"Forget Christmas," Frances muttered. "How about Thanksgiving? I plan to come out to my family at my parents' house in West Virginia."

  "Sounds good."

  "Do you know yet if you'll, uh…you don't need to decide yet, but we should reserve the day in case you--"

  "I'll go with you."

  Frances refused to let herself smile. "Do you have Thanksgiving plans?"

  "Your plans are my plans." The prostitute wore three bracelets, green, blue and purple, on each wrist.

  "We'll do it Thanksgiving Day, then." We. That would be nice.

  "Thanksgiving." The prostitute flashed a smile. "Great."

  A strange calmness filled Frances. She was making the right move. Five weeks later, she would be out to her family. Her organization. The world.

  "What was Camp Meadow Woods like?"

  "Uh--what?"

  "Camp Meadow Woods. It must have helped shape your life."

  Frances’s heart burned. The prostitute was not playing fair, blindsiding her like this. Whatever. Frances imposed an iron control on herself. Time to ask some questions of her own. "Why did you try to kill yourself?"

  Anger lit the prostitute's eyes. "What?"

  Frances dropped her gaze to the woman's bracelets. "You asked me a question, I asked you a question."

  The prostitute clenched her teeth. "Fine. No more questions. I asked because I thought you might want to talk about it. Are we going to fuck or what?"

  "Not now. Maybe later."

  The prostitute's mouth twisted. "Why not now? You’re seeing a freaking prostitute!"

  Frances summoned memories she would rather leave dusty. "Camp Meadow Woods. Okay. I'll probably have to talk about it after I come out, so might as well now. Let me know if you think I should include it in my speech." She stood. What would the prostitute think of her bra? Her cleavage? Her work outfits helped conceal her sexuality, but not completely. Frances lifted weights to keep toned, and she jogged when the weather was nice. On rainy days, she hit the treadmill or elliptical trainer. She'd jogged earlier today after getting home from work.

  Her pulse skittered. Taking her shirt off for the prostitute would be the most naked Frances had been with someone since the other prostitute. With the other one, Frances’s nakedness had been south.

  Frances lifted her sweater above her head and dropped the garment on the floor. Her bra was a lacy, shimmery red. She suspected she looked like a woman who was hoping to get sex. Maybe she was.

  Okay, yes, she was. Why was the fact so hard to admit to the prostitute?

  Frances pulled her hair into a ponytail. "Feel my back," she said. "They're easier to feel than to see."

  "We don't have to." The prostitute was apologetic now.

  "Feel."

  "I see them. Scars. You were beaten at camp?"

  So you’re not going to feel? Too scared? "I call them maggots. Not scars." The marks had diminished over the years, but they would always be iron-hot inside her. "Yes, I was beaten. And made to have sex with the male campers. I guess as far as that goes, I didn't have it too bad. The guys did. There were candles every time. Nice, satiny sheets. Soft music. I felt bad for the guys. They had a hard time getting it up. Keeping it hard. We would have to stay in bed all night until…until--easy for me to fake. Not so easy for them."

  "Did your parents know?"

  "Probably. I ask myself why I'm bothering to come out to them in person. Why they deserve that much."

  "So why are you?"

  "Maybe because I'm foolish and I hope they'll accept me. Maybe they didn't know what happened at camp, that what the brochure said about camp being therapy-intensive was true."

  "Maybe."

  "When I left camp, I had no sense of myself. I prayed, I prayed, to find a man to love. A man who could get his dick up when he saw me and keep it hard. Gay Is a Choice welcomed me with open arms."

  "Frances."

  "What?"

  "I'm proud of you. What you're doing."

  "We need to figure out how we'll introduce you to my family."

  The prostitute undid Frances's ponytail and moved her hands into Frances's hair. "I like your hair down."

  "I like yours down, too."

  "Strawberries and cream?" Her breath tickled Frances's ear and neck. Goosebumps prickled and swayed on Frances's arms, legs and stomach. The prostitute again smelled of watermelon, but that did not bother Frances. Not now.

