Part Three Recap: Something More, Chptrs 11-14

Chapter 11: The Collector and the Queen

...in search of Helen...


Helen Roy grew up in a small town about two hundred miles north of Madison. Her father was a doctor and her mother a stay-at-home mom. She was the eldest child. She had a sister, three years her junior, and two brothers.

It had been a foregone conclusion that she’d leave town like other young people did. Jobs were in big cities like Chicago and Minneapolis. In another era, a woman would wait for husband or boyfriend to return or send for her. Helen, born to a new age, would be the one to leave.

The obvious roles ---daughter, sister, girlfriend, wife and mother--- felt too conventional, too safe. She ached for adventure.

The University of Wisconsin was the first step on the journey. There, thousands of individuals pursued dreams while they sought to define who they were. Helen was involved in the Theater Arts program and that added another dimension to the roles she could play.

In the old French play “Infidel” she was a Gallic Queen who must pass judgment on a captured Moor. Invested in her duty, she nonetheless finds the stranger exotic and seeks to learn about him and his beliefs. Throughout the play she struggles between duty and thirst for knowledge. Contributing to the conflict is the man himself, whose noble bearing overshadows the shackles on his wrists.

Helen dug deep into experience to source the duty-knowledge conflict. She found the contrast between her sister and herself.

Miranda stood a few inches shorter than Helen and had cornflower blue eyes, blonde hair and a peach complexion. When eleven years old, she established a reputation for selflessness and sacrifice. Their grandmother had complained about living alone. She volunteered, without being asked, to move into her large farmhouse. She did and stayed until she passed away, joyfully caring for her.

Helen noted that she’d gotten a large private bedroom in the bargain. But what struck her was how she seemed to belong to the farmhouse. That was characteristic of Miranda who always looked as if an artist had painted her into a scene. She inhabited space, assumed roles and carried forth with attendant duties. Helen thought about Miranda when considering the Queen’s duty in respect to realm and faith. She had no choice: the infidel must die.

By contrast, Helen was everywhere and nowhere, traveling at the speed of light on wings of knowledge. A photographer with high-speed film had only a chance of capturing her in frame. She’d alight onto the world and remain untarnished as her wisdom grew. And so would she leave Madison as she had her hometown. In the guise of the Moor, the world came to the Queen’s gate: idea incarnate that must be explored.

While prepping for the play, Helen paid a visit home and went looking for her sister. She found her at the billiard hall and wasn’t happy. She was with Derrick Bilbray. He had a reputation. She knew it personally.

When Helen and Derrick were seniors in high school, they went out a few times. She dubbed him The Collector. He had a penchant for displaying the girls he dated like trophies. She didn’t want Miranda sacrificing for the likes of him.

The billiard hall was busy that Saturday night. Players crowded the blue felt tables in the large room. Chairs, stools and booths lined the walls. Through the doors were a snack bar and pub.

When Helen entered Miranda was perched on a stool, seemingly alone despite the people around her. On the table nearby a rack of balls was ready for someone to break.

She looked as if sitting for a portrait. The skirts of her summer dress spread like a white fan over crossed legs. Her face was flushed pink from the heat and her hair pulled into a bun. Something struck Helen as being strangely familiar.

She spotted Derrick standing by a booth, talking loudly and waving his cue stick. His friends laughed raucously. He glanced over and saw Helen. A look of mild surprise lighted his eyes, followed by a devilish gleam as he continued to stare.

He was tall and lean in a white t-shirt and jeans. Naturally athletic, he excelled at everything physical, especially baseball. A ring of fuzzy blond hair surrounded a broad forehead. Beneath thick brows, his fleshy nose pointed to a tuft of hair on his chin. He crouched to whisper to his friends, looking back now and again.

“You’re not here with Derrick, are you?”

“Why not?”

“He brags about dating the prettiest girls and circling the bases as often as he can. You’re interested in a guy like that?”

Miranda goaded her sister.

“Don’t you think I’m pretty?”

“He’s a pig.”

“Pearls before swine, is that it?”

“I don’t want you being used.”

She smiled and spoke playfully.

“If memory serves---“

“That’s right, but learn from my mistakes.”

Helen, like the Queen, had a duty to protect. She felt her anger rise. Years ago she was in the very spot. But she wouldn’t sit still and headed for the door. He saw right away, caught her by the waist and set her back on the stool. He raised his finger as to a dog. She slapped him. Hard. That was her last experience of Derrick Bilbray.

