Frances did not want to look in these hazel eyes and play the let’s pretend I’m not lying game.

  A game with no winner.

  So maybe she was guilty, had done it on purpose. Maybe to sabotage the relationship too, the way she had with her marriage--taking to working long hours right after the honeymoon, practically ignoring her husband and baby. Why work on her union, right? She had a marriage certificate that proclaimed her heterosexuality.

  The second kiss, though--that had been the prostitute kissing her back. Yep. After the first, the prostitute had moaned a little moan--a genuine one--and returned the kiss. Probably the prostitute did not realize what she was doing. Of course Frances had responded hungrily, urgently, with tongue. Of course she had.

  The prostitute’s nails continued to sting Frances’s back. Frances enjoyed the pain of them--so unlike the pain of her maggots. A good sting. Frances again heard the prostitute’s hot moans, and her pussy responded. Frances got another dildo and made a shadow giraffe. Then a dinosaur. Damn. Damn. Damn. The prostitute had been such a good one. That was like Frances, wasn’t it, to have the best and ruin it?

  Frances squirmed. She had no idea how good, or bad, her kissing was. It was not embarrassing, it was plain pathetic. Daniel and Frances had only kissed a few times with tongue. She had kissed Violet, her best friend in high school, only that one time. There had been kissing at camp, but not the good kind. Frances had pretty much no valid kissing experience. Sex, okay, maybe she could learn that as she went on, with the person, or get caught up in the moment and do fine, but kissing? She did not know about that.

  So you see, she wanted to tell the prostitute. The last thing my rational mind would have done was kiss you. If I could do the tub scene again, I would have simply sucked up the fakery and played the game. Scratch that. I would not have asked you what you wanted. I like being with you. You’re nice and sweet. Pretending you came would have been fine. Sugary spicy sweetly fine. Really, really. Believe me, I am not about to kiss you again.

  Frances dumped the entire contents of the sex toys bag on the bed. Three dildos, rubber, silicone and latex, because she had not been sure which she would prefer. A couple of straps for the dildos. Lube. Her newest "massager." A washcloth for the lube. The prostitute’s briefcase probably had lots of toys. More interesting toys.

  "Okay," Frances said. She chose the silicone dildo and applied lube. She eased the dildo inside her. Pretended it was the hard fullness of the prostitute’s fingers. She replayed the fluttering of the prostitute’s eyelashes, the flecks in her eyes, the rocking of her hips, her breasts pressing into Frances's chest.

  Why did I have to kiss her? Fuck, fuck. Frances turned the massager on.

  *****

  Felicianna awoke with a headache. And she was in Elena's bed. Without Elena, but wearing Elena's pajamas. She reeked of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

  Ugh.

  The events from the night before gimped back to her. She went out drinking with a few friends. About one a.m., she worked up the courage to go to Elena's condo to confront her. To tell Elena she knew Elena was a prostitute but that she still loved Elena, Elena could be honest, Felicianna would not judge her. Felicianna still wanted to be with her.

  Instead--and Felicianna's memory got hazy here--she passed out.

  Did I say anything?

  Felicianna hoped not. Not drunken like that.

  She checked the clock on Elena's nightstand--almost nine. She was late for opening the store. Not a huge deal--her assistant had a key. She'd call him, go home, shower and get fresh clothes. Your breath smells like Bigfoot crawled in your mouth and died. Elena kept gum and candy in her nightstand, so Felicianna slid the drawer open. She popped three sticks of Big Red. Her head was killing her. She'd get Excedrin from the bathroom.

  She got to her feet and dressed. Elena's briefcase was on the floor, sandwiched between her dresser drawer and the wall.

  Hmm. No. Don't you dare, not again.

  Felicianna tiptoed to the door and locked it. She inputted the briefcase code. The case refused to unlatch. Damn. Felicianna tried Isaiah's birthday again, in case she had pressed wrong. Then Elena's birthday. No dice. What's Brenda's birthday? Felicianna could not remember. She tried her own birthday. Nothing. Tried the day Isaiah died. Nothing. Maybe the day he went down. Nope. Maybe reversing the numbers would work.