  Frances felt soft lips nibbling her neck. Her thoughts spun. Her insides spun. The prostitute continued nibbling. Her hands curled around Frances's waist, coming to rest on her stomach. Her hips and her breasts pressed into Frances's back.

  "Your name," Frances managed. "We need a name to tell my family. Make something up."

  "Later."

  "Why?"

  "I don't want to lie to you. Not tonight, anyway. We have time to think of a name."

  "It's not lying if I tell you to do it."

  "I suppose."

  "Tell me something about you."

  "I want you, Frances Marie Dourne. Let me please you."

  Damn, she was good. You don't want me. You want my money. The next time Frances was with a woman would be right. True. She wanted deep, heartfelt kisses, excited, eager tongues. Gentle caresses, maybe whispers of: "I love you." Not a prostitute's rules, such as no kissing, no touching here or there, no this or that.

  "Tell me something about you," Frances insisted.

  "I brought you the necklace."

  Frances's heart thudded. What?

  The prostitute reached for her briefcase and presented the necklace. The necklace did not have sand in it, not technically. The "sand" was pieces of fake green crystals. No matter. The necklace was lovely, and Frances traced its smooth, gold surface. It's not the same necklace. She bought a look-alike. I hope. "I couldn't. I really couldn't."

  "Yes, you can. Turn back around so I can put it on you."

  She’s angling for a big tip. She’s doing her job. Well.

  Frances imagined for a moment that the woman before her was her lover, not a prostitute. She pretended that maybe they would make love that night. Her need to open herself up like a flower to another woman, to taste another woman, to kiss her, have their juices mingle, was great. Perhaps too great.

  She had never tasted another woman. Pathetic.

  The other prostitute--Frances had never asked her name--had been utilitarian. Workmanlike. She went down on Frances mechanically. Frances had not been tempted to touch her. Contempt shone in her eyes. Yet Frances returned week after week, until shame got the better of her. Frances was not sure why she had kept returning. Perhaps to spite the prostitute. Two could play that game. If the prostitute was not going to respect Frances, Frances was not going to respect her, either. Stupid. Petty. Chicken.

  This new woman, this new prostitute, was different. She would be good. Frances longed to feel the heat of bare, female skin on her. One hotel room. One night. Maybe even just one hour.

  She needed this. Deserved this.

  "Let’s get the necklace on you," the prostitute urged.

  "I really couldn't."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Is it yours? Or one you bought today?"

  "It's mine. I want you to have it."

  "Tell me who gave it to you."

  "I hardly wear the necklace. You'd wear it. It's beautiful and deserves to be worn. That's all there is to it. Okay?" The prostitute guided Frances to the mirror on the wall. The prostitute's breath on Frances's neck was hot. The area between Frances's legs clamored to be addressed. Three years was a long time. Too long.

  The prostitute put the necklace on Frances. The combination was Christmassy, with the green close to Frances's red bra. Frances met the other woman’s hazel eyes in the mirror. "Thank you."

  The prostitute smiled. She had a tiny chip in her front right tooth. Otherwise, her smile was white, even and bright.

  "How did you get in the business?"

  The prostitute drew back, some of her magic vanishing. "That's irrelevant."

  "Is it?"

  "Yes."

  "How old are you?"

  "One hundred."

  "One hundred and what?"

  A little smile from the prostitute. "Okay. One hundred and thirty-two."

  Thirty-two, really?

  "Bit too old for the business," the prostitute acknowledged. "I'm getting out. Soon. I have a bachelor's degree in communications. I used to be a party planner. I'll go back to that."

  "What's stopping you?" If the prostitute actually had a degree, likely it was in something opposite communications. Math, perhaps. Prostitutes constructed stories.

  Frances felt the prostitute's lips, soft and sweet, on her back. Kissing her maggots. The prostitute's fingers fumbling to undo her bra. Succeeding.

  Frances’s breasts fell free, and Frances stared at them in the mirror. And at the hourglass necklace. Her body was half ice and half flame. Her breasts were creamy globes, still firm, shapely. Her nipples were hard and pink. A perfect complement to the hourglass.