He approached with drink in hand and, passing it to Miranda, pecked her cheek. His voice had an undercurrent of sarcasm.

“It’s been awhile. Heard you’re at Madison. Like it?”

Helen nodded.

He stroked his cue in preparation for the break and approached the table.

“Don’t go messing with my girl’s head.”

Alarms went off in Helen’s mind, triggering a question. Miranda laughed merrily.

“You’re really too much!”

Helen was ashamed. Believing herself strong, she assumed weakness in others. If Miranda wanted to explore, she should. She was still that willful eleven-year-old. But the Derricks of the world shouldn’t go harm-free.

She pulled over another stool and tied her brown hair, which had been hanging loose, into a bun. Facing Miranda, she fanned the skirts over her legs and imitated her pose. They were mirror-opposites, like patterns in the wings of a butterfly.

When Derrick saw them he stumbled. He thought he was seeing double or a vision of past side-by-side with present. He recovered and that gleam grew in his eyes. He waved his cue to make sure his friends saw, too.

Miranda smiled and Helen smiled. One sister leaned in to speak and the other sister leaned in to listen. She laughed and she laughed. The pantomime distracted Derrick so much that he lost a disastrous game. They giggled. He went over to them.

“What’s so funny?”

They regarded him coolly, their blank faces offering no clue. A drop of sweat laid a trail down his cheek.

“Helen needs a drink.”

She exposed the palms of her hands to underscore the point. He nodded and went to get it.

He returned to a crowd. Friends, friends of friends, neighbors, men and women both, came round to exchange a few words with the sisters. He had to fight his way though to deliver the drink. When he did Helen looked surprised. She took it anyway. He said something smart but everyone was talking. Then he saw Helen gesture to Miranda. She traced her forefinger across her neck. They laughed. He did a double take. He wanted to know what she meant but they paid him no mind. Surrendering to their disregard, he went back to the game. The rest of the night he was nagged with doubt.

Miranda and Derrick went out a few more times before breaking up. Helen was glad and thought she had something to do with it. When she made the cutthroat gesture she’d been thinking about the Queen ---and Derrick. She had a duty and did it.

Chapter 12: An Honest Light

...more about Helen...

The air was cool, the leaves were turning and the playful days of summer were a memory. In her sophomore year, Helen had lower level requirements to satisfy before declaring a major. She picked a philosophy course, thinking it’d help her understanding of the To-Be-Or-Not-To-Be kind of plays.

Class was in an amphitheatre-shaped lecture room. Seated amid the clamor of students on the first day, her attention was drawn to a man in the first row. His skin was so white it had a silver pallor. He wore a long-sleeved plaid shirt buttoned to the neck. Bending a head of tight curly black hair over a sheaf of papers, he seemed suspended in the pose. He didn’t talk or look around. Unable to see his eyes, she thought they’d be dark.

Then the professor came in, gray, tweedy and comical. His wrinkled face had an orange tint and was gathered and secured at the neck by a bowtie. Upward thrusting eyebrows seemed to ask a perpetual question. Under breath, someone said, “Take a picture.”

With a nod to the class, he strode briskly to a table and set down a scarred brown leather satchel that might have been passed through the ages. After undoing the straps, he extracted a single sheet of paper, which he looked at, rolled up and waved like a baton. He attempted a smile as he waited for attention. Then, in a high, fluty voice he introduced himself as Dr. I.M. Wright. He spoke of expectations, the language of philosophy and insight into the intellectual history of the world.

When he fell silent, the pale man rose to hand around the syllabus and reading list. The professor introduced him as Frank Graves, graduate student and teaching assistant.

Moving among the class, he hardly looked up except to count the handouts for each row before dropping them on the aisle desks. But when he came by Helen, he stopped short with a look of recognition. His dark brown eyes approached black. Two deep wrinkles, like inverted parentheses, cut into his brow.

His thumbs flicked at the staple-bound sheets, which he handed to her. Helen was sure she didn’t know him. But being on the college stage, she’d gotten used to the looks. She beamed a practiced smile.

Over the course of the semester, she noticed that the professor came alive when in the amphitheatre. Posing questions, he proceeded to answer them, as if no one were present. In those monologues he stared off into the distance, like Don Quixote looking for monsters to slay. Though he was comedic, his words had depth of meaning.

The TA, who spent more time teaching the class than did the professor, plodded heavily on the ground, carting ideas like dead bodies to the graveyard. He knew a great many, but none lived in his presence. He lacked the skills people employ without knowing: nods, gestures, the small affirmations and negations that work like traffic signals in social interaction.