  Success, with reversing the date Isaiah went down. How morbid.

  The briefcase contents were much the same as before, but with one glaring exception: Frances Dourne's book. Not only was it in Elena's briefcase, but sticker tabs stood up in various places. Felicianna counted six: four pink, two green. All in the first half, so maybe more tabs were to come.

  Felicianna opened the book to the first tab--page 34. Several passages were highlighted. She flipped through the book and saw many more highlights, on tabbed and non-tabbed pages alike. She returned to page 34 and read the first highlighted section.

  I had a bunch of Barbies--blond and red-headed. All white. Back then, there were not many Asian or black Barbies. I gave each Barbie her own special name. I was determined that none would be stuck with the name "Barbie." I paired the Barbies with my Kens and GI Joes. Sometimes, I paired the Barbies with each other. But only when I was alone.

  Felicianna skipped to the last tab.

  When I took over GIC, I based my tenure on this principle: Being gay is a choice. Being straight is a choice. People can, and should, choose to be straight. It's God's law.

  It took me a few years to realize I could choose to be straight, that through hard work and millions of tears, I could persevere. What I want to do is help struggling people--people who used to be like me--see the light. I do not support torture--physical or emotional. I do not support belittling people. I do not support homophobic slurs.

  What I give thumbs-up to is intensive, supportive counseling. People will slip. When they do, I offer a hand and help them back up. I don't shove them back down. I've been there. I've slipped, I've lusted after a few women. I know what it's like. I am all about helping hands, helping people up.

  Felicianna felt like a sleaze, violating Elena's privacy again. But what was Elena doing, re-reading Frances Dourne's memoir, analyzing it like this? Keeping it in her briefcase? The answer came to Felicianna right away. Elena was a call girl. Frances was a hateful, homophobic, deeply in the closet lesbian. The sort of person who would hire a prostitute.

  Felicianna had attended a gay-rights rally on the National Mall four years ago. Near her were protesters from Gay Is a Choice. Felicianna did her best to ignore them, but near the end of the rally, a rumble started up among the Gay Is a Choice protesters.

  Their queen bee had landed.

  Felicianna went up and introduced herself to Frances. Then Felicianna said: "I hope you rot in hell and never see your child again." She turned around and did not give Frances a second glance. Felicianna had wished immediately that she could take her words back. She should not have stooped to that level.

  She closed the briefcase and replaced it. She took an Excedrin in the bathroom and discarded her gum. She squeezed toothpaste onto her finger and brushed her teeth.

  Elena was flicking through TV channels in the living room.

  "Whatcha watching?"

  "Nothing." Elena handed her the remote. "How you feeling?"

  "All right. I'm sorry about last night. Did I do anything?"

  "Mumbled hello and passed out."

  "What you up to today?"

  Elena rolled her eyes. "I’m meeting Kevin at noon. To get the urn back."

  "I’ll go with you."

  "No need. I want to go alone."

  "Sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  Felicianna flipped through the TV channels. Runaway Bride on HBO, a cartoon on Showtime, white talking heads on CNN, gray talking heads on MSNBC, a sexy weatherwoman on The Weather Channel, more talking heads on Fox News. A ticker at the bottom of the screen relayed news: Consumer confidence down, Hoffman apologizes for gaffe, Boston, New York and Washington ready for Albert X's second U.S. visit in two years. Felicianna moved to another news channel.

  "Can't believe Kevin," Felicianna muttered. "What an ass."

  Elena did not reply.

  Frances Dourne popped up on the screen, along with reporter Jonathan Carruthers. Felicianna moved switched to Cinemax. Then on second thought, she returned to Frances.

  The interview was live. Frances seemed in high spirits. She chatted about a new teen center going up in San Francisco. The center would have the latest technology, and the focus of the interview was how various systems were touch-free. Frances talked animatedly. "Clap, clap, the lights are on. Simple as that. If you prefer remote controls, we have a setting that…"

  Felicianna half heard the words. What she really noticed, what she focused on, was the hourglass.

  She’s wearing Elena's necklace.

  Stop.