  What she saw on the prostitute, in the prostitute--tenderness, desire, amazement, lust, a million things all at once--caught her off guard. The prostitute must have taken acting classes. She was worth every damn dollar. Frances liked it. Loved it. She felt normal. "Take your bracelets off," she heard herself saying.

  Oh, Frances. Way to ruin the moment.

  The prostitute's expression turned stony, but she obeyed.

  Nothing.

  No scars.

  Damn. Frances could have sworn…just something about the bracelets, something about her…Frances realized what it was. The prostitute often, automatically, touched her bracelets. Making sure they had not slid down to reveal something. Except there was nothing to expose.

  "Sorry," Frances mumbled. She would tip the prostitute more tonight. What had she been thinking, asking to see the prostitute's wrists? How rude was that? Frances's mind was warped from seeing too many women with bracelets and mannerisms like these.

  "I’m leaving," Frances said.

  "It’s not time."

  "Yes, it is. I apologize for what I did."

  The prostitute shook her head. "Shh." She wrapped her arms around Frances. Frances let herself feel the hollow of the prostitute's back, her shallowing breaths, her breasts on Frances's, her curves. The prostitute was strong, real, alive. Their touch, their closeness, was more intimate than anything Frances had done with the other prostitute.

  Frances untangled herself from the woman, immediately missing her heat, her femaleness. Get over it. You’re not a teenager. "Enjoy the free money." Frances pulled her bra and sweater back on. She got more cash from her briefcase. "Your tip. Was last night's tip satisfactory?"

  "Yes."

  The prostitute put the bills atop her own briefcase, barely glancing at them. Playing it cool. Undoubtedly, she would be counting the second Frances left. Two thousand dollars. Maybe that would make the bracelet fiasco okay.

  "Are you available Thursday night? Five o'clock or so?" Frances asked.

  "Yes."

  "Come to my house. I’ll tell you why I collect hourglasses. The service has the address. One more thing. A very important thing."

  "Okay."

  "I understand that you think you have a job to do. But this job is different. I'm different. Please don’t touch me."

  The prostitute frowned.

  Frances wondered if her words sounded hollow. If they had a lying tinge to them. Why was she saying these damn words? These damn words she did not quite believe herself? Perhaps because wanting sex, admitting she was a sexual woman, felt wrong. The other prostitute had not liked Frances anyway, so no big deal.

  This prostitute was different. Frances wanted to be a better person for her. Not a typical client. Not a grubby, grabby client looking for nonexistent scars. "Don’t flirt with me," Frances said. "I don’t want sex. I don’t want complications. Okay? No more touching."

  "I would love to be your friend. I can give you sex, too. I would like to."

  Frances shook her head. "No. No." But she kept the necklace.

  Chapter 8

  When Frances got home, she took her shirt and bra off again. She twisted her arm and felt for the maggots. She did not want to be alone in her sterile penthouse. Did not want to be alone with the maggots, either. She should not have left the prostitute early. Way to go, genius.

  Frances slid her shirt on and went to her bookshelf. She drew out Gay Is a Choice. She wanted a new book. A book true to herself. She sat at her computer and typed.

  Chapter One:

  I am forty-two years old, and I have not lived. I'm developmentally delayed. I'm going through things that usually happen to people in their teens. Things such as coming out as gay to your parents. Disregarding God and not missing him very much. Accepting myself for who I am. Well, I'm not sure about that last one. Do people ever actually accept themselves for who they are? Do people ever actually know who they are? Does my daughter, if she's alive, know who she is?

  "Shit," Frances whispered. She flipped Gay Is a Choice to a random page.

  Page 115.

  His name was Daniel Dourne. He had dark, wavy hair, kind brown eyes and a strong chin. When I saw him leading an ex-gays session, I knew I was truly cured. This was the man for me, the person for me.

  Five months later, he was my husband.