His voice had an East Coast flavor and he consciously slowed his speech. Helen recognized the effort to hide an accent. The resulting robotic monotone, though, couldn’t have been an improvement. She wondered if one day he’d wear bow ties and orange make up.

He insisted on being called “Mr. Graves”. Being as old as an older brother might be, the request triggered muffled laughter, which he affected not to hear. Smart-aleck boys shouted his name. A girl pretended to swoon. Most of the class chose not to refer to him at all.

Helen scheduled a meeting with the TA when she needed help with an assignment. His office was a cubbyhole in the basement of the Philosophy Building. There he sat surrounded by books in shelves and in stacks rising from the floor. The overhead lights cast a greenish hue on his face and hands.

Wordlessly, he leaned back in his chair. She took it as an invitation to sit. His manner was unnerving but echoed his behavior in class. So, without prelude, she began talking about the paper she was writing.

She’d chosen to write about Diogenes, the ancient Greek Skeptic. He carried a lantern through the streets of Athens, it was said, searching for an honest man. Such theatrics ignited her imagination, but she was having trouble developing a central idea for the paper.

“Why do you think he did it?”

She struggled to respond. Easy answers seemed too simple. She fumbled for concepts she’d heard in class.

“When you can answer, you’ll have your theme.”

As she thought on his words, she brought up a lighter topic, the first day of class.

“I thought you recognized me.”

“From your play. I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a liar.”

The words sprang at her. She gasped, eyes startled wide.

“Mr. Graves, what do you mean?”

“You play a queen. You’re not a queen. Therefore, you lie.”

His voice was calmly logical. Regrouping, she explained.

“An actor embodies the playwright’s idea. On stage, Helen Roy ceases to exist. I can’t be lying.”

Arms crossed and smug, he dismissed her argument.

“Truth is truth. Masking is dishonest, inherently.”

“Theater?”

“Lies.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Excites the passions.”

“Love, hate, desire, Mr. Graves. Those are real.”

He shook his head. “Distractions.”

His eyes were black, like coals after the embers died. Having staked out a position, maybe even a life, he wouldn’t concede. She left the meeting with more doubts than before.

Believing she’d master the subject like everything else, she applied herself to her study. But as the semester progressed, she hadn’t gained ground, not according to Mr. Graves. Still, she didn’t grasp main concepts. He wouldn’t provide answers, just more questions. Trying the professor led to conversation about shadows in caves and life as illusion. She realized he wasn’t the one to impress.

Words swirled in her head: Good. Evil. Moral. Immoral. Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis. Being. Becoming. Chasing meanings, she held them close but they slipped away. She spent more time with books than ever, but the results were insubstantial.

As cold weather settled in, she got paler, lost weight and neglected friends. Her doubts, internalized, cleaved her in two: the honest one and one who lied. Trying to scrutinize one, she saw the other lurking behind. The more she struggled, the larger her doubts grew and the more she believed herself The Liar. Her understanding was weak. She was The Liar. Graves’ criticism had taken root.

Her housemate tried to intercede.

“Why are you letting him do this? Look!”

Marilyn, a self-described tough broad from Brooklyn, was big and fleshy, with short copper hair and bulging thyroid eyes. Standing over Helen, she pointed into the bedroom mirror.

Helen looked. Wan face, hair threatening to turn gray, chapped lips. Marilyn wasn’t one to notice and not say anything. Her stentorian voice was a trumpet sounding the alarm.

“He’s a fossil collector with a bit of power. Makes his reputation being difficult. Mister Graves. Ha!”

Helen thought she might be right, but her incapacity preyed on her more than he did. She had to keep trying. She scheduled another meeting.

Boots crunching the snow underfoot, she made her way to the Philosophy Building wrapped in wool scarf and cap. Labored breath hung in the air then vanished. Much like her efforts, she thought.

He was seated at the desk as before, his pallor now in season.

“It’s not sinking in.”

He regarded her silently, then smiled.

“True understanding requires insight. I can see you’ve struggled. I’m honored. Keep it up.”

She left doubtful but encouraged. Though she couldn’t see anything positive, he seemed to.

Afterwards, Graves acknowledged her in class.

“I’d like to think you’ve all studied the material. I know Helen has.”

She lowered her head. Other students looked at her, wondering what was behind the comment. But she heard only the unspoken tagline, “And still doesn’t understand”. The proof was he never asked her questions ---and she was grateful.

