tempted to duck out of sight. Jeans. Green hair. Not church-like at all.

  Didn’t matter. He did not see her.

  "Let’s pray," Francis said. He bowed his head, clasped his hands together, and the congregation followed suit. Victoria snapped a couple of quick photos. "God, please bless everyone who is here today. Bless those who are sick and who cannot attend. Please help me to understand Your desire for a sermon today and to open the hearts of those listening and help them accept Your word." His voice crackled. "Amen."

  "Amen," Victoria whispered. If she did not work for one of Frances's organizations, she might become a pastor. But her God was a different one than Francis Wellington’s God.

  "Have a seat." The voice belonged to a stooped man. A tag identified him as "USHER." He guided her to a back pew and sat with her.

  "Donald Wright," he said.

  "Victoria Cove." He smelled funny. Was this how old people smelled?

  "Haven't seen you here before."

  "I'm visiting. I'm from Arkansas. I'm sorry about my hair and clothes."

  "Oh, that's all right," he said. "Place can always use a little color."

  The sermon was the last in a series about Jesus helping others. Francis Wellington talked about how Jesus did not put himself above other people, even though he was the Messiah. He traveled among the sick and healed them. He washed beggars' feet. "We should do the same," Francis intoned. "I volunteer at a soup kitchen, for example. No one is better than anyone else."

  Donald Wright beamed and nodded.

  Victoria managed a strained smile. These people did not practice what they preached. But as long as she was here…"My dad needs help," Victoria said. "Could you pray for him?"

  "What kind of help?" Donald asked.

  "I think he's an alcoholic."

  Donald's expression was grave. "I will pray for your father, Miss Victoria, and I'll introduce you to Rev. Wellington after the service."

  *****

  Donald waited until most of the parishioners left. Francis Wellington's handshake was firm, but not too firm. His smile seemed genuine, as did the twinkle in his eye. This looked like a kind man. Was this her grandfather? If he noticed the resemblance between Victoria and the age-progressed pictures of Marissa, he kept the information to himself. Showed no signs of recognizing her. "Welcome, young lady. Did you enjoy the sermon?"