  Of course she's not. She has a necklace that happens to be like Elena's. Elena isn't screwing her. She would never. Elena has principles. Felicianna surveyed the wall on her right. A bookcase covered the wall, floor to ceiling. Even had a ladder. Elena had requested that part of the condo be custom-built. She loved books, especially biographies and autobiographies. And for whatever reason, she had a temporary fascination with Frances. That's what this was.

  "Why are we watching her?" Elena asked.

  "What a freak."

  "Okay."

  "Hey. She has a necklace like yours."

  "She does? Oh. I see it."

  "Another teen center. You know how many teen centers she has?"

  "No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

  "Twenty, not including the five big ones. One here, near GIC headquarters. One in Boston. Two in New York City. One in Atlanta. Now San Francisco? She gets her claws into these kids, warps their minds, makes them feel like shit about themselves."

  "It's not right."

  "Damn well it's not!" So why are you reading her book again? With highlights and tabs?

  Elena took the remote and shut the TV off. She smiled, but her eyes held a deadly coolness. "Don't let that woman get to you. Aren't you late for work?"

  *****

  Felicianna went home, showered and dressed in fresh clothes. At noon, she took her lunch break, leaving her assistant in charge of the store. She returned to Elena's condo, about a ten-minute drive from Antiques by Anna. She had a key, but Brenda let her in.

  "I left my wallet in Elena's room," Felicianna explained. The briefcase was gone. No matter; she wasn't here for it. She checked Elena's jewelry box. No hourglass necklace. Had Frances been wearing Elena's necklace, after all?

  Elena and Frances Dourne.

  Frances brainwashing Elena.

  Shit. It's true.

  *****

  An hourglass would provide a temporary lift to Frances's spirits. Get her weekend started on as positive a note as possible. The call reassigning her to another prostitute had not come, but when it did, Frances wanted a shiny trinket for comfort. But it had to be just the right hourglass, and she was due back at work in forty-five minutes for a meeting.

  Frances could not stomach the thought of a third prostitute. When the call came, she would tell the booking agent to drop her. Frances was forty-two years old. Get a grip. She did not need to pay someone to be her friend.

  Shop after shop had boring, bland hourglasses or hourglasses Frances already had. She entered Big Ben's Old Stuff, and heat enveloped her. She shivered, not from the November cold, but in anticipation. Excitement. She inhaled one of her favorite scents: the smell of history, of dust, of Victorian-style clocks, of hand-carved mahogany furniture, of yellowed, old books, of the past. Her eyes drank in goblets, vases--squatty, bulbous, flaring--daybeds and love seats, and porcelain dolls, and old coins. And much more. A Louis XVI style daybed sat against a wall. The daybed was beechwood, with fluted legs, headboards and footboards. Its price tag read: $1,700. The tag on the Queen Anne lowboy table in the corner stated: Mid-18th century, $2,500.

  The clerk's name tag read Elliott. He did not recognize her. The hourglasses, five of them, slouched on a shelf in the back. Nothing leaped out to Frances. They did not have distinctive designs or sand colors. Sand trickled down the hourglasses, to Frances's stomach.

  Jan Kendall. What’s your real name? I liked kissing you. A lot.

  Frances bought a clock for $534.67, including tax. Refreshing change from hourglasses. Frances would wrap it when she got home--if the call had not come. If the prostitute showed up for the appointment, Frances would have the clock ready as an apology gift.

  *****

  Elena jammed her hands into her pockets as she approached the Starbucks. She had not slept the night before, and she looked it. The problem was not Felicianna’s intrusion. No, the problem was Frances. The thoughts of her ricocheting in Elena’s mind.

  The kisses. The Merlot smell of Frances’s breath, the softness of her mouth, the explorations of her tongue. Explorations Elena only vaguely remembered because she had detached, she had been in the doorway, part of her anyway.

  Elena’s overreaction. Because overreaction was what it was. A proper call girl--a professional--would have stayed. Would have accepted Frances’s apology. Moved on.