One day they had to write an in-class essay. The task was written on the board: “Define ‘Truth’ using the construct of a philosopher of your choice”. Pencils in hand and heads bowed, the students scribbled in their blue books. Near the end of the session, Graves tapped his fingers on Helen’s desk.

“Collect the tests for me.”

To the class, he said, “Time. Put your pencils down. Pass your blue books to the center aisle.”

Starting from the bottom row, Helen worked her way up the aisle, scrambling to collect the essays while dodging departing students. She stacked them on the front table and gathered her things to go. Graves watched from on high in the back of the room.

She got a “C” for the midterm and the final grade depended on the paper she’d been writing. The class had the option of dropping them at the TA’s residence. Helen was anxious to use every available minute. She had one last day.

At home, Marilyn consoled her.

“Who cares what he thinks?”

“I don’t like failing.”

“But you’re passing.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Philosophy isn’t your thing. That’s about life. You are life. Don’t let it screw you up.”

She thought Marilyn was right. Still, she was depressed and didn’t want to be over the holidays. She scanned the paper again, then took a nap. She wanted to escape. When she woke, she had an idea.

She talked to Marilyn and called some friends, then rushed over to the theater. By the time Helen, Marilyn and three friends met at the house, it was dark and a winter peace had descended on the city. Then they set out.

Like something out of the Middle Ages, their brown hooded capes skirted the snow-crusted ground as they marched in a tight cluster, hands and faces hidden inside the folds.

Helen took the lead and carried the lantern. Hanging from a handle and a golden twist of rope, it glowed like a beacon. They made their way silently over the five blocks. A nosy crowd trailed them.

“Hey, where you going?”

“Where’s the party?”

“What’s under the robe?”

But they maintained their concentration.

On reaching the TA’s house, they assembled on the porch. Marilyn stepped forward and rapped three times on the door. When Graves appeared, he was attracted by the lamp but looked away from its intense light. Then he focused on the hooded figures and the crowd.

Someone shouted.

“Mr. Graves!”

The crowd took up the chant.

“Mr. Graves! Mr. Graves! Mr. Graves!”

He turned a sick shade of green.

Marilyn reached into her cape for the scroll, raised it so the crowd could see, then read in a voice worthy of calling forth Judgment Day: “The Final Paper.”

The crowd roared.

Helen slipped a manila envelope from her robe and passed it to Graves who quickly went inside and shut the door.

The troupe filed down the steps and held formation for a block. They walked faster until they were running. Unable to contain herself, Marilyn crowed. “Fear. I saw fear!”

They whooped, they shouted, Helen loudest of all, rushing into winter break.

Chapter 13: The Future

...Helen graduates...

Graduation approached and Helen would pack her Theater Arts degree and go forth. Where or doing what, she wasn’t sure. Anticipation was a low-boil worry accelerating into roiling anxiety. June neared and the future stubbornly refused to take shape. One day a student, the next a graduate nudged into the world.

Some had stayed in Madison ---as graduate students or working somewhere in the university. But that would delay the inevitable, she believed. The future lay elsewhere and she was eager to meet it. If only some portion could be revealed, the rest might come into focus.

One day, she was walking past the Student Union and a young man was coming from the other way. Then, they stood face to face. She blushed, feeling naked under his gaze. Without speaking a word he knew her completely, and she knew it.

If the future looked like Kelly Turner, she wouldn’t mind: straw blond hair longish but neat, eyebrows like comet trails and crystal blue eyes, a heavy jaw lending gravity but leavened by frequent toothy grins.

At first, she didn’t believe he was a student. His jeans were pressed, his shirt too neat and white. He had a cell phone holster on his belt. Turned out he was a business major.

She had dated, of course. Now and then someone made her take special notice, but nothing to re-shape her vision.

That day they strolled behind the Union to the Terrace Café fronting Lake Mendota, which months before had been frozen over. Now graceful sloops lay at anchor and a gentle breeze ruffled the water. Beneath the warm sun and brilliant yellow and orange umbrellas, they talked.

They experienced the surprise people do who share things in common yet had never met. He, too, came from small-town Wisconsin and family with farming roots. Madison, too, was his step into the larger world.

They compared differences. Helen strived for control over her thoughts and emotions. Acting reflected that practice and was also a result. Success was subject to interpretation.

Kelly manipulated the world and took stock in dollars and cents. As a kid, he did small jobs, banked his money and liked to watch it grow. Later, he invested. He admitted thinking college was a dubious investment, but his family urged him on. He dreamed of an Internet start-up selling something essential to everyone and making lots of money.