  God, she missed him. She missed her husband, never mind that she had never been in love with him the way a woman loves a man. Their marriage was one of delusion and convenience and very little lovemaking. Twelve years ago, he said it was not working, he was gay and okay with that, he was going to go and be free.

  She did not blame him for taking their daughter. She might have done the same, had she been in his place. She had the burgeoning empire. The resources. A judge who did not like gays. She kept her husband from his child.

  Frances snapped the book shut and replaced it on the shelf. She had a speech to make--the speech of her life--and had not practiced. Other than in her head. Now was as good a time as any to say the words out loud. She retrieved the rough draft and smoothed the paper out. She went into the bathroom and laid the paper beside the sink. She lifted her eyes and met her gaze in the mirror. So much to do. Decide what clothes to wear. Shoes. What makeup. Hair. Glasses or contacts? Nail polish?

  "Hello, everyone," she said. You’re mumbling. "Hello, everyone." Speaking up. Voice firm and calm. "I hope you’ve had a great weekend." Pause for a smile that crinkles your eyes. She nailed the smile on the third attempt. "I have called you here today to talk to you about something, something very important and dear to my heart."

  She did not have to look at the paper.

  "I've known joys in my life. Tragedies, too. I also have regrets, lots of them. Regrets that I haven't been true to myself. Regrets that I've tried to force my beliefs, beliefs I never truly possessed deep down inside, onto others. Every fiber of my being knows I have caused untold pain and suffering."

  Images flickered across the theater of her mind. Daniel’s shy smile when she asked him to dinner and a movie. His gasp, the blood siphoning from his face, when she got on her knee and asked him to marry her. His shriek after a moment and his "Yes, yes, Frances, I will marry you."

  Her paralysis when the pregnancy test was positive. His excitement. The look in his eyes the first time he held their daughter, when she truly knew their marriage was doomed. He never looked at her like that. Nor she him. She was not capable of looking at anyone like that. What an awesome but frightening feeling that must be, and she was never more glad than in that moment that she was incapable.

  "To the people I have hurt, to the people I have caused to feel subhuman, I am sorry. Truly sorry, from the bottom of my heart.

  "To the people who work at GIC, I am not abandoning you. I love you all."

  Marissa clamoring for her breasts. Frances weaning the baby off as soon as possible, Daniel taking the feeding over.

  "Daniel, wherever you are, thank you for taking Marissa. You did the right thing, and I admire you every day of my life."

  *****

  "Good night, sweetie," Brenda said the next night.

  "Night, Mom." Elena pecked her mother on the cheek.

  Only nine-thirty. The night yawned before her. She wondered what Frances was up to.

  No way to find out. She did not have Frances's number, not that she would call anyway. Frances did have Elena's work cell number; she had the option of calling it to book an appointment instead of going through Amanda. Clients appreciated being able to call their girls directly. Darren had started using her work cell right away, but Frances had yet to take advantage of it. Elena and Amanda used a calendar application to sync the appointments. No overlaps.

  Elena curled up on the couch and resumed reading Frances's memoir. She studied the photo pages. Marissa really looked nothing like her mother. By now, maybe she did. Isaiah had looked quite different at ten than he had at three. His hair had gone from straight to curly, and freckles had broken out. His skin at ten was darker, tanned. Elena doubted she would recognize Marissa if she saw the girl on the street. Would Frances recognize her own daughter?

  Elena slid her bracelets up and down. Up, down, up. No way she could have explained them to Frances last night. Felicianna, my best friend, stopped me before I could cut into my wrists. I told her I wasn't going to kill myself, I just wanted scars to feel closer to Isaiah. Scars are better than tattoos.

  The bracelets did okay. She felt closer to Isaiah through them than through his urn and sand. Odd, maybe, but whatever worked.

  A rap rap sounded at the front door. Probably Felicianna.

  Elena was right. "Come on in."

  Felicianna carried a Safeway grocery bag. She set two pints of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and a DVD on the kitchen counter.

  "Not tonight," Elena said, giving her voice a slight but distinct edge.