  Elena shook her head. The kiss was a blessing in disguise. She was getting too close to Frances, but she would be regrouped by tonight. Bolstered. Have a new wall up. She would talk with Frances, warn her that Elena would be gone if another violation occurred.

  Elena entered the Starbucks and found Kevin right away, thanks to his favorite accessory, a red trucker cap. Kevin's eyes were raccoon-like, and he greeted her with more concern in his voice than usual. "Elena. Looking good. As always."

  "Where is it?" She eyed the backpack at his side.

  "Elena, how have you been?"

  "Stop saying my name." Stop being so damn solicitous.

  "You're okay?" he asked. "With money? Work going well?"

  "Fine and dandy. It better be in that backpack."

  "I realized I never helped you with Isaiah's hospital bills. I didn't think to. I'm sorry. I couldn't have afforded to anyway, but--"

  "Insurance got most of them."

  An arched eyebrow indicated Kevin's doubt. "Oh? What about your hospitalization and therapy bills after--"

  "What's this about?"

  "I know," he said, and his eyes were so serious, so solemn, that Elena's flesh prickled.

  "What do you know?"

  "About, uh…" He tugged at his ear. "You're not a party planner. You used to be, but you're not now."

  You don't know shit, Kevin Norwood. "The urn, please."

  "Where will we sprinkle his ashes?"

  "Nowhere."

  "We need to."

  "No, we don't."

  "Why did you become a call girl, Elena? I don't like to think about you doing that. That dangerous business is no place for a good woman like you, Elena."

  Her lungs squeezed tight. She could not breathe. She stared at him, at his raccoon, rat-like eyes. Who the hell did he think he was? Did he think he mattered so much to her that she would answer him such a thing?

  He was guessing, of course. Stabbing in the dark. Pathetic guy. "Stop saying my name."

  "Why did you become--"

  "My life is no business of yours."

  "I'm your son's father."

  "You're not his father! You showed up a month before he died! You're not his father! His father would have been there when his first tooth fell out. You're not his father!"

  "If you had been watching him swim like you were supposed to, I would have become his father. A father to be proud of."

  Elena did not permit herself to absorb Kevin's words. "He is dead. Stop bothering my mother. Stop coming over for dinner when I'm not home. Stop bothering me. We have no reason to see each other."

  "We do, until we sprinkle the ashes."

  "I'll give you half, and you do what you want with your half."

  "I'm doing this for you. Not for me. You need to move on."

  "I don't want you in my life, Kevin. Leave me alone. Keep the urn and sprinkle the sand if you must. Goodbye."

  Elena stalked off. Five minutes later and a measure of calmness later, she grasped that she might never see the urn again. Might never again see these tiny bone fragments from Isaiah. Oddly, she felt liberated. At the same time, her chest hurt, worse than she dreamed possible. She hoped Kevin would choose a good place to sprinkle the sand. All that remained of their child would be scattered for the wind to carry off.

  Chapter 14

  At four o'clock, Elena had the driver stop at the grocery store nearest Frances's building. Kevin had kept calling and leaving messages. Elena deleted them without listening. At Starbucks, he had sounded supremely confident that she was a call girl. Maybe he had not been flailing around. What if he told her mother? Elena shoved the thought aside. She would choose to believe Kevin was guessing.

  Dinner would be stuffed shells. Elena filled her shopping cart with jumbo pasta shells, olive oil, pancetta, pepper flakes, garlic cloves, marinara sauce, whole milk ricotta cheese, Parmesan cheese, eggs, parsley leaves, basil leaves, mint leaves, salt, black peppers and mozzarella cheese. She paused at the cards display but decided not to get Frances a peace offering. Elena had nothing to apologize for. I didn’t kiss her back.

  *****

  Elena knocked on Frances’s door, and Frances answered with a wide grin. She helped Elena set the grocery bags in the kitchen. "Be right back." Frances returned with a box covered in purple wrapping paper.

  Purple. Frances had been paying attention.

  Her smile was sheepish, but cautious. "This is a--let’s call it a I-screwed-up-and-I’m-glad-you’re-here present. You still get your tip. Don’t worry. This is extra."

  "You didn’t have to. You should not have. Really."