He wasn’t unlike some people back home, she thought, whose perspective was rooted in the practicality of things, the cost of seed or the lack of rain. Their concerns had seemed mundane. But now, contemplating her next move and what was possible, nothing was too small or too large. His discourse held her rapt.

The conversation continued over the weeks they dated and shared lunch at the café. They brought sandwiches and Kelly always had an apple he liked to toss in the air. He listened for the slap it made when landing into his palm, and each time he’d try for a louder effect. Then he inspected and polished it. He cut out any bruises with a pocketknife. Then, he bit into the red skin and juicy flesh, relishing the crunchy sound.

One day, an apple sailed into the air and Helen said.

“I’d never ask you to live in Birnamwood.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to go to Marinette.”

“A visit’s okay.”

“Of course.”

The apple slapped into his palm. They were agreed; a hometown was a fine place but lacked the bustle of new people and enterprise. Helen envisioned acting for a repertory company and adding roles to her resume until some day somehow she’d be famous. Meanwhile she needed a life-sustaining job. For Kelly, more people equaled more deals and profit. He sought a venue larger than Madison to start a career, maybe in banking or at a stock or commodities exchange. The Internet start-up he could do anyplace in his spare time.

“Minneapolis or Chicago,” she said. “No points between.”

“Chicago. I could support us both.”

She was uneasy. During their time together, they’d been two people side-by-side confronting the future. The idea of support created new distinctions suggesting old relationships.

“I’d work part-time, at least.”

“Whatever.”

She wondered at his flexibility. Trading possibilities was easy, like playing poker with fake money. The future threatened to make it real, graduation being two weeks away and she had no choice but to choose.

Kelly had no doubts. He already had offers from banks in Chicago and was talking to some brokers. His mind, behind flashing eyes and gleaming smiles, was full of scenarios that bred various contingencies. His optimism fed hers; anything could be dealt with. Still, he surprised her when he brought up something new.

“California ---what kind of name is that?”

“What makes you ask?”

“You can load a car up and go, the farthest.”

“I suppose.”

“It’s warm.”

“Yes.”

“Hollywood’s there.”

“So?”

“Movies, TV. You want to try, don’t you?”

She shrugged. Family, friends, and things familiar were close. He inspected the apple, poking at a suspect bruise.

“Better to start young. You’re beautiful. Your face could be everywhere.”

She blushed. She’d thought as much and knew the stories about being discovered, the success and the failure, the brilliant limelight and the dark off-stage shadows ---the national dream.

“Every time your face appears, you get a check. They have to pay you. It’s money in the bank!”

She laughed, hearing the voice of the boy who did small jobs and saved his money.

“I’ll be your agent. Everything’s better ---opportunity, sun, fun.”

He whispered her thoughts.

“No points between. You’re moving anyway. Fame to gain. Go all the way.”

He put the polish on the apple and bit, the juicy crunch in time with her assent.

The bargain sealed, the future assumed a direction even as details became less clear. Everything had to be rethought. Where to live would have to wait until they arrived. Quickly, she realized gaps in perception. Was every place there like Rodeo Drive? What was to have been a gentle easing into tomorrow had been transformed into a leap.

The immediate problem was what to say to family about moving two thousand miles away. She’d tell them it was something she had to do.

When she did, her words rendered them speechless. But, her mother fought through with hugs and best wishes. Tears followed and the others joined in, except her younger sister Miranda who stood off to the side, looking betrayed. Helen consoled her by promising she could visit.

Raw emotions forced her to reflect on relationships that reveal themselves under stress. And she thought of her faith in Kelly and things in general ---that highways lead to the coast ---that people everywhere are friendly ---that the future stretches as far as imagination.

Chapter 14: Unfaithful

...Helen and Peres meet again...

The second time a man re-shaped her vision was at the wedding. Helen’s attraction to Peres Aguilar was immediate, to his bright smile, olive skin and tall athletic build. An infectious vibrancy shook her when he introduced himself. She would have stayed, but Stephen Joyce led her away.

The day had been exhilarating ---the lavish mansion, the green rolling lawn and blue expanse of sea. Everything seemed possible and she, moving through the celebrants, was the center of attention: everyone deferred to the CEO and she shared the glory.

The gloss on the lips, the glimmer in the eye, appeal in the deal, was her role at the Thursday gatherings and so at the wedding. She followed his direction. Peres would have to wait.

She’d lost contact with other employees at Dedalus Insurance since working at the condo. Parking in the garage, she took the elevator straight up and had no reason to go to the offices. But, after the wedding, she made a point of showing herself.

First, she paid a visit to Ulysses Mann. Startled to see her, he stared as at someone raised from the dead. She stated outright that everything was fine. But he wouldn’t be convinced and confided he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Lola McIntyre popped her head inside the door, made eye contact and popped out again, ending their conversation. There wasn’t more to say; she couldn’t tell him what was on her mind. Saying goodbye, he took her hands in his and wished her luck, as if going on a long journey.

She found Lola at her station and suggested going for coffee. In a reprise of her first day, the two women walked through the company hallways, but now staff recognized Helen for being close to the CEO.

They chatted like friends at the 11th floor coffee stand. Lola peppered her with questions while affecting to be unimpressed with the answers. Then, her voice arched like a raised eyebrow.

“r-EAL-ly.”

The Thursday evening gatherings was her main work, Helen had said. She rushed to add that she also maintained a list of investors and kept track of money deposits at the bank.

“r-EAL-ly.”

Helen realized things might look different to someone chained to a desk. So, she refrained from saying more and went straight to the point.

This time Lola was silent. Then, she grinned and teased her before, finally, answering the question. Peres Aguilar usually worked in the field, but came in on Fridays. Then she added something unasked for, “He’s married”.

*

Looking back, the relationship was like the bubbles children blow from wands: the rainbow-tinted orbs ride on air and then, on landing, pop. Without drama, she and Kelly were no longer a couple: an uneventful evaporation, there one moment and gone the next.

Everything was different in L.A. The brown, arid landscape had far fewer trees than green Wisconsin but had spectacular vistas. They found an apartment. Kelly took a bank job and she the one at Dedalus. They clung together, two exiles from the Midwest making their way. Then their interests diverged.

She wanted to ground herself in routine, calm her emotions and stay the mind from pursuing false leads. He sampled everything and resisted slowing down. Lines of people fascinated him ---outside nightclubs, restaurants and even sandwich shops. He imagined gold at the end of every one, and the deal of a lifetime. He wanted in. She appreciated novelty, but tired of repetition.

About that time Stephen Joyce offered the job as his aide. Flattered, she took it on prospective while continuing on in Billing, until that became unworkable.
The flexible schedule was the immediate benefit, allowing her to chase auditions, go to the gym and build a life. Essentially on call 24/7, only Thursday nights were mandatory.

The parties were the climax of the week. Until then, she supervised cleaning, made sure of liquor and food and kept the list of investors and deposits. Usually, she had just to drop in to see things had been done since the concierge, too, had access to the condo.

When the men appeared ---the investors were always men--- they were happy and sometimes tipsy. Joyce focused on the money and discounted behavior, unless someone cornered her in private conversation. Then he lowered a heavy palm on a shoulder ---as he did to Peres at the wedding--- to warn against intimate exchanges.

After the chauffeur took them away, she and Joyce would be alone. She called the restaurant to send over a pre-ordered meal. Then, looking out at the city lights, they ate and talked.

It was quiet time, in which to share observations of the investors, or talk about the company and things on his mind. Or, she might share her private life. Sometimes he seemed interested, other times he brooded. Then they left. Though Joyce had given her to understand she could sleep there, she never did. The condo bore her mark, but it wasn’t home.

*

Getting ready Friday, she was conflicted. An intense emotion urged her to explore the attraction, but she didn’t want to be a home-wrecker. It pained her, fouling someone else’s life. She wouldn’t injure something whole. She’d stop, change directions and walk away.

Stepping off the elevator, she headed for the Sales Department. Before taking more than a few steps, she saw him at the end of the corridor, dressed casually in brown tailored slacks and blue polo shirt. His arms were muscled and sleek and his bright smile beckoned.

Her temples throbbed. Amid a haze, he was distinct. An impression of Lola flickered in the background. Then, his hands were on hers and his easy words seduced. Not here, she thought, then heard her voice.

“I know where.”

She led him to the condo. Seized by passion, they struggled for release. Later, as Peres dozed and she tried making sense of it, she felt vulnerable. There’d been no time for the careful consideration she promised. Was it her, what men saw, or both?

Suddenly aware, she shook Peres awake.

“We can’t stay.”

“I can’t leave.”

He proposed a hotel in Santa Monica. There, they spent the night, apart only when he went to make a call. That reminded her, she was stealing a dream; he was unfaithful. Next morning she walked away.


The next chapter will be posted October 30.

The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.